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“Because, Mr. Moseley, you have knowledge and access—and the good character to right an injustice. I also believe that a handsome sum of money would not go unappreciated.”
Moseley, stunned to hear his own name, was about to protest when he suffered an even greater surprise. The large Irishman had already finished his pint and shouted for another. As he did so, the speaker pushed his own untouched stein toward his companion—and Moseley caught a brief glance of a slender, graceful wrist and forearm, covered with the merest trace of downy hair, before it disappeared once again into the pea coat.
Moseley looked into the fine, regular features of the speaker. No male past puberty had a delicate bone structure and smooth skin like that. “You—you’re a girl!”
Instantly, the Irishman seized Moseley’s wrist in a grip of iron.
“It’s all right, Mr. Murphy,” the girl told him. “Our friend will be careful to keep his expression neutral and his voice low from now on.”
The grip on his wrist eased. Moseley pulled it free and rubbed it absently, feeling great confusion.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Moseley. It’s true I am a woman, but that makes no difference to our transaction. I merely wanted to speak to you without causing any distraction.”
Moseley realized this made sense: no woman, even a wagtail, would set foot in an establishment such as the Rathskeller.
The young woman rummaged in the heavy coat, pulled out a small leather satchel tied with a heavy lace, and dropped it on the table. It made a faint chinking noise against the wood.
“Mr. Murphy,” she said over the din, “would you mind opening that and showing our friend here the contents?”
The heavyset man scooped the pouch into his palm, untied it, and angled it toward Moseley. Inside were at least half a dozen $20 double eagles.
The woman took the pouch into her own hand, dipped her glove inside, and removed a single coin. She put the pouch back in her pocket and extended her hand—palm facing the wall, away from prying eyes—toward Moseley.
Moseley stared at the gold coin, for the moment mesmerized. He finally took his eyes away.
“That’s for you,” said the woman. “Please take it.”
He took it and slipped it in his pocket. “Who is the boy?” he asked.
“Given your position, you must know him. He’s twelve, rather short for his age, and goes by the name of Joe Greene. He has blond hair and an early-onset cataract—cloudy left eye—a byproduct of congenital rubella. Ah! I see you are familiar with him.”
Moseley nodded. “I know the boy.” The cloudy left eye she referred to was, at the moment, black and puffy, and no doubt painful as well.
“Here’s what you must do. Arrange to work a night shift, and then—when all is quiet—let us into the Octagon and point out which bed is his. We’ll then reward you further.” She indicated the pocket with the leather satchel. “We’ll also allow you time to get away and establish an alibi of your choosing; and then we will let ourselves out—with the boy.”
The woman spoke of it with as much ease as if she were planning a bathing outing at Coney Island.
“You’ll be noticed,” said Moseley. “As soon as you enter.”
“We will not. Let that be my concern.”
“How do you plan to get to and from the island without alerting anyone?”
“Again, my concern. You select the evening, and we will meet you at the time and place of your choosing.”
The woman spoke about the place with the familiarity of first-hand knowledge. “There’s a problem,” said Moseley. “The boy’s no longer housed in the Octagon. He’s being held in the workhouse and is scheduled for transfer to the penitentiary.”
For the first time, an emotion—surprise, concern—flickered in the young woman’s eyes. “When?”
“They need to clear out a cell. Three days, maybe four.”
“How do you know this?”
An instinct for self-preservation warned Moseley it was better not to mention that the cell waiting to be “cleared out” was, in fact, currently undergoing sanitization—of a sort—after its most recent occupant died of smallpox.
He took hold of the double eagle and squeezed it tightly, as if to assure himself all this was real. “I, ah, receive a copy of the schedule.”
“The workhouse consists of three floors, does it not?”