Angels of Music (38 page)

‘It is fortunate for us that birds may fly where bats cannot,’ said the Persian.

Riolama chirruped.

‘In myth,’ said Elizabeth, ‘the sculptor Pygmalion brought Galatea to life. We must now reverse the process, for only a statue can get into that room.’

H
ER FALSE MOUSTACHE
itched. She had to remember not to scratch, for fear of losing her disguise.

Elizabeth transformed herself without stuck-on whiskers. Even knowing the travesty, Gilberte could not recognise the young sculptor as Mrs Eynsford Hill. She walked, talked, sweated and smoked like a man.

Voltaire had seen Gilberte and Elizabeth as Edda Van Heemstra and Irma Vep less than a day before. Now, the giant met Jacob Epstein and his apprentice, Priam Vé. No flicker of suspicion sparked in his eyes.

The Persian had hired some roughs to deliver the crate. Voltaire dismissed them and called on the casino’s staff – liveried apes with scraped knuckles from dealing with ungracious, complaining losers – to carry the big box upstairs to the gallery. When they could not exert sufficient lift, the major-domo added his own muscle. Voltaire bent double and the apes hefted the crate onto his shoulders. Mr Epstein insisted he accompany the giant and his burden every step of the way.

Manoeuvring the crate up the wide marble staircase was tricky. Gilberte trusted Riolama knew how to keep quiet, and that the bird girl wouldn’t suffer injury through awkward man-handling. Voltaire’s collar burst as he strained. The apes assisted, keeping the crate from tipping off his back.

The Persian had hoped Kane would be occupied elsewhere on this busy day, but he was in his gallery with Boltyn, Hattison and the capering Emeric Belasco. The mystery of who sat inside the Eye-Ball was solved. Evil Emeric was the likeliest prospect in Kane’s Most High Order. Last evening, he had shown how nimbly he could work such contraptions from on high.

Voltaire, sweat pouring from his prehistoric brow, set down the crate.

‘What’s this?’ asked Kane. ‘I said we weren’t to be bothered.’

‘“Bothered”?’ responded ‘Epstein’, blood rising. ‘“
Bothered
”! A mistake has been made. No philistine is worthy of owning Epstein’s
Rima
. You shall not even set eyes on her loveliness. Kane, your cheque will be returned, uncashed. You, Giant-Man, lift up the crate and take it away from this place.’

Voltaire’s fists opened and closed as if he were crushing melons. The casino apes looked helplessly at each other.

‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Kane, trying to mollify the temperamental artist. ‘Did I say I didn’t want your
Rima
? I have people who advise me on what to buy. They suggest I back you, Mr Epstein. You will apparently appreciate.’

Elizabeth puffed out, but still glowed with wounded pride.

‘I am a sculptor of genius, sir. Not a racehorse or a bond issue. I am not to be backed or invested in. My work has nothing to do with money… which is why it costs so much.’

Kane tried to think that through.

‘If we could go over the wiring specifications again,’ interrupted Hattison, who looked as if he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in months. ‘Everything must be checked and tested…’

Kane, not caring to be nagged, ignored the engineer. He considered the large wooden box.

‘Open ’er up,’ he decreed. ‘Let’s have a look at your
Rima
.’

‘Very well,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Great care must be taken.’

She tapped at spots on the crate, indicating where nails should be pulled. The apes got to work with crowbars.

The crate fell apart. A quantity of straw came away.

The bird girl was on a heavy plinth, crouching inside a large nest. Her face turned upwards, features exaggerated, eyes blind. Twig-legged birds perched on her hands and shoulders. Metal waves of hair fell down her back.

Riolama was inside a carapace of metal-painted plaster over chicken wire. She seemed to be cast from bronze.

Voltaire looked at the statue as if falling in love at first sight.

‘She’s naked,’ observed Boltyn. ‘What would your mother think, Charlie?’

Kane didn’t know what to make of the sculpture, but was vain enough to want not to appear foolish in front of his friend.

‘How much did you cough up for this hooer?’ asked Boltyn. ‘I’ll wager there are real girls who’d cost a lot less.’

Elizabeth shot a withering glance at the millionaire.

‘It is very
modern
,’ said Hattison, trying to toady equally to both his masters. They ignored him.

‘I think she’s fine,’ said Kane, warming to his decision. ‘Yes, I see what Mr Epstein means to say in this piece. Look at the strength in these limbs. The muscles of a wrestler…’

The statue’s legs and arms were thick, to accommodate the slender body within. Gilberte didn’t know who Erik had got to run up this Epstein – probably one of the scenery-makers at the Opéra. It would look better from the back of the dress circle.

Evil Emeric approached the statue, dragging stiff, withered legs. He ran his tongue over his teeth. The stunted cripple had strong arms and a vicious, street-fighter’s reputation. Gilberte hoped Riolama was up to the task of taking – and replacing – the little incubus.

‘She’s a pip, Mr Epstein,’ said Kane. ‘Leave her where she is. And keep the cheque. Now, we’ve got a business meeting, so we’ll have to cut this short. Have some chips. Enjoy yourself in the casino. Who knows, you might be a big winner…’

Kane pulled a handful of casino boards from his pockets and gave them to Gilberte and Elizabeth.

Gilberte took a last look at Riolama and followed Elizabeth out.

In the foyer, Natasha Natasaevna di Murska was at a window, handing over bundles of large denomination notes in several currencies in exchange for stacks of boards she needed two minions to carry. The Princess of the Revolution was buying into the evening’s play on a large scale.

Had Kane foreseen his comrades in the Most High Order would – given the golden opportunity – try to take him for
much
more money than they needed to carry out their parts in Plan Thunderbolt? If so, the millionaire had a less sure grasp of human nature than Erik.

The Terrorists were not the only faction raiding their treasury to buy into the ‘sure thing’. Perry Bennett and Raymond Owen passed by, heaving large suitcases she guessed were filled with dollars siphoned from orphans’ trust funds.

Madame Sara and Dr Quartz queued for boards, in matching society-fools-on-a-spree disguises. They seemed to have clicked last night, which contradicted gossip about the Madame’s amorous proclivities among her own sex. It could be that the pair merely had a great deal in common, specifically shared interests in human vivisection and unusual medical procedures.

Outside the Casino, among the crowds drawn to bright lights, they breathed again. Elizabeth dropped Jacob Epstein. She shook out the hair that had been pinned up under her hat and was her own blank self.

The next moves were down to the bird girl.

A well-dressed, vacant-looking Englishman – half-eaten Vril Grill in one hand and sticky sauce on his chin – bumped into Gilberte. He gabbled an apology and then clapped eyes on Elizabeth.

‘Eliza,’ he gasped, astounded.

‘Stone the bloody crows!’ Elizabeth responded, in an unfamiliar voice.

For the first time, Gilberte saw a real expression on Elizabeth’s face. Something close to terror, with an overlay of exasperation.

‘Madame Lachaille,’ she said, recovering her usual poise, ‘permit me to present my husband, Freddy Eynsford Hill.’

‘Pleased to meet you, eh what, Madame. Did you know you had face-fluff stuck on your lip? Playin’ charades, I suppose. Anythin’ to pass the time. Rum do, this. I was just wonderin’ where the old ball and chain had got to, and up she pops, large as life and twice as bouncy. Eh what, indeed! Don’t suppose you fillies’d like to take a spin round the old gamblin’ establishment? I’ve got a feelin’ in me nose that this is my lucky night.’

Freddy was plainly an idiot. Handsome, well-mannered, mildly amusing – but an idiot nevertheless. From the cradle, Gilberte had been warned against falling in love with – let alone marrying – such a sorry specimen. Referring to his wife, Freddy had used the English colloquialism ‘ball and chain’, but she was the one shackled to a frightful encumbrance. Gilberte wondered how Elizabeth had got stuck with such a blithering disaster. Then again, her own marriage hadn’t turned out as well as expected.

Freddy made a move to kiss his wife in a proprietary manner. She applied her fingertips to his neck and the dull light in his eyes went out.

Now, Elizabeth was supporting a deadweight.

‘I saw a Tibetan mystic do that once. I don’t know how it works, but Erik does. Freddy will be asleep for an hour or so. Help me dump him somewhere he won’t get robbed or hurt.’

Gilberte took an arm. They carried Freddy through the crowds.

‘Lost the family fortune following a seven with a queen,’ explained Elizabeth to anyone who paid attention. ‘Paralysed by shock, poor fellow.’

There were tuts of sympathy.

R
IMA CARRIED HER
clock within her breast. Inside her rigid cocoon, she counted her heartbeats.

The gentle, arrhythmic drumming – and the other pulses of her body – were like the small, living sounds of the jungle. In her mind, all was green and warm and wet and dangerous.

She had no concept of regret, and so did not miss her native land. Bad things had happened there. Fire, death, pain. Others thought her dead. She knew not whether they were wrong. She might be a ghost. The cruel people had always called her spirit, demon, daughter of the Didi.

How she came here, to these new jungles, did not matter.

She thought of what she must do now, not what was gone.

Rima would do anything for Erik. If she were a ghost, he was Lord of Ghost-Kind. The others were the same, though they might not know it. Eliza and Gigi, from different jungles, were Rima’s heart-sisters. Mirror-selves, summoned up from still, reflecting pools.

When the Phantom played music for Rima, it was like a thunderstorm, a waterfall, a thousand birds singing in joy and terror. It was worth the crossing of a great ocean, wider than any bird could fly, to hear him play. The cruel people made thin songs, with flutes like twigs. Erik poured music through pipes tall as trees.

Twenty-five thousand heartbeats. Enough time had passed.

She stopped counting and opened her eyes. Through slits in the mask-piece she saw the room. A crowd of other statues. Paintings piled against the walls.

She flexed thin, strong shoulders and arms, straining against her second skin of wire, plaster and paint. Seams split, the shell sundered. She hatched like a chick. Her arms broke free. She pulled the plates over her chest and face apart. Wriggling out of the statue, she found the room empty of people.

Careful to make no noise, she stepped off her plinth. Her former shell was exploded and hollow.

Rima, free after confinement, danced, rejoicing as feeling returned to her limbs. She wore only her shift and a leather belt. In its pouches were tools. She had been instructed in the use of some items by the Persian. Other implements she was skilled with of old.

A thick carpet was folded away from a closed metal hatch. A heavy padlock sealed it shut. This too held a volunteer prisoner. She set to work with lock-picks. Her fingers were deft. Soon, the padlock was sprung and set to one side. Silently, she lifted the trapdoor.

She found what she expected. A thin perpendicular shaft like the inside of a hollow tree, with rungs set in its side. Twenty feet down, another hatch. Beyond that, the Bad Little Man.

Rima had experience with his kind. Cruel people, who set cunning snares that broke necks. Birds knew to fly away when they were near.

She twisted her hair out of her face and tied it in a knot, then crawled into the hole. She made her way downwards, rung by rung, gripping fast with supple toes. If needs be, she could hang by her feet. About halfway down, she heard noise. Voices, the clatter of many small objects, distorted music. She had passed through the floor, and was in a branch dangling into the great room. At the end of it was the Bad Little Man’s nest.

Stout chains hung taut around her, taking the nest’s weight. Thick, rubber-coated vines carried the magic lightning.

Rima eased through the narrowing space.

Her face hung over the second hatch, which had a glass window.

She saw the top of the Bad Little Man’s head. His thinning black hair was oiled, but white stripes of his scalp showed through. His face was pressed to one of many sets of eyepieces. His hairy hands rested on an array of keys, stops, wheels and levers. The contraption was as intricate as the Phantom’s pipe organ.

Hooking her feet on a rung, she took a bundle from her belt, and laid it quietly by the hatch.

The Bad Little Man pulled his face away from the eyepieces. He crooked an ear like a cat, but did not look up.

Rima’s breath misted the pane inches above his head.

The Bad Little Man twisted on his chair, and pulled himself to another set of eyepieces. His chair was on wheels which fit to rails within his nest. He could turn like an owl and see in any direction.

Rima unrolled her bundle, which contained a cigarette holder. She fitted it into her mouth and got a grip with her teeth. The holder was stoppered with a tiny cork. The sliver inside rattled slightly.

This time, the Bad Little Man definitely heard her.

Rima reached for the hatch-handle and aimed her holder.

The Bad Little Man looked up. His face was young but withered, eyes black like caves.

She hauled open the hatch.

The Bad Little Man reached for a magazine pistol, but could not lift it in time.

With her thumb, Rima flipped the cork stopper. She spat out a quick breath.

The dart stuck into the Bad Little Man’s neck.

Angry eyes fixed on her, but he could not move. Rima knew he was awake in his skull, but his body would not respond. The dart was tipped in venom derived from the poison frog. She had brought a supply from the jungle.