I knew him immediately. There was only one person with a face like that. Or rather, there were two, but the elder one was swarthier, hairier, and in prison. That other individual was the notorious Julius Winkman, the black marketeer. This youth was his son, Leopold, a chip off the old block.
“What can I do for you, Master Winkman?” That’s what I should have said, in a cool, collected voice. As it was, I was too surprised; I made a goggling sound and just stared at him with my mouth open.
George, suddenly at my side, spoke for me. “Can we help you?”
“I have a message,” the boy said. “My father sends his compliments, and says he’ll be seeing you all very soon.”
“Doubt it,” I said. “Your daddy got twenty years, didn’t he?”
Leopold Winkman smiled. “Oh, we have ways and means, as you’ll soon see. And here’s something in the meantime, Miss Carlyle, by way of being on account.”
With that, swift as a portly snake, he stuck out his hand and prodded me sharply in the solar plexus with the head of his cane. The air was driven out of me; I gasped and doubled over. Leopold Winkman flipped his hat rakishly low across his eyes, spun on his shiny heel, and began to saunter away. His picture of serene progress was interrupted by George, who, whipping his rapier from his belt, stuck it diagonally between Leopold’s legs so that he tripped, lost his balance, and tumbled forward into the crowd, bumping into three burly workmen and spilling their drinks on their wives and girlfriends. An altercation ensued, as Leopold unsuccessfully tried to escape, lashing out at all comers with his little cane. As his cries were swallowed by the angry throng, George helped me upright and led me back across the street.
“I’m all right,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “Thanks, George. But you don’t have to bother about me.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Rats—I never got the ice cream cones.”
But it didn’t matter. When we got back, Lockwood was looking at his watch. “We’d better get to our seats,” he said. “Time’s flying. Wintergarden won’t want us late.”
He led the way among the stalls and under the shadow of the Mausoleum where a row of armed officials studied a guest list and waved us in among the floats. Giant balloons moved above us; streamers gusted, engines revved. We walked through gas fumes.
Miss Wintergarden had said she was important, a friend of high society. As with other matters, she hadn’t lied. It turned out that she was on the first and biggest float, the VIP one. Up a gangway we went and out onto a wooden platform fixed to the top of the truck. It was very broad, extending out on both sides. Flags flew from poles above, and plastic lions and unicorns stood at intervals along the sides like sentries on castle battlements. Rows of chairs were already filled with the broad backsides of the great and good, men in dark, expensive overcoats, women heavily be-furred. Young members of the Fittes and Rotwell agencies moved along them, pouring out mulled wine and offering sweetmeats. From a far-off seat, Miss Wintergarden saw us, fluttered her fingers condescendingly, then paid us no further attention.
Lockwood, George, and I hung back, uncertain where to sit, but Holly Munro seemed galvanized. She smoothed down her coat, adjusted her hat, and sashayed between the seats, nodding to people that she passed, exchanging little waves with others. She seemed miraculously at ease. At the front of the platform she looked back and beckoned. By the time we reached her, she was already talking to several of the most important people on the float, among them the leaders of the two great agencies, Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell.
We knew Ms. Fittes already, and were on good, if distant, terms. A striking woman of indeterminate age, the twin auras of beauty and of power were intertwined about her and could not be easily separated. She wore a long white coat that dropped almost to her ankles; the collar and cuffs were made of brilliant white fur. Her long dark hair had been lifted and ornately styled; it was fixed in position by a curling silver band. She greeted us warmly, which is more than could be said of the man beside her—Steve Rotwell, chairman of the Rotwell agency.
It was the first time I’d seen him in the flesh. He was a big man, solid beneath his heavy coat, and handsome in a ponderous sort of way. He was thick-jawed and clean-shaven, with unusual green eyes. His dark hair was turning gray behind his ears. He nodded at us distantly, his gaze wandering elsewhere.
“A wonderful evening,” Lockwood said.
“Yes. A remarkable attempt to entertain the people.” Penelope Fittes pulled her coat more tightly around her neck. “It was Steve’s idea.”
Mr. Rotwell grunted. “Cakes and carnivals,” he said. “Keeps everyone happy.” He turned away from us, looking at his watch.
Ms. Fittes smiled at his back. You could possibly surmise her impatience with the whole proceeding, but she was too well bred to reveal it. “And how is Lockwood and Company faring?”
“Oh, trying to make our mark,” Lockwood said.
“I heard about your job for Fiona Wintergarden. Well done.”
“I’m busy researching,” George put in. “Wanting to achieve big things. I’m hoping to join the Orpheus Society one day. Have you heard of it?” He looked at her.
Penelope Fittes hesitated, then her smile broadened. “Most certainly.”
“Not sure I have,” Lockwood admitted. “What is it?”
“It’s a loose association,” Ms. Fittes said. “Industrialists who are trying to understand the mechanics of the Problem. I encourage their work. Who knows what we might uncover if we use our ingenuity? We would be pleased to welcome you one day, Mr. Cubbins.”
“Thanks. Though I’m not sure I really have the brains.”
She laughed prettily. “Now, Mr. Lockwood, you must meet one of my companions. This is Sir Rupert Gale.”
The person beyond her had been leaning on the rail around the platform. He turned: a young man with blond hair, cut short at the back and sides, but tightly curled above his forehead. He had a neatly manicured mustache, full lips, and very bright blue eyes. His cheeks were pink with cold. Like most of the others on the float, he was smartly dressed; unlike them, he leaned idly on a polished cane. He transferred this to his left glove, so that he could shake Lockwood’s hand.
“Sir Rupert.” Lockwood didn’t betray, in the causal way he spoke, the fact that we had encountered the man before. Last time we saw him, he’d chased us up a drainpipe onto a factory roof, expertly wielding a sword-stick hidden in his cane. He was a collector of forbidden artifacts, and we’d stolen a very important one from under his nose after Winkman’s black market auction. True, we’d been wearing ski masks at the time and had jumped into the river to escape him, but we were under no illusions. Our role had since become common knowledge. He knew us, too.
“Charmed.” The gloved grip held Lockwood fast. “Haven’t we met?”
“I don’t think so,” Lockwood said. “I’d surely remember.”
“Thing is,” Sir Rupert Gale said, “I remember faces. I never forget ’em. Even parts of faces. Even chins.”