Red Dog Conspiracy: A Noir Future Steampunk Crime Family Saga

The Spadros Women’s Club was elegant in its own right, with piano black paneling trimmed in silver. Black roses lined the walkways. Dock 21 was close by, and there again was Zia.

She smiled shyly, gesturing for me to follow her onto the gangplank and into the yacht. The girl might be deaf, but she was quite pretty.

Morton sat at the table downstairs in the oak-paneled galley, loading his revolver. Today Morton wore a dark brown business suit and a dark brown Derby hat. He holstered his gun and rose when I came down the stair. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Spadros.”

“Good afternoon, Master Rainbow.”

Morton insisted I remove any makeup and jewelry, and cover my hair. “Your portrait is everywhere. This outfit is little disguise if someone recognizes you.”

With a shock, I realized he was right. Was that why Constable Hanger kept visiting? Had someone recognized me?

Morton frowned when he saw the yellowing bruise on my cheek, yet said nothing of it.

I changed clothes with the maid, putting on the maid’s corset Madame Biltcliffe made and Amelia wrapped. I placed my clothes and jewelry into a dress bag Morton obtained for the occasion, with zippered pockets for small items. I felt impressed with his planning.

I didn’t know if I would get an honest answer, but I had to ask. “Why are you helping me?”

“My employer would like this conspiracy of kidnapping and murder to end, and the boy returned to his mother. So our goals run along the same path. It’s most efficient to help each other, don’t you think?”

That sounded too easy. “May I ask who your employer is?”

“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my employers’ names, just as you avoid revealing yours, and for similar reasons. But my present employer wishes you no harm, as far as I can tell.”

“Then I am relieved. It is imperative that I do nothing to bring scrutiny upon either myself or the Spadros Family.”

“Be assured, madam, that as far as I am concerned, you were never here.”

Feet ran along the pier, and a boy’s voice called out, “Message for Blaze Rainbow.”

“Ah, good.” Morton went up the stairs and out of sight, the boat creaking with the added weight as he stepped onto the deck.

I heard the boy speak, but not what he said.

“Are you sure?” Morton sounded incredulous. “Okay, thank you.” He came into the cabin looking grim. He and Zia had a spirited conversation: anger lay in her face as she gestured wildly.

He turned to me. “Let’s discuss the plan before we go any further.”

“After you tell me what just happened.”

Zia turned away, hand to her face.

“I just received some disturbing news,” Morton said.

A surge of fear. “Is it about the boy?”

Morton shook his head. “No, not about him. Think nothing of it.” He gave Zia a quick glance, then stared at the table between us.

“What are you going to do?”

“Let me see what your plan was first, then I can decide,” Morton said.

I had the feeling Morton didn’t want to talk about his dilemma in front of Zia. I also felt she wasn’t his maid, but something closer.

“Very well.” I opened the small notebook with my sketches of the factory.

“How …?”

I smiled. “The plans are public record. As to how I found the building, that shall be my secret.”

Morton said nothing.

“There is a door round back, which goes to the worker’s areas: washrooms, lockers, equipment, and so on. Past that is a stair down to the basement. The boy is likely held there.”

Morton frowned, which made me nervous. “Very well. I promised to help you, and I shall, for as long as I can.”

* * *

Morton and I untied the thick golden ropes which bound us to the dock.

Once we cast off, Morton gestured for me to approach him where he stood near the wheel. He handed me brass and leather-bound binoculars. “There are watchers on the Diamond side of the river for just what we plan to do. So we can’t simply go across.”

I peered through; men on the opposite side peered back at us. I returned the binoculars. “What shall we do then?”

“I’ll show you.” Morton turned the boat towards Market Center, moving along the wide river with several others.

The day was pleasant, if overcast, and the wind favorable. Soon we passed under the bridge between Diamond and Spadros closest to Market Center. Morton then turned the boat right to circle the island.

We passed under the same bridge Tony and I crossed so many times to and from Market Center. I thought of New Year’s Eve, and what Tony said up there.

Tony and I had a life together. Perhaps I should forget about Joseph Kerr and stop living in the past like Jack Diamond seemed to, before it drove me mad as well.

Morton said, “Would you go downstairs and get a brown suitcase with a brass star on the corner?”

Zia paced back and forth inside the cabin, wringing her hands. She ignored me as I searched out the suitcase. At first I thought the suitcase would be too heavy to lift, yet it was light. When I emerged with the suitcase, Morton was removing the last of the white sails, which he folded up.

By this time we had passed out of sight of Diamond, and Morton began hooking blue sails to the mast. “Open the suitcase, then help me with these lines.” Blue cloth filled the suitcase, so thin you could see through it!

It was then I noticed that everything on the yacht had been white: sails, decks and lines.

Zia peeked out, curiosity evidently overcoming her distress. Morton made hand movements and she took the blue cloth out of the suitcase. Starting at one corner of the stern, she draped it along the outside of the boat, like bunting.

Once we raised the blue sails, we made much better time around the island, traveling under the bridge to the Clubb quadrant. The bridges, unlike those in the postcard, were white: desperate men peeled away the gold leaf long ago, if in truth it ever existed. “I never realized Market Center was so big.”

“It’s fortunate,” Morton said, “because it allows the watchers on the Diamond shore to forget us.” He smiled. “But this will distract them altogether. Follow me.”

We went aft, and Zia was tying the blue material onto the other side. She then went forward, towards the bow.

Morton and I moved a bench far away from the stern wall. He opened a compartment in the floor next to the stern wall, lifting the floorboards up by hinges to fold onto the deck.

He climbed into the compartment and unhooked a board shaped like the inside of the stern wall. This board attached to the lowest part of the stern by hooks, and at the railing by hinges. We raised the board over the side using long hooked poles, the board just clearing the rudder mechanism. When this board dropped over the stern wall, it clicked into place, covering the stern.

“The Finesse is now the Action Card,” Morton said. “No one is searching for that boat at all.”

We walked towards the bow. Zia was at the wheel, and we went under the bridge to the Hart quadrant as if on vacation.

Morton took out a cigarette and lit it. “I’m sorry, here.” He held his cigarette in his mouth while he offered me a cigarette, which I took, although perhaps I shouldn’t have, and lit it for me.

So far, the day seemed enjoyable. But I didn’t let Morton behind me, nor did I forget what I was doing. I walked into a trap. I could very well die that day.

Zia and Morton exchanged gestures after he tied the boat to the dock, and she seemed calmer. After a peck on Morton’s cheek, Zia returned to the boat, and went inside.

Morton must have noticed my curious gaze, for he said, “My younger sister.”

Master Gentleman Morton’s dark brown private coach waited at the docks in the Diamond quadrant, complete with driver and footman. Morton tried to get me to enter, but I refused, hiring a public taxi-carriage which came down the street a few moments later.

We sat across from each other. Silence seemed the best choice.

“You don’t trust me; I don’t blame you. It was abominable of me to lay hands on you the day we met, and I deeply regret it.”

“Then why did you?”

“I don’t know.” The way he said it told me that this man was new to his job, fearing his task was impossible, afraid he ruined the opportunity to gain me as an ally. “I … I never played a rough man before.”

I almost laughed. Is that what he thought of Pot rags? “I don’t trust you, true. For all I know, you could be the murderer.”

Morton stared at me, aghast. “Murderer? I assure you, madam, I’m not!”

“And so a murderer would say. However,” I said, with a sigh, “I must return David Bryce to his mother if I can, for reasons I will not share with a stranger. And so I must ride with you, and let you accompany me.”

Morton didn’t speak for several moments; his eyes, nose, and cheeks turned red, and he looked less certain of himself. “I believe this is a trap.”

I stayed silent, hoping he would say more.

“Do you know a man named Frank Pagliacci?”

Now perhaps I would learn the truth. What should I reveal?

I decided to be as honest as possible. If he played me false, this might put him at ease, and he might let some information slip. “He is the man who kidnapped the boy and holds him now. He killed two of my husband’s men and kidnapped two more, blackmailing them into spying on us. I also believe he strangled your Stephen and the older brother of the child we seek.”

When I told him the last part, Morton stared at me, horrified. “This whole thing felt wrong. I have met this man; he is … a consummate liar. He almost had me fooled.”

“What did he tell you?”

Morton then told his story, slowly and with much hesitation. He was hired to discover who created false Red Dog treys then blamed their villainous deeds on the gang. While on his investigation, a trusted friend introduced him to Frank Pagliacci. This man passed himself — quite convincingly, from Morton’s descriptions — as part of the district attorney’s office.

“I felt suspicious … I didn’t understand why he would want to help me.”

By then, Morton learned of David’s disappearance from Clover. His employer became alarmed at the news, and asked him to retrieve the boy.

But Frank Pagliacci claimed no child was missing: he paid a woman to tell this story. They asked Morton to pretend to assist me in finding the boy. In exchange, they would give him access to a man who had the information Morton needed.

This man, who Morton never met, would talk only if he met with me. Pagliacci claimed this pretense of a kidnapping was necessary to lure me to the meeting. A police detective joined them, but only to corroborate the story.

Why would anyone need to lure me anywhere? Because it was someone I wouldn’t want to meet with otherwise? I couldn’t think of anyone who fit that description, except perhaps my father. Or Jack Diamond.

Ah. That made sense, frightening as it was.

I considered Mrs. Bryce, her barren rooms, her empty plate, and her dead son. “I have spent a great deal of time with this woman, who I have known since childhood. I am confident that if they paid her to concoct this story, the pay wasn’t nearly enough.”

“Their reasons made no sense,” Morton said. “A man going to the police with information in exchange for meeting you. Though you ran an independent business, he couldn’t meet you? Because your husband was so jealous?” He glanced at my face.

I touched my cheek. “It’s not what you think.” I sighed, melancholy at my failure with Thrace Pike. “It’s a long story.”

Morton peered at me, then shook his head. “None of it made sense. They were insistent on their tale and plan, though, and it seemed to make sense to my friend, so I let the matter drop. But I began to check their story.

“The second man was a detective once, but had been let go. He now works as a private investigator.”

Oh, dear. A Bridges detective would have to do or be something quite extreme to rate dismissal.

Morton took a deep breath. “The most alarming part of this was that they refused to tell me where the meeting was to be. I would receive word to be at a certain place and told what to say. That is why I was in Diamond, and why I didn’t rescue the boy. At the time, I didn’t think he was real. But when I saw his mother, so frantic and hopeful, I began to doubt their story.”

“And then there was Stephen.”

“Yes.” He paused. “I never met Stephen, but from the way Clover took the news …” He shook his head. “When you told me you sent Stephen to find the boy, and then to see his portrait in the paper … murdered … I knew this was real … something was horribly wrong.” Morton sat silent for a moment. “I could get no confirmation that Frank Pagliacci was who he claimed to be. So I sent a messenger boy to bring a letter to the man. A test, to see how he would reply. The messenger told me the office lay empty. I knew then this was a trap.”

I frowned. “Why trap us?”

“I’m not sure they wished to trap me, although I can see several reasons they might wish to. I’m certain they wish to trap you, but for what purpose it’s unclear.” Then he sat bolt upright, his voice full of dread. “Zia.”

No surprise here. “You must decide what to do for yourself.”

Morton stared out of the window, his face pale. He kept one hand to his chin, the other tapping his fingers and checking his pocket-watch. We clattered along in the taxi-carriage, the horses’ hooves ringing on the cobblestones.

Several minutes went by. I felt relieved that Morton didn’t turn the carriage back. Frank Pagliacci could have been returning to kill or move the boy soon. “Did you follow me?”

“I did, the day you went to the train and the bar. Once I met you in the Pot, I knew you dressed as a shop maid. It was easy to deduce where you might obtain a uniform without much trouble.”

“I was to meet Stephen there at the train.” I felt somber. “He never arrived.”

“The police found him. I wish now that they had kept him; perhaps he would still be alive.”

The driver brought us round back of the Diamond plant, a few streets away. “Please wait for us here,” I said. The driver glanced at Morton, who nodded. The driver took out a cigar, lighting it as we crossed the street.

The sun emerged from the clouds, and I moved towards the factory. “This way.” Morton followed.

Few people walked the streets. We were too close to the slums for the homes to be other than those of the lowest day-wage servants. This hour, most were at work in the better areas as temporary help, shop girls, and the like.

A black brick building mortared in gray stood at the far right intersection of two alleyways. At the corner, a gray wooden door stood at the top of a short staircase with a gray metal railing.

An ancient wooden sign above the door said:

Diamond Shoe Polish

Since 1874

A man sat smoking on the back stair, while another stood guard, revolver in hand. Neither saw us, with our alleyway cloaked in shadow.

Morton took out his pocket-watch and examined it. “My guess is that the man on the porch will go off break in a few moments,” he whispered. “I will then draw the gun-man away. Go in when the way is clear.”

I grabbed his arm. “Why are you really helping me?”

Morton turned to me. “Why do you care?”

“I need to know.” I needed to know he hadn’t sold me to Jack Diamond. Or to hear him say it, even if he lied.

Morton took a deep breath and let it out. “Perhaps it’s to prove you’ve misjudged me.” Then he gazed away with an introspective smile. “Perhaps I’m just a sucker for a pretty face.”

I hadn’t expected that answer.

“Or perhaps,” Morton said, “I just can’t walk away when a boy may be in danger.”

I nodded, humbled. Morton returned the way we came.

A few moments later, the man on the back stair threw down his cigarette and stepped on it, then went inside. A horn sounded inside the building.

I heard a trash can thrown against a wall, then gunshots, both from my left. The man with the pistol glanced up and down the street, then moved one slow step at a time towards the commotion. More gunshots, then hoof-beats.

Was that my carriage? Had Morton abandoned me to rescue Zia? I might have no way to escape.

But the way was clear; I had to go now, or go back.

I crept from the shadows, peering around. Seeing no one, I crossed to the stair and opened the unlocked door.

Inside was a long white hallway, its sides filled with boots and overcoats. This led to a white kitchen, which held a full trash can and dirty pots in the copper washbasin to the right. The room smelled of recent cooking. Across the room was a locker area, painted gray.

I saw no exit from the locker room, so I went straight on through then turned right. White-clad workers tended huge intricate machines past the large windows to my left. I kept myself low so they wouldn’t see me.

I went through a tan room which held equipment and an enormous black room full of barrels, stacked high enough so I couldn’t see over them. Large lights glared from the ceiling, which seemed several stories up.

I almost stumbled on a man checking the barrels, but I crouched down before he saw me. He wore white, but the white of a factory laborer: white shirt and overalls, with dark brown work shoes. The man’s brown skin matched his hair, which hung in curls, and he held a notebook, writing every so often in it.

I felt a touch on my shoulder, and startled, I turned, ready to fight or flee. Morton stood behind me, and I sighed with relief.

He put a finger to his lips and gestured for me to follow. He led me around a stack of large wooden boxes which screened us from view of the workman and we crouched down again. “Where to now?”

I checked my notes. “This way,” I whispered.

We went down a long gray hallway. Several of the bulbs above us were burned out, but there was enough light to make our way. We came to a door, which Morton opened.

An unlit oil lamp hung on the wall beside the door. Morton lit the lamp with a match from his pocket, and we hurried inside, closing the door behind us. The light revealed a flight of steps leading down a white stairwell.

Morton drew his revolver and went first, one step at a time. I followed. A black metal railing lay along the wall to our left. Another began once we cleared the ceiling, with supports for the railing every few yards.

Lamps hung from the low ceiling of a large windowless white storage room. The room held rows of the same wooden boxes, stacked waist high.

The room was silent except for a faint rhythmic squeak, far off. Morton lit each lamp in turn, searching the area shown before lighting another.

Far in back of the room, a dark shape moved, huddled in the left corner, surrounded by boxes. Morton lit another lamp. A child, barefoot, curled into a ball, arms around knees, rocking.

I approached him. “David? David Bryce?”

He gave no sign he had heard, so I moved the hair away from his face. I stopped, shocked at the torment in David’s gaze. “This is he.” I held his little face in my hands, so much like Air’s, and grief overwhelmed me.

Morton took David, murmuring, “What have they done to you?” But the boy didn’t answer. Morton glanced at me. “Let’s get him out of here.”

We hurried through the long room towards the stairs. It seemed Lady Luck smiled on us. We found the boy, and he was alive. All we had to do was go through the deserted storage rooms to our waiting carriage.

This might just work.

When we were ten yards from the staircase, a man spoke from the top of the stairs. “He’s on his way.”

My heart began racing in fear. Who was on his way? Frank Pagliacci, or Jack Diamond?

I gasped in horror as footsteps descended. We were trapped.