Cal looked from the dealer to Travers’ unsmiling face, and then to Archie. His expression was that of a boy who has fallen into a well at dusk, and who has yelled himself hoarse with no answer but the rustle of wind through buzzards’ wings.
“Mr. Hotchkiss,” Travers said, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a bloody, folded pocket square. “I believe you’ll be needing this back.” He tucked the pocket square into Cal’s shirt pocket. Cal blanched and started muttering the word “no” under his breath, over and over, like an incantation.
“Mr. Travers, sir, Cal is drunk. Might I take ’im up to his room to sleep this off? He is not ’imself.” Archie’s voice was dripping honey. Travers regarded her with frank interest.
“Why, Miss Archambault. It is so refreshing to see someone willing to stick up for a friend. But I’m afraid that Mr. Hotchkiss here is a cheat. Ah, ah—” He held up a finger, cutting off her interruption. “He may be drunk, but he is still a cheat. He was a cheat before he was drunk and he’ll remain a cheat when he sobers up tomorrow.” He took a step away from Cal. The dealer did the same.
Cal bolted for the door. The band stopped playing to watch him pass. He was fast—but Travers’ security goons were faster. They caught him under the arms midstride, hauling him into the air with the brisk efficiency and remorselessness of experience.
“No!” he cried, his legs kicking in the air but finding no purchase as he was dragged bodily across the casino floor. “No, wait, Mr. Travers, sir, please! You can’t, you can’t—after what I did for you? After what I did to that British bastard for you? Please, sir, I won’t—I wasn’t—”
Travers laid his fingertips on Archie’s arm, as though to comfort her. “Watch now.”
And she did. She watched as Travers’ men paused at the window. Cal’s eyes roamed the room, sightless with terror. He screamed. He begged.
Travers’ men did not seem to hear. They swung him once—heave-ho, and his toothpicks fell to the floor—then hurled him bodily through the open window.
He screamed as he fell; the splash seemed to echo in the silent casino. Then, he screamed again. It was not a scream of terror, but a scream of pain.
After a moment, the screaming stopped—but the splashing continued.
Travers clapped his hands once in front of his chest, then addressed the now-silent patrons who filled the gambling tables of his casino. “Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for the disruption!” He turned to the bar. “To make up for it, a round of champagne for everyone, on the house!”
Travers signaled the band, and the music started playing once again. He laid his fingertips lightly upon Archie’s arm once more as the casino floor erupted in cheers.
“I hope, Miss Archambault, that you can understand. Mr. Hotchkiss was a thief, and I cannot abide thieves.” His use of the past tense was not lost on Archie. “I, of course, would not even begin to consider allowing his shortcomings to color my opinions of the rest of your little hopper gang.”
Archie managed a smile, and touched his fingertips with her own. “I . . . I am so grateful, Mr. Travers. We ’ad no idea that Cal—” But she saw his wry, knowing smile and started again. “Of course, we knew that he was a scoundrel, but we would never imagine that he would besmirch your ’ospitality so.”
“Of course not, Miss Archambault. Of course not.” A waiter approached holding a silver tray of glasses, and Travers handed one to Archie before taking one for himself. He touched his glass to hers, making the crystal sing.
“Cheers, Miss Archambault. May you enjoy your stay on the Sturgess Queen, and the very best of luck in all your endeavors.”
“Santé,” Archie answered, and drained her glass without looking away from Travers’ twinkling eyes. Travers signaled the band to play louder, and they did—but the music couldn’t mask the bellowing of the ferals fighting over their feast in the river below.
Chapter 10
“I’M NOT SURE I UNDERSTAND what you mean, Archie.” Houndstooth’s voice was low. If Archie hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he was furious. But she did know better—she’d saved the man’s life somewhere between nine and a half and ten times, and she knew his moods better than her own.
So she knew that he was perched on the edge of panic.
“Dead means dead, mon ami. Nothing more to it.”
Houndstooth ran his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth, staring at the carpet. Hero, seated on the divan, followed him with their eyes. “But . . . but if he’s dead, then—then I can’t—then I didn’t—”
Archie put a quelling hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps it is best this way, non?” she whispered. “Without the revenge.”
He looked up at her, his eyes flashing. “How did you know?”
She looked uncomfortable. Before she had to answer—before she had to tell him what Cal had said just before he died—the door banged open. Adelia stared in at the two of them. “Well, Archie. I suppose this means you and I each get our own suite.”
“It also means we’re all up to our necks in the bog without so much as a hop to ride,” Houndstooth said in a clipped voice. “We can’t do this without Cal.” He began to pace the suite, running his hands through his hair.
Hero didn’t look up from their whittling. “If you’re so beside yourself about it, Winslow, I can chew on toothpicks and sling racial slurs with the best of ’em. Might need to practice some, but I’m sure I can get in fightin’ shape by mornin’.”
Houndstooth laughed—a genuine, easy laugh—and then sat heavily on the bed next to Archie.
“Look around the room, Hero. What’s missing?”
Hero glanced around the suite. “Palpable body odor.”
Houndstooth laughed again, but this time, the laugh seemed forced. Adelia and Archie exchanged a glance.
“We’re missing a white boy,” Adelia murmured, stroking her belly.
“So what?” Archie huffed. “If we need one so bad, I am sure I can drag one back up here for you, Winslow. There’s no shortage.”
Houndstooth was staring at Hero. Hero stared back at him for a long moment.
“What is it? What are we failing to understand here, Winslow? What’s so tough about pulling off this hippo caper without Cal on board?”
Houndstooth dropped his head into his hands. “We need your supplies, Hero. And nobody on the Harriet is going to sell your supplies to a stranger, not even for easy money. We’ve been corresponding with a dealer and he’s expecting Cal to come buy the goods from him, and we’re working with him on the strength of Cal’s reputation on the Harriet. He’s expecting Cal. He’s expecting a white man with a terrible mistake of a moustache.” He rubbed his face with his hands, groaning. “And it’s not a caper; it’s an operation.”
Hero whittled faster, sending hickory shavings flying into the plush red carpet. “Right, right. All aboveboard. So, ask your federal boy. I’m sure the army can send something.”
Houndstooth looked uncomfortable. “I can’t ask him.”