Dead water - Barbara Hambly [86]
A man definitely destined for politics, thought January.
Molloy, clearly baffled at how his attempt to rid the boat of both Hannibal and January had failed, kept to the pilot-house during the proceedings.
Mrs. Fischer did not even emerge from her stateroom.
January was one of the men working the crane at the bow hatch, so he was able to watch the little clumps of passengers along the upper-deck railing, as well as the lantern-lit square of the dark hold below. Thucydides coordinated the shifting of the trunks in the hold, as deck-hands brought them to the crane, lifted them out to be checked, then lowered them to be replaced; he was assisted by 'Rodus and two other slaves of Cain's coffle, Marcus and Guy. On the deck itself, Mr. Tredgold was in charge. Davis chalked a line and appointed Nick the barkeep to make sure nobody crossed it except the owner of the trunk—it was Sophie who brought Mrs. Fischer's luggage keys.
“The specie was taken out of the trunks, all right,” murmured January as he, Hannibal, and Jim paused to lean on the still-netted load of the Roberson trunks. “All of it, apparently.”
“It must have been scattered among dozens, you know,” panted the fiddler. “We haven't seen an empty trunk yet. Yes, Molloy had time to get at the luggage while it was being off-loaded at Horsehead Bar—when all the men were out of the way—but he'd have to have known exactly which trunks to open, and even at that would have to have worked very fast.”
“If he had an accomplice—or more than one—it would have gone quicker,” responded January thoughtfully. “But that theory brings its own problems.” He nodded back up toward the pilot-house, visible above the arcade that shaded the wide upper-deck apron at the top of the stairs. “However Molloy managed it, he isn't worried about the trunks. He's worried about us—about trying to get us off the boat. But not the trunks. And as you notice, Mrs. Fischer isn't, either.”
“And that worries me.” Hannibal yanked the netting back, helped January and Jim skid two green canvas trunks with brass corners, an old wooden trunk with iron strapping, and a crate that proved to contain dishes onto the deck, where Mr. Roberson waited with the keys. “Do we need to concern ourselves with a second gang under Molloy's command as well as Christmas's boys, or is there something here we're not seeing?”
January only shook his head. Down in the hold, he saw Thu and 'Rodus pause in their work and trade a low-voiced joke, and laugh; then Thu went back to his notebook and his list. From the upper deck, Mrs. Roberson called down, “Mr. Roberson, you need not trouble yourself with that and with mounting guard, too. I can deal with the keys.”
Roberson shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun and called back up, “It's quite all right, Mrs. Roberson,” and handed his rifle to Davis—Lockhart, Byrne, Dodd (who was likelier to accidentally shoot one of the deck-hands than an attacking river-pirate), and Cain stood with rifles, surveying the green, silent bank. Considering the startling cache of pornographic prints that Davis unearthed from Roberson's trunk a moment later, the Kentucky planter's attitude was understandable.
Davis's mouth thinned to a needle-scratch of disapproval, and his tic twitched the side of his face a number of times, but he said nothing. Tucked among the shirts, coats, and stockings were also a number of packets of cheap glass jewelry so garish that it could not possibly be intended for the subdued and elegant Mrs. Roberson: some of the housemaids on Mimosa Plantation, January reflected cynically, were going to get new earbobs when Marse got home.
Turning to say as much