A voice above her said, “Well, well, well. What do we have here, a-droppin’ down the chimney? One of Father Christmas’s elves, perhaps?”
If that voice belongs to Barnum, the humongous coach driver, then I am in trouble, thought Chevie.
It did, and she was.
Albert Garrick always felt a little jittery passing through Mayfair. In spite of his dandy getup and his long hair, a style affected by many a lordling, he had the nagging idea that his humble origins somehow shone through his eyes for all to see.
In spite of everything I know, everything I have seen, I cannot make myself comfortable on these streets.
He tried to bolster his own confidence with an inner pep talk: Buck yourself up, Alby. You are no longer a starving urchin combing the cobbles for the scraps from a rich man’s table. Time to scrape that shame off your soul like dog filth from the toe of your boot.
A flower girl actually curtsied as she approached. “A carnation for your buttonhole, m’lord.”
This simple greeting raised Garrick’s spirits more than his own strictures ever could, and he smiled with more sincerity than he had in some time. He reached behind the girl’s ear and found a shiny sovereign.
“This is for you, my dear. Buy something that is as pretty as yourself.”
The maid stammered a thank-you, then stood a-staring at the currency in her hand as though it would melt.
Garrick continued down the north side of Grosvenor Square toward the residence of Tibor Charismo, the man who had hired Otto Malarkey to kill him.
There was a well-tended private park opposite Charismo’s famous dwelling, reserved for residents only and accessible by a heavy, locked gate. Armed with his magician’s tools, Garrick was no more troubled by the gate than a dog would be by a keep off the grass sign. In seconds he was reclining on a clean, varnished bench, admiring the Himalayan rhododendrons, and keeping a close eye over their bobbing heads on the fabulous Charismo residence.
So, now Tibor Charismo wishes me dead, as he once did Riley’s family.
For it had been Tibor Charismo who had contracted Albert Garrick over a decade ago to dispose of Riley’s entire family in their Brighton residence. And now, all this time later, he had obviously discovered Garrick’s deception and decided to settle the affair with some finality.
Could that be the entirety of it? Charismo would pit himself against me over the life of a boy?
Garrick thought that if the situation allowed, he would put this question to Charismo before he killed him.
There was some movement in a window. Garrick’s rejuvenated eyes had no difficulty recognizing the figure, even from this great distance.
Charismo.
Garrick sat up as though the bench had been electrified.
So, my nemesis is at home today. That makes my job easier.
He was suddenly glad that he had tipped the young flower girl so heavily.
You see, Albert. It is like Felix Smart’s mother always said: If you do nice things, then nice things will happen to you.
Inside the house on Grosvenor Square, Tibor Charismo was treating himself to yet another macaron while the barbiturates he had mixed into Riley’s tea took hold of the lad’s brain. The sweet delights of the belly had always been Riley’s weakness.
Once the boy’s eyes had glazed and his arms hung limply by his sides, Charismo began his questioning in earnest, revealing the true motives for his kindness.
“Now, Riley, let me explain what is happening. I have given you a blend of barbiturates that I cooked up myself. A truth serum. You could try to fight it, but you would simply damage your brain, so it would be far better for your mental health if you answered all my questions truthfully. Do you understand?”
“Yesh,” said Riley, around a fat tongue. He felt drunk and compressed by the weight of air above him.
Charismo clapped his hands. “Excellent. Now, first question: Did you come through the wormhole, or were you just squatting in the house on Half Moon Street?”
It did not seem strange to Riley then that Charismo should know about the wormhole. Perhaps the spirits had told him?
“Wormhole,” he slurred. “From future.”
Charismo frowned. “I imagine you somehow were pulled into the time tunnel on Bedford Square, then returned through Half Moon Street, correct?”
“Yesh. Pulled and returned. Future smells lovely.”
“And Miss Savano—what is that sweet girl’s part in this affair?”
Riley closed his eyes and smiled. “She is FBI. Special agent pretty.”
Charismo stood, wringing his hanky like a turkey’s neck. “FBI? F . . . B . . . blooming . . . I.”
“Like my old dad. FBI. I saw his shield.”
“Like your old dad?” said Charismo slowly, allowing the words to sink in, confirming his suspicions. “Of course. I heard Garrick had a boy. But I didn’t know you were that boy.” He steered his mind back to Chevie.
“Has she come for me?”
“For you, sir? Oh, no. We simply flee from Garrick. He wants the Timekey. It’s the last one for this wormhole. Or it was the last one, till Otto Malarkey pulverized it.”
“The last one,” breathed Charismo, relaxing considerably. “Well, then, I am safe. Garrick should be deceased already, and even if he isn’t, he will have no inkling that I have another key.”
“That’s wrong, sir.”
Charismo flapped his kerchief, irritated. “What’s wrong, boy?”
“Garrick is not deceased. Everyone makes that mistake.”
“Not Tibor Charismo,” said Tibor Charismo. “I have taken care of Albert Garrick. He crossed me once, but never again.”
Tibor popped the final macaron into his mouth and hummed while he chewed. “That’s the chorus of a new song I am crafting entitled ‘We All Live in a Yellow Submarine,’ which I won’t be able to release until submarines become commonplace.”
The door burst open and the manservant Barnum entered, dragging Chevie behind him. She was bound fast with coils of rope, but still struggling.
“What ho!” said Charismo. “This is unexpected.”
“I found ’er in the chimney,” said Barnum, tossing Chevie to the floor at Charismo’s feet.
“Unexpected?” said Chevie, cheek burned by the carpet. “Didn’t the spirits warn you?”
Charismo poked Chevie’s shoulder with the tip of his pointed slipper so that she lay on her back. “That is not how it works”—he placed a finger to his temple—“Agent Savano of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Chevie sneered. “Hey, why don’t you ask those spirits if they can tell you anything about Terry Carter, a crooked banker from New York City?”
Charismo shrieked at the mention of Carter’s name, then kicked Chevie in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs.
“Put her on the chair,” he ordered Barnum, sitting down to rub his toe. “Then leave us.”
Barnum’s hands were quick to the job, but his brow was puzzled. “Leave you, master? But this gal has strange maneuvering in her, and you are not yourself entirely, throwing kickings and such.”
“She is tied, is she not?” said Charismo irritably. “Do as you are told, but wait outside the door. There will be some lifting before long.”
Barnum threw Chevie a threatening look and left the room, muttering about how a man never knew where he was, and a little manners would not go astray.