Kai nodded. They let a few of the carriage’s other occupants go ahead of them – Irene didn’t intend to be the first person onto an empty platform – and then stepped off the train and headed for the stairs.
With a nasty shock of surprise, Irene saw that there were police waiting. A dozen or so blue-uniformed men were checking passengers as they filed past, and behind them crowded an entourage of men waving cameras and brandishing notebooks. ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ she muttered.
‘It could be coincidence.’ Kai sounded as if he was trying to convince himself, and failing. Irene would have been worried that their sudden low-voiced conversation might look suspicious, but fortunately – if that was the word for it – other passengers were suddenly slowing and eyeing the waiting cops. It was a Horatius-at-the-bridge situation, with those at the back trying to push forward, and quite a few of those at the front doing their best to move back.
Irene’s own good mood was dropping like a barometer faced with an oncoming storm. But there was nowhere to go, except back on the train. And retreating down the platform would be useless: they’d run out of platform. ‘If we get closer, perhaps we can hear who they’re waiting for—’
‘That’s her!’ one of the cops yelled.
He was pointing at Irene.
Irene’s first impulse was to shrink back into the crowd or hide behind something. Unfortunately, the crowd (apart from Kai) was shrinking back from her, and hiding behind Kai wasn’t a viable long-term strategy. She tried to look as falsely-accused as possible.
The police came driving towards her and Kai in a flying wedge through the crowd, trailed by the newspaper reporters in a sea of fedora hats and cheap sharp suits. A couple of them were already snapping photographs, the flashbulbs on their cameras flaring brightly. Irene raised a hand to shield her eyes, and cursed the fact that she couldn’t use the Language to break all their damn cameras. But it would attract more trouble than it was worth.
The leader of the group of policemen – an overweight man with thick glasses, displaying noticeable extra braid on his cap and jacket – held up one hand as he approached. ‘Excuse me, ma’am. NYPD, Captain Venner. Would you be Miss Jeanette Smith from England?’ His accent was pure New York.
A chill made its way down Irene’s spine and settled in her stomach. Somehow she didn’t think this would end with And as our millionth visitor, you’ve won a thousand dollars! She and Kai had just walked into trouble.
‘Well, I am English,’ she said. She knew that her American accent wasn’t very convincing. ‘But my name is Rosalie Jones.’ So said her identity papers, at least.
The cop turned to a colleague. ‘Make a note – the accused denied being Miss Jeanette Smith.’ In the background, reporters scribbled. More cameras flashed.
‘And who is Jeanette Smith, anyhow?’ Irene demanded.
‘In a moment, ma’am,’ the cop said. ‘In a moment. Would you mind if I see your identity papers? And your friend’s papers, too?’
Irene cursed mentally. Kai wasn’t going to be able to slip away. She fished in her handbag, rather unnerved when all the cops tensed as she pulled out the papers. She’d retrieved them from the bank and ‘updated’ them later, so she hoped they’d pass muster.
The cop gave them a professional once-over. ‘According to these, ma’am, you’re thirty-eight.’
Irene smiled sweetly. ‘Is that a crime?’
That evoked a laugh from the crowd. Though not from the police. The lead cop folded the papers and tucked them into his jacket, pointedly not returning them. ‘And you claim that you’re not Jeanette Smith?’
‘I’ve never heard of her.’
The cop turned slightly, presenting his best profile to the newspaper cameras. ‘Since you’re claiming ignorance, ma’am, Jeanette Smith is one of England’s most notorious mobsters. Which makes us all kind of curious what you’re doing in New York.’
Irene stared at him in shock. ‘I am not a mobster!’
‘The biggest protection-racket woman in Great Britain!’ one of the reporters yelled.
‘Smuggles brandy from the Continent!’ another called.
‘The Girl with a Gun in her Garter!’ a third chimed in.
Suddenly they were all taking photos again. Irene backed against Kai, barely able to see through the hurricane of flashes.
‘This could have gone better,’ Kai murmured, barely audible through the noise of the crowd. He’d pulled his hat down to shield his face.
‘Think of something,’ Irene said, a little desperately. She’d been accused of a lot of things, but being a mob boss was a new low. And while she’d certainly committed crimes in the Library’s service, she’d generally avoided arrest. And she hadn’t even had her coffee. ‘You’re the one with the dubious past. What do you do in this sort of situation?’
‘Deny everything, keep your mouth shut, and demand a lawyer,’ Kai said with the quick certainty of experience.
Their exchange had gone unheard under the noise of the crowd, but the cops had certainly noticed it. ‘Something to tell us, ma’am?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Irene said firmly. ‘I’ve only just got here. If you’re going to be accusing me, then I want a lawyer.’
‘We can arrange that for you just fine, ma’am.’ The cop gestured, and the other policemen moved to surround Irene and Kai. ‘You and your friend here will be coming down to the precinct with us.’
Irene would have been willing to agree to almost anything if it would get her away from the mob of reporters. ‘Will you be able to sort this out once we get there? There’s been some sort of mistake, and we simply want to get on with our holiday.’
‘It’s exactly as she says,’ Kai said, backing her up. ‘I don’t know what sort of police system you have here, but this certainly wouldn’t happen in England.’ He did outraged well, Irene thought.
Captain Venner snorted. ‘Yeah, sure, whatever. Let’s move it – unless you really want to stand around and give interviews.’
Irene and Kai were hustled through the mob. She vaguely regretted not seeing more of Grand Central Station as they were rushed through it. One of the cops took custody of their luggage, and Irene suspected it would shortly be inspected for hidden . . . well, hidden whatever was carried by the biggest protection-racket woman in Great Britain. Guns? Brandy? Money for bribes? It was going to be awkward if she had to explain the large roll of high-value bills in her handbag. She resisted the urge to touch the heavy locket around her throat. The paper with Evariste’s name on it was the only thing she couldn’t afford to lose.
‘I understand that you call these paddy-wagons Black Marias in England,’ one of the cops said helpfully, as he assisted Irene into the back of a police vehicle. A heavy metal partition separated the cell area from the front seats, and the walls were reinforced with thick steel plates. He clambered in to join her, and when Kai followed, he also had his very own attendant cop.