Free House of Corruption by Erik Tavares

at their backs.
    “How did you manage this?” he asked.
    “Barrister of a friend,” Savoy said. “Warden Mealey is enslaved to his pocketbook, and miracles are often accomplished with the stroke of a pen. Besides—the police broke two or three laws regarding your capture. Irresponsible all around. The authorities were far too eager to pin those murders on someone, an outsider especially, and the Warden knows it. I’ve been granted authority to watch over you, Mister Grant, until your hearing. I do hope you’ll mind yourself.”
    “What happens now?” Grant asked.
    “That is a very good question,” Savoy said. “Our first stop is to visit a colleague of mine. Some particular details of this crime have bothered me from the outset.” He paused, stoic. “He may be of help.”
    “So why me?”
    “You are the only lead I have and, frankly, I have no evidence to either confirm or dispute your story. If you are to be believed, then I would think there is a purpose in what this woman did, and to whom. I will need your help to identify what you saw.”
    “I’m sharp with a rifle.”
    “With all due respect, I’m no fool.”
    Grant reached across the coach, quick as a cat, and slipped his hand under Savoy’s coat. He grasped the handle of the revolver holstered against his chest—a weapon Savoy thought unknown to his companion—and snapped it free from its strap. He pointed the barrel at Savoy’s astonished face.
    “You saw what that girl did,” Grant said. “She’d would’of done the same to me. With all due respect yourself, you don’t seem the type to face someone who killed two men without fuss. If you plan t’introduce us again, you’d better be sure you can handle her.”
    “Of course I can,” Savoy said. “Do not doubt about that.”
    Grant slapped the pistol’s grip into Savoy’s palm. “I could’ve slit open those drunks and made up a crazy story to go to the looner. By the time they find your body I’d have your revolver, your thick wallet, and a head start.”
    “You could have shot me just now,” Savoy said.
    “Sure.”
    “I believe you innocent.”
    “Why?”
    “Because.” With trembling fingers, Savoy replaced the pistol into his holster. “I consider myself an excellent judge of character.”
     
    The coach deposited them before LaCroix Brokerage, where they ascended to Reynard’s office.
    Grant remained in the little nook of a lobby while Savoy continued down the hall. The window blinds in Reynard’s office were all open—a rarity—providing a view of the Merchant Exchange. Sidewalks swarmed with suit-and-ties with their briefcases and derbies and coats and confident strides. Reynard sat at his desk with his back to it, his collar loosed, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. A walnut pipe steamed from his mouth, a tin of Hignett’s tobacco on his desk.
    “I let myself in,” Savoy said.
    “I gathered,” Reynard said, taking a puff.
    “I did not know you smoked.”
    “I don’t.”
    “And that thing in your mouth?”
    “It is what men of business do, is it not?” Reynard said. “Starch my collar and join the Rotary Club and talk politics over cigars? Add to the ranks of those rail-steppers on the street...” He thumbed toward the window. “What do you think?”
    “Where is your staff?”
    “Excellent question. Betty is home with a sniffle, my manager’s decided to take an unscheduled holiday, and my runner’s been murdered. If you could solve my inability to retain reliable employees, I would grant you an immediate position.” Reynard dipped his hand into his vest, removed a folded sheet of paper and tossed it across the room. Savoy snatched it. “You ought to find that amusing.”
    Savoy silently read Kiria Carlovec’s letter. The vellum was thick and expensive. He guessed she used a Remington typewriter, based on the shape of each letter. The woman’s signature proved she was Spenserian trained, and his understanding of graphology