Free Seven for a Secret by Lyndsay Faye Page A

dwell on the subject.
    “You.
Out.
” I jerked my thumb at the door. “Charges are dropped. Congratulations.”
    Her mouth curved into a tiny pout. “I want to
stay.
I
like
him. What’s wrong with your brother, Valentine? He’s not a molley, is he?”
    I’d a pretty tart reply on my lips as to which one of us could be accused of amatory tendencies toward men with any validity. But I swallowed it in the nick of time.
    “Can’t I stay?” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “I like you too, you know.”
    “Christ almighty,” I groaned. “
Get out
, or the vagrancy charges are reinstated. I’m sorry. Have a pleasant night.”
    Frowning prettily, she retrieved her long-sleeved jacket bodice and flounced her way through the door. Sticking her tongue out at me for good measure.
    “What in hell, Tim?” Val crossed his boots on his desk and tugged his ivy-patterned waistcoat down. “That’s sound police work I was—”
    “What did I do to deserve you?” I demanded of no one in particular. “I need you. I need you
now.
And here you are, useless as a dead clam. So I ask again, what in holy hell did I do to deserve you?”
    “Probably nothing,” he owned generously as the cigar end landed in the side of his mouth. “That’s a wet streak of luck, my Tim, and no mistake.”
    Mr. Piest’s clanging crowbar footsteps sounded behind me in the corridor. “Mr. Wilde? A young female just passed us by who seemed—”
    “She’s on her way out,” I hissed. “And we are in serious trouble.”
    “What sort of trouble? Good evening, Captain Wilde.”
    When Valentine clapped eyes on Mr. Piest, his expression shifted from annoyance to confusion. To my dismay, it was the cast his face takes when he’s so marinated in chemicals that he’s seeing dragons and sphinxes roaming the streets, and is reluctant either to mention or to scrutinize them. Why the look should be directed at a shriveled roundsman was beyond my study, however. Particularly when they were already acquainted.
    “What species is it?” Val queried, glancing in my direction.
    My jaw came up, newly furious.
    “My guess would be barnacle,” he added thoughtfully.
    Searching for the choicest words, I was about to tell my brother just what species of morphine-soused prick he was when Piest started laughing.
    “Captain Wilde, it is an enormous honor to see you again.
The
Valentine Wilde—undisputed hero of the Broad Street fire, defender of the Irish, tireless advocate for the copper stars, and the pride of Ward Eight. Don’t chastise yourself over not recalling me. Since the star police formed, I work from time to time with your very talented brother here. Shake my hand, sir, shake my hand.”
    Valentine’s bemusement slid into a half smile as he pulled his feet off the table and complied. “You’re the old Dutch toast who found the final piece of the kinchin murderer puzzle last August. I remember now. By Jesus, but your face gave me a turn.”
    “Good God. You might be a bit more delicate with a mate of mine,” I exclaimed.
    “This doesn’t need delicacy. It needs an oyster knife, or possibly a nutcracker. But if he’s O.K. by you, then he’s O.K. by me.”
    “Remarkable!” Mr. Piest exulted. “Simply first-class, Captain Wilde. ‘O.K.,’ you say, which I presume to be letters of the alphabet? What can they mean?”
    “It’s just flash,” I snapped. “It’s short for
oll korrect
.”
    “
All correct?
” Mr. Piest repeated, looking happy as if he’d stumbled upon a warehouse packed to brimming with fenced goods. “Wouldn’t that be
A.C.
?”
    “It can
spell
,” my brother rejoiced in a whisper, equally delighted.
    Mr. Piest made a far lower bow than ever ought to be directed at my disgraceful sibling. Then they stared at each other, grinning in childlike joy.
    “Are you through now?” I wondered in desperation.
    “So, you need me,” Val recalled. “Are you going to tell me about it, Timmy, or are you going to stand there