“The veil kept the wind off you. Finally, something in that hideous thing’s favor.”
She watched—witless again—as he unwound his scarf and draped it around her neck. The wool was impossibly soft, the fibers still warm from his skin, and it smelled like him. She fingered the intricate stitching, each loop and weave speaking of careful, loving work. And now he was lending it to her. She dipped her chin into its folds to conceal her smile.
And for once, she let someone else take care of her.
Chapter 12
Railroad Avenue reeked of coal smoke, fish guts, and rot. Emil held his breath as he picked his way from the docks to the main avenue, crossing loaded switch tracks warily, one eye on the iron boxcars streaked with grime, the other on the splintered planks beneath his feet. One misstep, and he might tumble into the filth below—an ill-begotten tidal stew. He paused as a locomotive rolled past, its massive wheels shrieking, then darted the final distance to the other side.
He sagged, his hands on his knees. “Jesus Christ.”
“Mighty bold of you, Mr. Anderson, to cross the tracks at this busy hour.”
Emil’s neck prickled in warning, and he straightened slowly. What cause had a man to know his name at the docks? None, unless he knew Emil had been down there three times in the past week. Asking dockworkers questions. Examining crates for property markings connected to Harvey Gunn’s holdings. Ducking into occupied and abandoned warehouses alike, trying to get a sense of what Gunn was up to. Seemed his approach had finally attracted the elusive man’s attention.
Or, at least, his henchmen.
Three men lounged against a stack of barrels, watching him with more interest than was warranted. One sat with hands folded across his chest. Another chewed on a piece of straw, and the third, whom Emil took for the speaker based on his proximity, flicked a switchblade open and closed with practiced ease.
“Gentleman,” he said calmly. “Fine day we’re having.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
Emil took in the man’s towering height, the tailored brown suit, and the lack of Scottish brogue. “Mr. Corlett,” he concluded. Gunn’s enforcer.
“Delighted,” the man replied. “You know, Mr. Anderson, my boss is a busy man. He’s got bigger fish to fry than some piddling detective poking around the docks. But he might start paying attention if you continue making yourself a nuisance. And you don’t want that."
“No?”
The switchblade snapped closed. “No.”
“Then I’ll move along. Pleasant day, fellas.”
He tipped his hat and ambled past the men, his pulse thudding with excitement. Gunn wouldn’t have planted men in his path unless he was getting too close. That alone told Emil he was onto something. With any luck, his contact at City Hall would dig up Gunn’s name in the backlog of building permit requests. Once he had a clearer picture of what the Scotsman was up to, he’d have something substantial to report to Wingate.
And he’d give anything to get Wingate off his back for a few blessed minutes.
The old man’s missives had begun arriving on his doorstep daily. Sometimes twice. One letter urging him to track down the composer for his party, the next warning him that Gunn’s dealings might endanger the whole waterfront. Each containing the same postscript—proceed with discretion. The shift in priorities made Emil’s head hurt. For weeks, Wingate had told him to focus on the composer. Now, without explanation, he was expected to dig faster on both fronts, no excuses. Did the man think he was a detective or a magician?
Although…
He should have solved the suffragist case by now. He needed it to convince Wingate he was worth taking a chance on. Emil thought back on the curt note he’d received the day before, telling him to hurry up and find her. The tonal shift had set Emil on edge. The last time they’d spoken in person, Wingate had made it seem like a lark. Like having the composer perform for his fiancée would merely be the icing on the cake. But if that were true, why the secrecy? The curtness? Why not simply hire a pianist like Olive to play the anthem? Something was missing from the man’s story—something important.
But Emil knew the real reason he was loath to uncover the composer.
In his gut, he knew Olive was involved. She was either protecting the composer…or she was the composer. He hadn’t yet decided. Or perhaps he wasn’t ready to decide. Wasn’t ready to end their game, where she led him around the city by the nose.
Her methods were inventive. Clever. Humorous. They were just serious enough to keep him hooked, but ridiculous enough to waste his time. That’s what she was doing, he’d decided. Wasting his time while she figured out her next move. He was impressed, dammit. And he was enjoying himself. Why would he end all that when he didn’t yet know why Wingate wanted the identity discovered so badly?
He reached into his inner coat pocket for his silver cigarette case. A smoke always helped him think. He lifted a thin cigarette to his lips, then flicked a match against the striker plate. He paused, his gaze fixed on the flame. Was this why Olive thought he smelled? He snorted, pressed the match to the end, and inhaled deeply. Her opinion shouldn’t matter—no, it didn’t matter. He was a grown man. Could do as he pleased.
Then why did his fine tobacco turn to ash in his mouth?
“Shit.”
He glared at the cigarette, then snuffed it out on a nearby lamppost. Replaced it in its case and slammed the lid shut. The goddamn changeling was running the show even when she wasn’t there!
There was no use denying it—Olive hadn’t left his thoughts since he’d spotted her skulking about the New Year’s Eve party. And not only because of the case. He couldn’t stop thinking about those giant doe-eyes that knocked him back a pace every damn time. That shy smile he could occasionally tug out of her. The way she was often distracted by sounds around her, as if each one was a melody only she could hear.
