Camera Obscura (29 page)

 
 

Tall, grey buildings rose high into the smoke-filled air in the distance. The ground itself seemed to thrum with the beating of unseen, enormous engines. From a distance the city looked like a malevolent maze, a trap closing in on the crowds of people and the passing of carriages and baruch-landaus. Two black airships hung suspended in the air above the city like silent carrion birds. Milady inhaled deeply, smelling the sharp tang of chemical waste, smoke, grease, blood and human waste. There was only one city in the world like it, and she knew it immediately.

  Shikaakwa.

  Chicagoland.

  She had passed through there several times, with Barnum's circus, in the old days. The city had changed, she noticed: buildings grew taller, the streets darker, the mass of humanity greater – but the smell remained the same, the blood from the slaughterhouse district and the stench from the factories – the smell of human misery, the smell of a city–

  In a strange way, the smell of home.

  And now she could see the banners, flying everywhere, the flying streamers, the gay colours amidst the grey and black. All announcing the same event, the same momentous gathering: she stared at the approaching city, the carriage's progress slower now as it joined a stream of other vehicles and riders along the road. All going to the same place.

  "The World's Vespuccian Exposition," Master Long said – and was that longing in his voice? He saw her look and smiled, embarrassed. "The World's Fair. They say it is the greatest show on Earth," he said. "An inexhaustible dream of beauty…"

  "Have you
seen
the Exposition Universelle?" Milady said, civic pride offended. Ebenezer Long nodded, but the smile remained. "They say this will be grander," he said dreamily. Milady stared at the old Shaolin master. For a moment he seemed like the child he must have been, long ago, the one who went looking for relics in the desert. "Dreams can hurt you," she said, but quietly.

  The Exposition Universelle took place in Paris four years previously. She remembered it vividly – the exhibits of shining new guns from Colt and Mauser, the demonstration of new police techniques given by the chief of Scotland Yard herself, Irene Adler, and that gruesome exhibition of explosives, cunningly hidden in books, that were authentic samples of the work of that most shadowy of assassins, known only as the Bookman… She had been particularly taken with a lecture on poisons, both ancient and modern, delivered by Dr Grimesby Roylott, a renowned authority in the field, who kept the audience riveted with his account of the deadly Indian swamp adder. Yes, the Exposition Universelle had been dazzling – and she doubted the Vespuccians could pull off anything quite like it.

  "Not everything is a weapon," Master Long said, as if reading her mind.

  She said, "But everything can be made into one."

  Master Long did not reply. A young man – little more than a boy – was driving the cart, she noticed. She did not recognise his face. They were approaching the city, and she soon began to distinguish people in the seemingly endless crowd – local Potawatomis, visiting Sioux, Iroquois, Shawnee and others, European immigrants, Chinese and Indians, Malay and Zulu – some escaping the growing lizardine dominance of their nations, some merely seeking out new life in this wide, remote continent. And amongst them all the visitors, distinguished by their dress and their air of faint unease as they navigated the unfamiliar roads of Chicagoland, drawn, all drawn like slivers of metal to a lodestone, all drawn to the World's Fair.

  This is where he will come, she knew. The Man on the Mekong, the man from her dreams. This is where he was heading, to sell or trade or buy his way away from that alien statue, the one that dominated them both and bound them both. The two of them, and a third: for the Phantom, too, had come to the black city. She thought of her vision again, the sight of him in that cold, dark cellar, the wheeled gurney and the woman strapped to it, drugged and asleep… He would wake her up, she knew, before he began. He would want her to know what was happening, alive with fear for every single second, until the end.

  How many had there already been? He must already be in the city. Like a shadow, like a phantom, he could be impossible to find – but he would want her hunting. She knew that, somewhere in that black city ahead, a message would be waiting for her: a message from her Phantom.

  "How did I get here?" she said, turning away from premonitions of dread. She turned to Master Long. "Last I remember I was…" she hesitated, then said, "far away, on the ocean–"

  "You were delivered," Master Long said, "to an unregistered naval station on the Long Island, by means, I believe, of a subaquatic vehicle. A very
rapid
device, and the Council agent in charge sent a query through – shall we say, unofficial channels – to my people. It was decided that, since our objectives are closely linked with the Council's –" she noticed he didn't say they were the same – "I shall assume temporary responsibility for your well-being. As I said, I am glad to see you're not dead."

  "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it."

  "What
are
your objectives?" she said. "Out of curiosity."

  "The same as yours," he said – which left it ambiguous.

  "Mine, or the Council's?"

  "Are they not the same?"

  She had no answer for that, and Master Long smiled, and said nothing. The carriage rode towards the black city.

 
 

 
 

A man came through the door with a gun.

  Midnight in the black city: Milady de Winter's accommodation a boarding house for gentlewomen on Tecumseh's Road. Starlight breaking through grimy windows, the floor creaking with heavy steps – she was ready.

  "Drop it."

  His smile lit up his face. The gun disappeared, like magic, into its holster. She stared, said, "
Cody?"

  "Cleo!"

  She lowered her gun hand. The man's gaze travelled down, examined it. When it rose up it took in her eyepatch. He raised his eyebrows. Milady shook her head. Cody grinned.

  "Good to see you're still alive," he said.

  "You too," she said. His grin widened. "You didn't expect me to be," he said – not a question so much as a statement of fact.

  She shook her head. He said, "Sorry to disappoint."

  "Not at all."

  The grinned at each other, and suddenly Milady de Winter was gone, as if she had never existed, and she was Cleo again,
Cleopatra of Dahomey, The Amazon Queen!
And he was…

  "Damn you, Bill Cody," she said. "How did you find me?"

  "Aren't you gonna ask me in?"

  She swept her hand. "Sure."

  Buffalo Bill came into the room. He took off his widebrimmed hat. His eyes hadn't left Cleo's. "Heard you married an Englishman."

  "It didn't last."

  "Never does," he said, "with the British."

  "How's Lulu?"

  His grin was a little abashed. "She's fine," he said, scratching his beard. "You know."

  "She didn't come with you?"

  "She prefers to stay at home these days."

  "You mean
you
prefer her to stay at home."

  He shrugged, smiled. "So many ladies…" he said.

  She stared at him. He was older than she remembered, stockier. The beard had strands of white and grey. Buffalo Bill Cody: ranger, rider, showman first and foremost. "I didn't realise you were part of the Fair."

  "We're not," he said. "I offered to pay, but they turned me down. So we set up just outside. Eighteen thousand seats, Cleo – and we fill 'em every night. We get paid – and the Fair doesn't. Their loss. You got any drinks?"

  "This is a
ladies'
boarding house, you know," she said.

  "You ain't no lady, Cleo," he said, and she had to laugh. "I am now," she said.

  Buffalo Bill shook his head. "Now ain't that the darnest thing," he said. "What was his name?"

  "De Winter."

  "Sounds chilly. Whatever happened to him?"

  She didn't answer, and his smile widened again. "Poor feller," he said, his hat clutched to his chest. She shook her head, went to the dresser, and uncorked a crystal decanter. Pouring two glasses, she carried them over, handed him one. They clinked glasses and both downed their drinks. "Damn, that's better," Buffalo Bill said.

  "Damn, Cody, why are you here?" she said.

  "I told you. I heard you were here." But he wasn't smiling any more.

  "Heard how?"

  "We're the main attraction of this World's Fair," Buffalo Bill said – modesty, she thought, had never been one of his strong points. "Nothing much gets past my people."

  "Who, specifically?"

  For a moment he looked uncomfortable. "Elderly Asian gentleman, in fact. You should see the Chinese pavilion in the White City, Cleo. It's something. Though I'm not sure he was Chinese…"

  "Why did he tell you where I am?" then, seeing his face – "Cody, are you in some sort of trouble?"

  The smile had gone completely from his face. And now she saw that his face was pale, and that the hand holding the empty glass was – though it was barely noticeable – shaking.

  "Tell me," she said, feeling an urgency rise inside her like a physical force, and Buffalo Bill said, "I'd better show you."

 

"What is the meaning of this?"

  The man was clearly agitated. He was young, barely past twenty, yet his authority was obvious. His dark, expensive suit sat on him uneasily, as if the man was too restless to let the signs of money on him rest. Cody said, "That's Bloom. Sol Bloom. He's the head of concessions for the Midway." His smile was crooked. "In other words, he gets to pick the shows."

  They were standing outside the White City. She had not been prepared for it. She tried to block out the rising skyline, but impressions kept flittering through.

  The giant pyramid at the hub of the Fair…

  The white electric Tesla lights bathing the scene…

  That giant, ever-moving wheel, crackling with a sort of eldritch tension…

She said, "But you're not part of the Fair."

  "Sol was appointed too late to sign us up. One of the things he vehemently regrets…"

  There was a crowd. There was always, she began to realise, a crowd in this place. There were horse riders and belly dancers, knife throwers and clowns – grim-faced Potawatomi warriors reinforced with federal troops – she saw Mohawks and Sioux and Lenape amongst them – tried to keep the crowd away.

  But it was impossible. The press of bodies, even here, outside the White City itself, was showing no sign of abating. She heard shocked whispers, excited conversations muted by the glare of electric lights. When she raised her head those tall, impossible buildings rose above, and the wheel turned, and turned…

  She took a deep breath through her mouth and tried to focus.

  She had seen something like this once before.

  She had seen it, every day, in the mirror.

  She bit her lips until she drew blood. Her gun arm twitched.

  But there was no one to shoot.

  "This is an atrocity!"

  Sol Bloom, hands waving. "We cannot let this sort of thing go on!"

  From the captain of the guards – "The chiefs must hear about this."

  "They must
not!
" Bloom's face was turning red. "The president himself is coming to the Fair! I will
not
present Sitting Bull with a, with a…" his hand, waving, took in the gruesome scene. Then Bloom deflated. "I don't feel so well," he said. Cleo watched him hurry away. A little way back, Bloom was loudly sick.

  Cleo couldn't blame him.

  She knelt down and examined the corpse.

 
 

 
 

"I saw it…" Cody swallowed. "
Her
, when I came out after the show. I–"

  She cut him off. "Do you know who she is?"

  "No." He shrugged. "Do you have any idea how many people come to the Fair every day?"

  She could imagine. Above her the White City still rose, immense, dominating – an urban space erected in the span of months: a city of the future.

  She stared at the corpse.

  The young woman had Cleo's dark skin, though she was shorter in stature, and younger. A visitor from one of the African nations? Or a transplanted Vespuccian?

  She had the feeling it didn't matter.
Who
the girl had been in life was not, she felt, a factor for the killer.

  But who she resembled in death…

  She had to turn away, for a moment. But she couldn't look away. When her gaze returned it took in the hole where the woman's eye should have been, and the amputated arm was nowhere to be found. One of the woman's legs, too, was missing.

  "Tômas…" she whispered, and didn't know what the feeling that rose in her was – was it anger – or fear?

  The Phantom, her Phantom, had left her a message, a letter signed in innocent blood.

  "Word will be out all over the city by daybreak," Sol Bloom said, groaning. Then, as if noticing her for the first time – "Who the hell is she?"

  Cleo didn't answer; and Bloom, taking in suddenly the similar appearance of the corpse to this strange woman, turned white. "Special agent for the Quiet Council," Cleo – no, it was Milady de Winter speaking, now – said. "This murder relates to an ongoing investigation."

  Bloom didn't ask for her papers. "Is this – is this official, then?" he said.

  Milady shook her head. "The Council likes to keep things… quiet," she said. "Your people no doubt wish to do the same."

  "Sitting Bull is coming to the Fair and how do you think this will
look
?" Bloom said. He glared accusingly at Cody. "This isn't even a
part
of the Fair proper," he said.

  "I
offered
to lease space in the Fair grounds–" Buffalo Bill began–

  "You know perfectly well I was not yet in place–"

  "Gentlemen!"

  They quietened at her voice. Their argument sounded like a long-rehashed one. "Please."

  The local force, she noticed, had not yet made a move other than to secure the perimeter of the scene. Neither did the federals… Waiting, she thought. Who were they waiting for?

  The answer became apparent when a new man came marching into the arena.

  He was dressed in comfortable clothes the colour of trees in autumn. On his feet, moccasins made his movement silent. He wore a gun in a shoulder-holster, and a single white feather in his hair.

  At a signal from him the local force began to push the crowd of onlookers away. He strode forwards, then knelt down beside the corpse. When he rose again his face was expressionless.

  He said, "I want the man who did this."

  Milady nodded. She said, "I'm Mi–"

  "Lady de Winter, yes. I know who you are." For a moment his eyes softened, and there was a pull of amusement at the corners of his lips. "I watched you, long ago, when you were with Barnum's show. You had a different name, then."

  "You can call me Cleo," she said – surprising herself. The man did smile, then. "Winnetou," he said.

  She nodded. The Vespuccian signalled to his men. Four hurried over and lifted the young woman's body off the ground. "We'll do this your masters' way," Winnetou said. "Quietly."

  "Is she the first?" Milady said. But the Vespuccian did not reply.

 

In under fifteen minutes nothing remained of the crime scene. A relieved Sol Bloom declared he had full faith in Winnetou's authority and left, accompanied by an Egyptian belly dancer. Buffalo Bill, told to keep word of the event to himself, muttered there was nothing to worry about on
his
side and departed too, giving Cleo a parting look she found hard to interpret. In under fifteen minutes the crowd had been dispersed, the body removed, the blood washed away – and Cleo was left alone with Winnetou, who said, "We need to talk."

  White electric light illuminated the night.

  The White City rose above them, alien structures above an ancient shore. Suddenly she missed the smell of sawdust and paint, the shouts as the heavy canvas tent was raised every night… There had been torches, then, burning against the dark.

  It all seemed a very long time ago.

  She said, "Then talk."

  He looked around. Was anyone watching them? she wondered, uneasily. Would the Phantom be watching, making sure she got his message? He would enjoy it, she knew. Winnetou took her arm. She followed him, feeling relief as they drew away from the scene of the murder. "The World's Vespuccian Exposition," Winnetou said. "Millions of visitors, and a handful of police. What's one corpse amidst the multitude?" Even at this hour, even outside the White City itself, the streets were thronged with people. A gaiety in the air, excited voices raised, the smell of candy… a gaiety neither of them shared.

  "How many?" she said. He shrugged. "Who knows?" he said.

  She pictured it in her mind. The visitors came streaming to this place, this city of the future – whole families, single men looking for work, single women… and the sharks who always circled in the sea of humanity, scenting weakness, scenting fresh blood… How many young women came to the Fair and disappeared in the sea, never to be seen or heard from again?

  "The letters keep coming," Winnetou said. "'Have you seen my daughter? She went to Shikaakwa to see the Fair. She came looking for work. She came looking for a husband. She came looking.'" He sighed, a long shudder of air, and said, "She'd seen too much. She'd seen–" His hand gestured in the air, towards the place they'd been. "She'd seen
that
, and that was the last thing she'd seen."

  Dread rose in Milady like bubbles from the depths of a dark sea. How many others? She had seen the Phantom's sanctuary, that windowless cellar, dominated by a kiln… she, too, had seen too much.

  Yet she was still alive.

  "He has to be caught," she said. Winnetou nodded. When he turned to face her, his expression was ferocious. "He will be," he said. "But you will not get involved."

  She said, "Excuse me?"

  He sighed. They paused under a street light. A pool of white electric light fell over them, its edges cast in shadows. He said, "Milady – Cleo – I have the highest regard for you. You must know that. Your masters have communicated with mine. I have seen your dossier. What you went through… it must have been terrible."

  She looked into his eyes, waiting. He seemed reluctant to continue. At last she said, "But–?"

  "But you will
not
involve yourself in this investigation," he said.

  "That's unacceptable," she said, and he almost smiled. "Let me put it in plain words," he said. "This is
my
case. Make sure you stay out of my way."

  She took a step back. After a moment, she nodded. This was not her jurisdiction. She had no power here, and he did. "I don't want you to get hurt," he said, and she said, "It's a little late for that."

  His smile was rueful. "Enjoy your stay," he said. "Really, you must visit the Fair. They tell me it's spectacular."

  And with that, like a shadow, he was away – a lone, longlegged man with a feather in his hair and a gun close to hand. Lawmen were the same, she thought, wherever you went in the world. Like cab drivers…

  "Let's see who gets there first," she whispered, and a small smile touched, unexpectedly, the corner of her lips.