Chapter 6
And yet a sniper just shot at me through the open window.
“Shit!” Evans is on his belly as well, eyes wide with alarm. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
I couldn’t agree more. I army-crawl across the floor, then lurch to my feet and out the door he’s already opened.
The hall outside is long and straight, with more doors to either side—some sort of hotel, at a guess.
There are stairs at either end, and Evans is hurrying toward the set at the left.
“Come on—my Studebaker is around the back.”
I hesitate. I do not trust this man, but I need to get to safety.
Unless this is all just a part of the act. Meant to scare me.
I glance back over my shoulder. The way to the other stairwell is clear. I can either go with Evans and hope for the best or try to lose both him and the gunman waiting outside.
Getting lost in an unfamiliar city won’t help. The gunman might be part of an elaborate hoax, but I can’t risk the possibility he’s genuinely trying to murder me.
I choose the devil I know and follow Evans.
He races down the stairs, casting frequent looks back, presumably to assure himself I haven’t made a break for it.
The steps squeal beneath our feet and paint hangs in peeling strips from the walls—if this hotel ever had better days, they’re long gone now.
A man, either sleeping or unconscious, sprawls across the bottommost steps.
Evans jumps over him, and I do the same.
The stairs let out just behind the dilapidated lobby. Evans grabs my sleeve and drags me after him through a door marked Staff Only. A few narrow, twisted corridors, then we’re out a small door and onto the street.
The red Studebaker waits outside, guarded by a small legion of filthy children. “Get in,” Evans barks at me, and begins to hastily put dollar bills into the urchins’ outstretched hands.
The generosity surprises me—a dollar is more than most of their parents likely earn in an hour of difficult labor. But Evans makes sure every child watching his car is rewarded, then jumps behind the wheel.
The motor roars as the car comes to life. “Duck down so they don’t see you,” he orders. I do so, folding myself up into the footwell, feeling the vibration of the wheels on uneven pavement. Within moments my legs begin to fall asleep and my back complains.
Thankfully, it doesn’t seem we’re going terribly far. Evans drives at a normal pace to avoid attention, makes a few turns, then stops. There are a few seconds of back-and-forth as he parks, then the engine dies.
“Stay down,” he says. “I want to make sure we weren’t followed.” He pauses, and I look up at him from my undignified position in the footwell. “Please don’t run off. I’m tired of chasing you.”
“I won’t.”
He trusts me even less than I trust him. But after a long moment, he grunts and gets out of the car.
Sounds come to me: footsteps on the sidewalk, the voices of men and women, the far-off ringing of bells.
A nearby door opens, letting out an unexpected stream of jazz music, before shutting again.
I try to catch some of the conversations of passers-by, but my hearing is no longer what it was before the war subjected my ears to the sound of exploding artillery.
“I didn’t see anyone,” Evans says, and I start. “You can get out now.”
I shake feeling back into my legs as I slide up into the seat.
This street is more lively than the one the hotel looked out on.
Workers, probably from nearby factories, fill the sidewalks, and the scent of meat pies wafts from a shop across the way.
We’ve parked outside a store selling second-hand clothing, the sidewalk beside it interrupted by iron railings around stairs leading down.
On the brick above the stairs down is a painted sign: The Hooded Figure.
Jazz - Cigars - Drinks. Other services on request. A huge arrow points down, in case any potential customers are confused about where to go.
“Did they repeal Prohibition?” I ask hopefully.
“I’m afraid not.” Evans gestures me toward the stairs.
“I’ve only been in Widdershins a few days, but it seems this town operates by its own set of rules.
I assumed corruption, and I’m sure there’s plenty of it just like anywhere else, but it’s almost as if the police just don’t care.
Unfortunately, that attitude includes most crime, not just serving alcohol. ”
Well, if I had to wake up without any memory, at least it’s somewhere I can get a drink.
Unless adulterated alcohol is the source of my problem. Every week there’s some story in the newspaper of people going blind, losing the use of their hands and feet, dying…perhaps there’s some new contaminant that causes memory loss.
Still… “Why here?” I ask, hanging back from the stairs.
Evans scans the street. “Because there are bouncers, not to mention plenty of witnesses. No one will try to kill you here, and I’m betting you won’t try to kill me in front of a room full of people, either.”
His logic makes sense, so I start down. “I’m a pacifist,” I insist again. “I have no intention of hurting you or anyone else.”
I don’t have to look at him to know he doesn’t believe me. This is seeming less and less like an insane prank on Hart’s behalf. If I can’t remember the last year, how can I be sure I didn’t do anything terrible?
No—I wouldn’t. I know that in my gut. I’ve seen too much death, dealt too much myself. Evans is either misinformed or lying.
Despite the open advertisement, the door at the bottom has a judas like the other speakeasies I’ve visited. I step aside and let Evans rap on the door.
The judas slides open and a pair of eyes peer out suspiciously. But rather than ask for a password, the person on the other side speaks a phrase in a language I don’t recognize. I look questioningly at Evans, who only shrugs at me. “They do things differently here.”
The door swings open, even though Evans hasn’t given any response.
Or maybe our silence was a response? On the other side lurks a person in a hooded robe that shrouds them from head to toe and offers no glimpse of their face.
Without speaking, they point down a short hall, from which jazz pours like golden wine.
I’d think this was all part of whatever prank or scheme Hart might be playing on me, but Evans looks unsettled by the doorman as well. Still, he leads me down the short hall, which opens into a room containing a coat check.
At least the woman at the counter is dressed normally. Rather than a hooded robe, she wears a green silk frock with a handkerchief hem, her hair cut in a sleek bob. Behind her, tucked into a discreet nook, is a telephone.
Evans removes his hat and his dark blue wool coat to pass to the woman. But I hesitate. I could follow him immediately into the speakeasy proper. Or I could ask for use of the telephone and call James to come get me out of this mess.
“Coming, Mr. Caine?” Evans asks with an arch of his brow.