The Smoke Hunter Page 10

  All he had to do was glance her way, and she would be exposed like a butterfly pinned in a case, her pale skirts perfectly visible through the glass panes of the French door. But the alternative was to turn and flee down the veranda, a move certain to catch his attention. Ellie remembered racing through the press of bodies on Regent Street, Jacobs rapidly closing the distance between them. He was faster than her, and there was no busy department store here for her to duck into and lose him.

  Her best chance was to stay perfectly still and hope that by some miracle he failed to look her way.

  She waited behind the door, barely daring to breathe and feeling as trapped as an animal in a snare.

  Jacobs stood, looking out over the garden to the distant green haze of the mountains. He seemed perfectly calm, not the least bit like a man breaking into and searching someone else’s hotel room. He wasn’t afraid of being caught, she realized. He wasn’t afraid at all.

  As though he knew, with certainty, that he was, in fact, the most dangerous thing in this hotel.

  Then he turned and looked at her.

  Jacobs’s gaze was directed exactly where Ellie stood. Only the thin pane of glass separated them.

  Ellie closed her eyes, waiting for his hand to clamp around her arm and drag her to whatever fate he had in mind for her.

  Then she heard his footsteps pass evenly by as he returned to the room.

  The sun, she realized. The same light that gilded the landscape must have been reflecting off the glass, making it opaque. It had hidden her.

  She shuddered with relief but forced herself to remain still.

  “She has it on her,” he said.

  Her hand rose to the medallion, tucked into her blouse, its weight resting against her bosom.

  “We don’t need it,” the professor replied. His next words hit her like a fist. “We have the map. And there’s nothing written here about the artifact. I think it’s safe to say it was sent along merely as a token to add validity to the story. As far as I can see, we’ve got what we came for.”

  It suddenly occurred to her that the professor was frightened. It was subtle, no more than an undertone in his voice. But given the fear she was feeling herself, she recognized it clearly.

  “Our employer doesn’t like loose ends,” Jacobs said flatly.

  “I’d hardly call the artifact a loose end.”

  “I wasn’t speaking about the artifact.”

  The words were cold, matter-of-fact. Ellie realized they referred to her. She was a loose end. And what happened to loose ends?

  They get cut.

  Ellie felt a clear, animal fear sing through her. She pressed herself, slowly and silently, closer to the wall.

  “I should get back to the room, get started transcribing this. Unless you require, ah, assistance—”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “But how will you know when she’s—”

  “The doors, please,” Jacobs interrupted smoothly. Ellie heard Dawson’s heavy tread and caught a glimpse of his sweating face as he leaned out to catch the doors, pulling them shut.

  She heard Dawson’s footsteps retreating quickly. Then silence.

  It was a thick silence. A waiting silence. It stretched, becoming impossibly tense, until at last she heard Jacobs’s lighter, more even tread moving slowly through the room.

  She could see him in her mind’s eye, passing from the bed to the vanity, taking one last, leisurely look at the space where she slept, at the gloves and stockings she had left draped over the chair, the hairpins scattered across the table.

  Then, finally, Ellie heard the sound of the door closing and, a moment later, the click of the tumblers of the lock.

  She waited another breath, fiercely studying the silence of the room, then finally forced herself to move. Tense, half ready to turn and sprint the other way, she stepped up to the doors.

  The room was empty.

  Her hand shaking, Ellie pulled a pin from her hair and lifted the latch that held the doors closed.

  She stepped inside to survey the damage. The room seemed untouched, everything exactly as she had left it. The illusion was so complete, for a moment she found herself wondering whether perhaps she’d hallucinated the whole business. Then little things began to leap out at her—the angle of her hat on the table, the arrangement of the nightclothes she had left draped over the chair.

  Ellie fell to her knees and lifted the lid of the trunk. She slid back the panel of the secret compartment Constance had shown her back in London—a clever little hiding place, impossible to find unless you knew exactly where to look. She gazed down into it, her heart sinking.

  It was empty. The map was gone.

  She closed the lid, forcing herself to do it slowly instead of slamming it down. She had to be calm, not shaking with panic or outrage. She couldn’t afford either. She had to think.

  How had they found her? The notion that they had simply guessed was too far-fetched. They hadn’t seen the map. Even if they’d been capable of supposing that she had started on the track of the city on her own, they wouldn’t have known where she had begun.

  If they hadn’t guessed, they must have known. The implications of that were frightening. To know, they would have had to discover her friendship with Constance, which meant they had learned her history right back to her school days. They must have had access to the registry of every ship leaving London, as well as have the manpower to check them not just for her name but for that of anyone she might have trusted.

  It would have been an immense undertaking, one that required access to who knew what resources. What was more, it would have to have been accomplished in a matter of days. Dawson and Jacobs had arrived here on her heels, practically speaking.

  Who the devil could organize something like that?

  Ellie realized, with a sinking in her stomach, that she had gotten herself entangled in a web far larger and more dangerous than she had suspected.

  It was a sobering thought. Whomever Dawson and Jacobs worked for was someone truly powerful—and ruthless.

  Our employer doesn’t like loose ends.

  Was she really prepared to oppose someone like that? Did she even have a choice? If Jacobs’s words were anything to go by, she was already a liability they planned to eliminate.

  She felt a rush of indignation. They would find that more difficult than they thought. She had just learned what she was up against. They were yet to find out.

  They had the map. There was nothing she could do about that. But she could see to it that they were exposed for the thieves and criminals they were. If she could get word to Constance’s father, Sir Robert Tyrrell. With his connections, he could see to it that an investigation was launched. She’d bring the entire weight of the British government down on these thugs.

  But she would need information. All she had so far were two names that could very well be false. That was hardly an auspicious start. She needed more—particularly the name of the person or persons her enemies were working for.

  She cursed herself inwardly, fighting the urge to kick the travel trunk. She should never have been so careless as to leave the map in her room. It should have been with her always. She would not make a mistake like that again. The success of their intrusion galled her. They had walked in and taken what they wanted.

  She would simply have to do the same. They were bound to have something useful in their rooms—papers, letters, something that would give her a clue as to who was behind all of this. Of course, she’d have to figure out a way to get in there without getting caught.

  The solution to that was simple enough. They were looking for a young Englishwoman. She would just have to become something else.

  Ellie stepped onto the veranda. She carried a canvas bag over her shoulder. It was the plainest of the pieces of luggage Constance had given her in London, a simple pack with two straps, meant to be worn over her back.

  The afternoon was falling toward evening, and she knew it would not be
long before the rest of the guests returned from their excursions to dress for dinner. She could see one of them in the garden below her, an elderly man who appeared to have fallen asleep on a wicker bench. She hoped the soft snores she could hear rising from him were genuine. She could not afford to be watched for the next few minutes.

  She made her way down the weathered boards, moving closer to the sleeping gentleman. She paused in front of the last set of French doors before the entrance that led back into the hotel. The room before her was, she calculated, the same one from which Mr. Tibbord had emerged when she encountered him earlier that afternoon.

  She looked up and down the length of the veranda, then gave another glance at the dreamer on the wicker bench. Satisfied that she was unobserved, she took a chance and cupped her hands to the glass, peering into the dim interior of the room.

  It looked empty.

  She checked the next door down as well, just to be certain, but it appeared that Mr. Galle and Mr. Tibbord were yet to return from their swim.

  Ellie pulled a pin from her chignon and slipped it into the space between the French doors to Mr. Tibbord’s room. Lifting the latch was easier this time. She stepped inside, pulled the door shut behind her, and looked around.

  She would have to be quick. There was no telling when the pair would return. Dropping her bag on the bed, she moved to the wardrobe. She flipped through Mr. Tibbord’s clothes, picking out a long pair of khaki trousers and a light field coat. Though Mr. Galle was closer to her in girth, he was a few significant inches shorter. And there were her additional curves to consider. Tibbord’s oversize gear seemed far more likely to create a successful illusion.

  She pulled her dress off, tossed it aside, then nimbly unlaced her corset. Tugging off her stockings, she wound the silk length of them around her chemise, flattening her bosom.

  Steps sounded on the boards of the veranda. Voices accompanied them, closer by far than Ellie would have liked.

  “I want to change first.”

  Mr. Tibbord’s words were close to a whine. Ellie ducked beside the wardrobe. Its bulk would cut off the sight of her through the glass of the doors but would do nothing to conceal her once Mr. Tibbord stepped inside.

  She glanced down at herself. She was wearing nothing but her chemise with stockings wrapped around it, and held his trousers in her hand.

  How could she possibly explain this?

  A lower voice rumbled back. It must be Mr. Galle.

  “I don’t want a pint. I want a nap,” Mr. Tibbord said distinctly.

  Ellie closed her eyes, reaching frantically for a passable excuse.

  I’m terribly sorry, but I just stumbled into the wrong room.…

  In her underwear.

  It was impossible.

  She heard Mr. Galle make a muffled retort, then Mr. Tibbord’s indignant reply.

  “I most certainly am not a… Oh, very well. You win.”

  There was a scuffle of shoes on the boards of the veranda, and the voices moved away.

  Ellie began to breathe again, and decided to get dressed. Quickly.

  The trousers were a bit long and loose, but turning up the cuffs and the addition of a leather belt solved both problems aptly enough. She pulled on a white cotton shirt, then moved to the washbasin.

  Mr. Tibbord’s trimming shears sat in the stand next to a shaving brush and razor. Taking a handful of her long brown hair, Ellie lifted the scissors.

  She hesitated, feeling a momentary fear at the irrevocable nature of the step she was about to take. But it was a necessary part of her plan, and anyway, all that hair was too much bother in the heat.

  She started snipping.

  A few minutes later, she set Mr. Tibbord’s straw hat onto her cropped hair, slipped on the field jacket, and glanced into the mirror. She smiled. It was really quite an impressive illusion.

  Only one problem remained: Mr. Tibbord’s boots were far too big. Her own, though fairly sturdy, looked distinctly feminine.

  She pulled open the door adjoining the rooms and stepped into Mr. Galle’s chamber. It was much messier than Mr. Tibbord’s. It took her several minutes to locate his boots, hiding under a pile of discarded towels beside the vanity.

  She sat down in the chair and pulled one onto her foot. It fit. Thrusting her toes into the other, she cursed roundly as she stubbed them against a solid, heavy object. She upended the boot, and a plain wooden box slid out onto her lap. Curious, she opened it, and stared down at the contents in shock.

  The box contained a small, heavy revolver. The well-oiled steel gleamed in the light through the window, resting against a bed of red velvet. Gingerly she lifted it out, keeping her fingers well away from the trigger. The cylinder gave way with a click, rolling open to reveal a circle of gleaming brass bullets.

  She felt a wave of annoyance. Ellie didn’t know much about firearms, but she knew better than to leave them lying around fully loaded. She carefully shook the cartridges out into her palm and slipped them into one of her pockets. Then she closed the cylinder and dropped the weapon into her bag.

  She certainly had no intention of shooting anyone, but given what she was planning, even an unloaded pistol could come in handy.

  Quickly, she gathered up her clothes and the locks of hair from the washbasin, tying it all into a bundle. She took a few coins from her purse and tossed them onto Galle’s nightstand. If she had to be a thief, at least she could be a fair one.

  She closed the French doors behind her and made her way down the veranda, casually tossing the bundle of her clothing over the railing as she went by. It landed in a thick stand of hibiscus.

  She was lucky enough not to encounter any of the other guests as she made her way to the lobby. That space, too, seemed happily deserted. Ellie hurried through it toward the front entrance. She had nearly reached the door when a voice from behind stopped her in her tracks.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Tibbord.”

  Smith stepped out of the open doorway behind the desk, one she presumed must lead to the back office. Ellie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye but didn’t turn around. Instead, she raised a hand, giving him an awkward wave, and then hurried out into the street.

  Once through the door to the Imperial, she nearly tripped on a small boy who sat on the hotel steps. He was a slim, dark child, dressed in rough clothes, much like any of the other youths of the city she had seen dodging among the mules and run-down carriages. But this boy wasn’t playing games or asking for coins. He looked up at her with sharp, watchful eyes, and Ellie had the distinct suspicion that he was looking for something.

  Or someone.

  His gaze moved from her boots to her hat, and he turned away, quick eyes roving along the street before them. Ellie forced herself to walk past him without another look, knowing that her disguise had just passed a second test.

  The heat was breaking, a breeze from the harbor carrying it back to the swamps that surrounded the city. It breathed life back into the sleepy town. Children chased one another across the dusty pavement with sticks and stones as snatches of song rose from opened windows. Standing at the edge of the street, Ellie scanned the colorful rows of buildings, painted in pale pastel hues and overhung by palms and pepper trees.

  She saw what she needed just across the way—a roofless structure across the road on a diagonal from the hotel. The new, unfinished wood had a rosy hue in the evening light. A group of men were leaving it, tool belts slung over their shoulders, a construction crew headed home after their day’s work. She leaned against the shoulder-high fence that separated the hotel property from the street, trying for all the world to look like an arrogant young gentleman with nothing better to do, and waited until they had moved past her and disappeared around the corner. Then, with a glance to make sure the boy’s attention was elsewhere, she hurried across the street and jumped up through the entryway.

  The interior was open, the walls that would divide it into rooms only roughly framed. She made her way up the staircase
to the second floor, then stepped into a room on the corner that faced the hotel.

  Only half the wall had been planked, leaving an opening from floor to ceiling. She dropped to the ground beside it and pulled out Constance’s field glasses. She put them up to her eyes and turned the dial to bring the Imperial into focus.

  She studied the rows of French doors lining the veranda at the front of the hotel. The sun had begun to dip down behind the far side of the building, which meant that these east-facing rooms would be getting dark. And there was no point conserving lamp oil when it was already part of the fare. She scanned the panes of glass, waiting.

  As she watched, light began to bloom behind the thin curtains, illuminating the figures of the men and women within. There, in the room that she calculated would lie directly across the hallway from her own, was what she had been looking for—the solid shape of Dawson, bent over a table, scribbling.

  She closed the glasses, storing them back in the bag, then settled into a more comfortable position. She could see the shape of the man at the table well enough with her own eyes. All she had to do now was wait.

  6

  IT WAS WELL INTO sunset by the time the light in the room winked out. Raising the field glasses, Ellie focused on the still-lit windows of the lobby and caught sight of the well-dressed figures mingling inside. A pang in her stomach confirmed that the dinner hour had arrived. Even the watcher on the steps had absconded, presumably headed home for his evening meal.

  She stashed the glasses and gathered her bag, hurrying down the stairs and back outside.

  Ellie walked along the Imperial’s fence. She took a quick look up and down the street. Confident that it was deserted, at least for the moment, Ellie slipped the canvas bag from her back and dropped it over the fence. Then she followed, scrambling over and landing on the narrow strip of garden that ran along the rooms of the lower floor. It was a maneuver that would have been impossible in skirts. She smiled at the thought.