“Yeah. The maid didn’t seem too pleased.”
“I’m sure she isn’t. Thank you, darling. You’ve been a treasure.” This time, he hung up first. Before he left, his hostess served him jellied plums. He thanked her—it was the only Asunan he knew, outside “hello,” “goodbye,” and a few choice curses. They bowed to each other in the doorway and he left her as the moon rose above the Heyn, turning its currents to chrome.
*
Hunched in Aristide’s wingback chair, Malcolm Sailer clashed with the decor. He had a split lip and a bruise blooming high on one cheek. A tuft of black thread showed where one of his buttons had been torn away.
“So these are your digs,” he said. “I was startin’ to wonder who’d bailed me out.”
Aristide swept across the parlor to the bar. “B-B-Brandy?”
“Yeah.” Malcolm held out his hand for the snifter.
Aristide obliged him. “Drink that down. I’m just going to go and ch-ch-change.” He ditched the jersey in his bedroom. It was grimy from his cross-town adventures, and would need a wash. Or would have, if he ever planned to wear it again. When he returned to the parlor, it was in belled silk culottes and a smoking jacket.
“Fancy.” Malcolm’s efforts had lowered the level of his drink considerably. “Fit right in with your surroundings now. Like one of them bugs that look like sticks.”
“I think I’ll choose to interpret that as a c-c-compliment.”
Malcolm set his brandy on the coffee table and put his head in his hands. “I’m scratched, Ari.”
“So they found the ballast?”
“You don’t even know the worst of it yet.”
“They tried to b-b-buy you out,” said Aristide. “I heard.” He sat on the sofa and tucked his feet up. “You should have taken the money. Shall I ring for some supper? To be honest, I’m absolutely famished.”
Malcolm’s face went pale, but he swallowed his shock. “I don’t remember the last time I ate.” He picked his brandy up again—considered it. “Not a real meal, anyhow. I think Delia put a couple eggs in me … yesterday? Say, you ain’t seen her, have you? She was running late to the show tonight, and then the raid … You don’t think she got drug in, do you?”
Aristide fanned his nails across the upholstery and examined his manicure. “Malcolm…”
“Only, I know she was doing errands for you here and there, and if they caught her with anything I don’t wanna think about what might have happened.”
Aristide took a deep breath through his nose. “Malcolm, Cordelia … well, she was moving more than tar, this last week or two.”
Malcolm looked up from his knees. “What do you mean?”
“She’d started carrying messages, and a few other things. Since T-T-Tory died.”
“And?”
“She was caught ferrying sensitive documents between two of my contacts. She’s been in custody since late last night.”
The stillness that crept across Malcolm’s brawny shoulders was a warning. Seconds later, the snifter popped between his hands and he started bleeding on the carpet. Aristide shook out the handkerchief from the pocket of his smoking jacket and handed it over.
“Where is she?” His fists clenched around the cloth and turned it red. “Get her out.”
“I can’t,” said Aristide. “I don’t know the right people anymore, Malcolm.”
“You got me out.”
“That’s d-d-different and you know it. That was money. This is statecraft.”
Malcolm let his head fall back. His dark hair left an oil stain on the upholstery. “Mother’s tits. Everything. They’re taking everything.”
“Like I said: You should have j-j-jumped on the buyout when they offered it.”
“You think I haven’t figured that out by now?” Blood seeped between Malcolm’s fingers and dripped onto his trousers, disappearing into the weave of the dark wool. “But Ari, that’s my life’s work. Don’t you understand?”
“Believe me,” said Aristide, suddenly immensely tired. “I do.”
“I can’t afford the fines for stocking ballast,” said Malcolm. “They know I can’t. I wouldn’t sell out, so they’re gonna ruin me.”
“What do they want the Bee for?”
“Picture house. Showing jingo flicks.”
Aristide waved an indifferent hand “No one will come.”
“That’s not the point. They just want us shut down. Doesn’t matter if they bring in punters. They don’t need ’em.” He uncurled one hand and hissed as sticky wounds reopened. “Poor Dell. Queen’s sake, Ari, ain’t there nothing you can do?”
Aristide shook his head. “Again, I’m sorry.” It was true. He’d come to rather like Cordelia. To trust her. And here she was arrested on his account, probably holding out like a skint blush boy to keep him safe from the Ospies. Must be, or he’d be behind bars by now as well. He didn’t like to think what they’d have to do to make her talk. “You have no idea how much.”