Oh. Shit. Sebastian had let the wordboyfriendslip. He quickly waved for a cab. “Did you know Ichabod’s bridge isn’t actually there anymore? They built a new one, I saw it in a flyer at the pharmacy.”
“Oh no,” Wesley said, deadpan. “Will I need to arrange our liaison on a different American landmark, then?”
“We could find a car with a big backseat,” Sebastian said innocently, as the taxi pulled to the curb. “And you could let me borrow it.”
“See, these are the moments when I remember you are, in fact, from a completely different world, and I’m not talking about Puerto Rico.”
Chapter Fifteen
The hat shopwasin a less reputable area, where the sidewalks were littered with trash and the buildings had grime built up on the bricks. There was a closed apothecary next to the hat shop with boards hiding its windows, while a pair of big white men in black suits leaned against the wall just to the side of the hat shop’s entrance, their eyes on the street.
There was a cigar store and newsstand across the street from the shop, and Wesley and Sebastian ducked inside. Wesley pretended to browse the selection of pulp magazines in the front window as he watched the shop. “Not really the kind of place one expects to go for a bespoke tuxedo, but looks normal enough from the outside,” he said. “Then again, so did the abandoned tobacco shop that hid the Magnolia.” He raised an eyebrow as a squarish truck with a wooden bed full of crates pulled up to the curb in front of the hat shop’s windows. “That is, however, quite a large truck to be carrying hats for a store of that size.”
Sebastian was a respectful distance away—which was a pity—watching from under his cap as the driver hopped down from the truck. “The woman at the inn said the others sent a delivery truck to pick up their stuff.”
“And then they told us to meet them here,” Wesley added.
Sebastian tilted his head. “Can you tell what’s in the crates?”
“No, but hello.” Wesley stilled. “Look who it is.”
Alasdair Findlay had just stepped out from the front doors of the shop, wearing a close-cut suit with a fedora over his ginger hair. He met the driver on the sidewalk, listening with his head cocked and a polite, if vacant expression.
“I think we can safely assume exactly what type of business this really is,” Wesley muttered.
“Langford said he’s the one who sent you the warning letter.” Sebastian was frowning. “You think he knows Jade?”
“I’d like to say no.”
“Why?”
Because both times we met, he couldn’t keep his bloody eyes off you.“He just doesn’t seem like her type of fellow.”
“No, I guess he doesn’t.” Sebastian watched out the window. “So he hides his bootlegging behind textiles and hats?”
“It’s a clever cover,” Wesley admitted. “He’s always going to have an excuse to be transporting crates by road or river, and when it comes to imports, he could fabricate plenty of excuses to visit Canada, and I hope you appreciate that pun as well.”
Alasdair was now directing the truck to the alley next to the shop. “Should we go talk to him?” Sebastian asked.
“Not here,” Wesley said. “If Langford is even half right about Sir Ellery, I don’t want to risk it getting back to him that we’re in town. We know they’ll be at that masquerade tomorrow night, if we do want a confrontation, but if Alasdair and Sir Ellery know the pomander exists, I’d rather find the others first.”
A few minutes later, Alasdair had climbed into a car and driven away. Wesley and Sebastian walked past the haberdashery, peeking through the windows, but all Wesley saw was racks of men’s clothes, hats on the walls, a tall cabinet with glass doors that looked like it held cuff links.
They found a perfumery Jade had visited with Zhang, and a restaurant that remembered serving Arthur and Rory. But no one had seen them for at least three days.
One street over from the hat shop, set into a row of narrow, three-story buildings, was an inn with none of the charm of the Horseman Inn they’d visited in Tarrytown. It had peeling paint on the trim and the shades drawn in every slim, rectangular window. A small sign with flaking letters jutted over the sidewalk.
“Tomcat Lodge,” Sebastian read. “I’m not sure people come here to sleep.”
“Not at all.” Wesley eyed it. “In fact, if I were going to imagine an inn where drunks could stagger from an illicit speakeasy and hire company for the night, it would look just like that.”
“I bet they do a lot of business, thanks to Alasdair,” Sebastian agreed.
They had a late dinner about a mile away in a much more reputable-looking establishment that had three kinds of apple desserts. With nowhere else to go until their appointment, they lingered until ten-thirty, and then walked back to the haberdashery. From the outside, the shop looked convincingly closed, although Wesley caught the occasional silhouette of a body moving behind the curtains.
They went around the alley where they’d seen the truck turn. The two large men who’d been standing outside the hat shop earlier were now lounging against the alley wall on either side of a door. The bigger one straightened up as they approached. “You two lost?”
“Shopping for bowler hats, actually,” Wesley said sardonically. “We understand they can be acquired here late.”
