Some of her New Orleans acquaintances had suggested that if she planned to settle in the town, she could get rid of the Silent Man and his wife and hire colored help with more skills for less money.
How little they understood.
She had no idea of how Edmund Whitlock had come to acquire the two of them, or when. Nor did she know what now bound them to her, or why. She’d once tried to draw the Silent Man on the subject. She knew that he could speak English almost as well as he understood it. Both of them could. But when she attempted to quiz him, his grasp on the language mysteriously became less firm.
She walked in through the doors and found herself in a long room that carried on deep into the building. There was a narrow way down the middle of it, between barricades of desks and tables piled high on either side. Every few feet along the ceiling hung a different style of chandelier, some of them tied up in sacks. There was a glassed-in office halfway down and, just alongside that, an open staircase winding up to other floors.
It was a very spare-looking office—a desk, ledgers, bills on a spike, and a wall clock so big that it had probably come from a railroad station. There was no one in charge, but there was a brass counter bell on the desk, which she rang. Then she waited.
She’d paid her hotel bill that morning. She always paid when she had the money, and only skipped when she had to. Where they’d give her credit, she stayed in the best places. Otherwise, she camped in the meanest, and took care that no one got to know about it. Appearance was all to the circles in which she’d moved.
She was about to go back into the office and ring the bell again when she heard footsteps from above. A few moments later, a thickset, red-haired man came down the stairs, pulling on a jacket over a long brown apron that he wore over a vest and tie. It was as if he’d forgotten the apron in his hurry to make himself presentable.
Louise said, “I’m Miss D’Alroy. I’m here about the Patenotre furniture.”
“Forgive me, but I wasn’t ready for you,” the store manager said. He was a man of about forty, American- Irish, and with blue eyes paler than a wall-eyed collie’s. His stare was disconcerting, but his manner was friendly enough. He said, “Had you specified a time…”
“It suited me to bring my plans forward. Can I inspect whatever’s still unsold?”
“Of course you can. Excuse me,” the man said, and he turned from her and stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle down the length of the store. He followed it with an equally wince-making call of “Henry! Get down here.”
Turning back to her as if nothing was amiss, he went on. “Henry will show you. Some of the nicer pieces went early, but I think you’ll find that most of it’s still there. Not many people are looking to open up the big houses these days. Most of the old families are selling up and closing them down. Anything else you need, just look around. You’ll probably find it. Come see me in the office when you’re done.”
Henry was a gray-haired Negro of indeterminate age, and he wore a similar brown apron to that worn by the boss. He led her toward the back of the building, where a few twists and turns revealed further unexpected rooms and yet more antiques, treasures, and plain old dross from a hundred broken-up households of varying scale and prosperity. A courtyard linked to another building, older and even worse-lit and with the furniture stacked even deeper.
But the room they ended up in was much lighter than any of the others and would have been big enough for public meetings in its day. There was even an upper gallery running around it with space for three rows of seating. The seats were gone, and all the broken items from the other rooms seemed to have been dumped up there. Down on the main floor, all the biggest pieces of furniture were stacked high in warehouse rows.
“Which ones?” Louise said.
“Ever’thing wit’ a green ticket,” Henry told her, and waited at a distance while she took a closer look at the unsold Patenotre haul.
The green-ticketed goods took up more than an aisle. Some of the more expensive and vulnerable-looking pieces had been wrapped in burlap before storage. There were long carpets, rolled and bound with twine. Tea chests filled with porcelain all nested in wood shavings and screwed-up old pages from the
She suddenly realized where it was that this place called to her mind. It was the scene dock at the Theatre Royal in Bilston, the properties graveyard of busted companies where Edmund Whitlock had picked up his settings for
She looked toward Henry.
“If I were to take it all, could you deliver everything back to the house?”
Henry shifted his position, saying nothing but leaving her with the impression that he was saying yes, they could.
There really wasn’t much more to be done, other than to go back to the owner and work out a price. She knew from the receipts how much he’d paid for everything, and she knew he’d need to profit. He’d probably start out by naming some outrageous figure. But if business was slow, she need not expect to get skinned over it.
She had not dared hope it. But it was all coming together.
With a decent home set up, she could hide out along the River Road and look to her future in a way that she never had before. A nomadic existence of short dates and rented rooms had been bearable for a while, but she was growing weary. A young woman, with no ties and all of time to play around in, could put off thinking about tomorrow. But she no longer thought of herself as a young woman.
She wanted to believe that Tom Sayers was right. That there really were no Wanderers—only those who believed in their damnation, living in their own heads and looking for something to call themselves as the world changed around them.
If it was true, then she might yet leave their company. If it was not too late.
She saw Henry straighten up, as if he’d just seen someone approaching. Before she could look around a voice behind her said, “Miss Porter.”
She didn’t turn quickly. She hesitated first and then turned slowly, as if the name meant nothing to her.
A man stood at the far end of the aisle. He wore a brown suit and his shoulders were set with his hands held out slightly from his sides, giving him a tense and challenging look. He was no one that she could recognize. He was somewhere in his forties, dark and starting to show gray.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I believe you’ve mistaken me.”
“We’ve met before. Through Tom Sayers.”
“Tom who?” she said. “I don’t know him.”
“Then who did you meet at the opera house last night?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and turned her back on him. She walked around to the next aisle. He moved along a row and reappeared at the far end of it.
“He survived your attentions,” the man said. “In case you’re interested.”
“Why?” she said. “What happened to him?”
He was worrying her now. Sayers had mentioned a Pinkerton man. The Silent Man had spoken of a stranger, showing interest. Could this be the one?
This man said, “You left him in too much of a hurry. I got to him just in time. He’d started choking on the cord.”
She stopped and looked at him. Hard. She couldn’t place him at all.
She gave one last try at brazening it out.
“I tell you, you’ve mistaken me. My name is Mary D’Alroy.”
“Sayers may live. But there are others who didn’t. Why don’t you make this easier for both of us?”
Was that a British accent? Or was it New England? She’d spent so long here, and moved around so much, that she could no longer say with certainty.
She said, “I don’t know any Tom Sayers. I don’t know you. My name is Mary D’Alroy. I’m here to furnish my house. Now
She set off back toward the office. The stranger was following. She was beginning to feel angry and hunted. Louise was strong, and might surprise him if he tried to restrain her. But she wished that the Silent Man or his wife were here. Normally, she found their close supervision oppressive, and seized any opportunity to be alone. Who would have expected trouble in a furniture store?
As before, the little office was empty. She hit the bell so hard that her hand stopped it from ringing. She hit it
