Dirty Little Secrets

She unlocked the door and entered the suite, tipped the bellboy and locked the door behind him. She turned and glanced over at the desk where a teetering pile of mail awaited her. The telegram on top caught her eye. She opened it and quickly scanned the page. It was about what she expected. She tossed the page into the fire burning brightly in the corner fireplace.

She was somewhat amused that it had taken them this long to replace her, but no matter, she had plans of her own. She picked up the receiver and dialed.

“It is done,” she said.

The voice on the other end of the phone said, “And what if anyone comes looking for you?”

She hesitated, thinking. “Tell them I was a mad bitch and that you threw me overboard.” This earned a chuckle on the other end of the line.

“That’s what we’ll tell them, but I’m telling you… if you don’t come back for us one day, we’re going to come looking for you,” the concern in his voice was evident.

“I know.”

“If you need us for anything,” he said in a low soothing voice, “anything at all… you know where to find us.”

She nodded, “Indeed, I do.” She hung up the phone.

Sagehood has nothing to do with governing others but is a matter of ordering oneself. Nobility has nothing to do with power and rank but is a matter of self-realization. Attain self-realization, and the whole world is found in the self. Happiness has nothing to do with wealth and status, but is a matter of harmony. - Lao-tze

On the afternoon of the seventh day, the Statendam III arrived in Rotterdam. Eve Quinlan arranged to have her baggage transported to the train station, with the exception of one overnight bag, which the cab driver packed into the trunk of his cab. Her face was pale as she slid into the back of the car, obviously still not quite feeling well, but none the worse either. As she gazed listlessly out the car window at the passing city, she noted the opportunities for new industries to grow here in Rotterdam. She imagined that it could eventually become one of the largest seaports in the world. I’ll have to adjust my investment strategies, she thought, this could be lucrative, indeed.

Eve planned to stay a few days in Rotterdam visiting the museums and doing a little shopping. She thought she might call Poison Ivy while she was here. It would be good to see a familiar face again, if even for a short time. She had so few friends in the world these days… but then, business always took precendence over pleasure. She wouldn’t be where she was if it hadn’t, though she felt she had somehow missed something important in life by focussing so much on business and high finance. Still, there was a lot to say for having wealth. It certainly seemed better than not having it.

The cab pulled up in front of the Savoy. Her bag was brought to the counter, she tipped the driver handsomely, then turned to the clerk. “Yes, miss, may I be of some service?” the young man behind the front desk said. “Eve Quinlan, I have a reservation,” she told him. He nodded and presented her with a key. The bellboy scurried over and took her bag and they headed up the elevator to the top floor suite.

After Sydney Reilly had disappeared for parts unknown, Eve Quinlan’s heart just wasn’t in the Market anymore. The thought that he could just leave like that… it bothered her more than she let on. She couldn’t keep her mind on her investments. Besides, she’d already planned a trip to the Far East to meet with some of her parents’ contacts in the tea industry, for they were getting on in years and Eve was needed to take over the family business… something she’d been studying and looking forward to for years.

She booked passage on the Statendam III from New York to Rotterdam, a journey of eight days. One of only two Holland America liners to have three stacks, the Statendam III was truly one the more elegant “Edwardian” steamers afloat. The ship had the elegance that made ocean liner travel the experience it was… fine woods, beautiful marbles, the art and architecture that made her truly a majestic ship. The two-story dining room, the Veranda Caf�, was paneled in oak, furnished with Louis XIV style chairs and decorated with Gobelin tapestries and period paintings.

Eve slept in a First Class stateroom which featured a marble-topped washbasin, two portholes, wicker easy chair, full-sized bed, and an oriental carpet. It even had private bath facilities, the first such trans-Atlantic liner to provide such amenities in First Class. She kept mostly to her room during the voyage, taking her meals privately rather than in the dining room. She only ventured out in late afternoon for tea and a game of cards. Ladies weren’t welcome in the smoking lounge, but she’d rather spend her evenings alone, since Reilly had gone.

In fact, you might think that she’d stopped caring about everything altogether, except that wasn’t quite true. She still had her investments in the Market, though she was no longer the wealthiest investor. She’d stayed with the stocks, something she knew better than many other players in the Market, and built her fortune from millions to billions in worth, while Poison Ivy was now a trillionaire. The Cartel had split up, some of its members heading for the South American jungles, others went west to Hollywood. Eventually, Eve was offered a seat on the Market Exchange Commission, which she somewhat reluctantly accepted after lengthy private negotiations with the new manager of the Market, Jake Hamble.

The evil villain, MonkeyX, fled out of the country after the monkeymachines turned on him. Some said he was secretly working for the Kaiser in Germany, but no one really knew. Occasional rumors would surface as to his whereabouts but nothing had been confirmed as of yet. Eve watched the papers, sifting for clues, and had her network of informants keeping her apprised of any activity that might indicate the presence of MonkeyX.

On the fourth day at sea, Eve became violently ill. The ship’s doctor was sent for. He examined her, but could find nothing wrong. He gave her a sedative and sent her to bed. She slept, fitfully, murmuring Reilly’s name over and over.

“The heaviest mist in the history of the City settled over the town at 4 o’clock this afternoon. All traffic has stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is constantly growing heavier.

“Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred before in the history of the City.”

Eve Quinlan spoke with Poison Ivy on the phone for several hours, filled her in on the key people she would meet during her stay, and promised to send over a dossier containing various business propositions. She looked at the phone and thought about arranging some entertainment for her guest, but wasn’t sure how receptive the lady would be towards the kind of entertainment she had in mind. She smirked.

Business had been going so well that she was taking the night off for a change. Tomorrow she would make the final arrangements for her trip overseas. A flight to Paris, the Orient Express to Istanbul, and then overland to Lhasa, Nepal, and points east. A caravan was being assembled and, of course, guides, assistants, and bodyguards would be waiting to ensure her safety and comfort on the journey. The Monkey Machines shouldn’t present much of a problem while she was away. She’d made arrangements to keep them busy elsewhere. Kingpin and the Cartel would handle any emergencies while she was overseas.

Eve flipped through the pages of a small black book and quickly dialed. It was immediately picked up on the other end. “Meet me tonight,” Eve said into the phone in a husky voice, “Yes… see you then.” She placed the phone onto its cradle and smiled. He seemed to be always there waiting for her call. That pleased her.

She arranged the papers and placed them into the portfolio, tying it securely with the attached ribbon. She posted the portfolio and a hand-written note to Poison Ivy, and placed it in the hands of a trusted courier. Poison Ivy would likely be pleased by the proposals. If acceptable, it would mean consolidation of resources in various industries, and the creation of a solid partnership for future opportunities that could arise. Eve liked the woman, which was unusual for Eve. She usually got along better with men… but this time, perhaps things would be different, just as her journey would be a great change in her life.

Friday morning, an obituary for Donald Tucker appeared on page 9 of the Paper… just a small blurb giving no details of how the man died, it simply said he’d been found floating by the docks the previous evening. He’d been without wife or children, so there wasn’t much to read. The Paper had sporadically begun to roll off the presses again, now under new management. Old management of the newspaper system could no longer support the diversity of the Paper’s business and lacked the flexibility to change at the rapid pace necessary. Eve Quinlan skimmed the pages while sipping a cup of Darjeeling tea. She was hopeful that new management would bring about the necessary changes and turn the tide.

Despite a year of cuts and belt-tightening, the Paper still was paying out more than it took in. �Our beginning fund balance for the year has declined by $200,000 compared to last year,� said the Paper’s finance director Morley Mulrooney in a somber quarterly financial report at the City Council meeting. �General fund revenues are not keeping up with expenditures,� he said.

Advertising revenues would soon take an upturn. Eve estimated an increase of 5.3% for the year, which should see the paper through to at least December. The viability of the newspaper concerned her, it was the voice of the City, and an indication of the health of the City. Besides, it kept the people thinking about other things, and not minding her business. She wrote “Media Industry” in a small green book with her quill and ink, right below the entry marked “Tea Commodities.” Several columns of numbers also appeared on the pages of the book, a lifetime’s worth of investments and trade. Much of the information was now out-of-date and useless, but she kept it nonetheless… sort of a short-hand record of her past business failures and successes, all of it above-board and legal.

The interesting part of Eve Quinlan’s business career was never written down… and tracking it would have stumped even the most brilliant of Pinkerton’s detectives… but then, she wasn’t paying them to be brilliant, just blind. Over the past year, Eve had significantly enhanced her ability to quickly seize new business opportunities as they arose and managed her operations more actively than ever before. Soon she would be able to turn customers into business partners, derive greatly increased value from access to information, and proactively develop her business objectives during a period of tremendous technological and market change. It left little time for the simple pleasures of life, something she thought she’d have more of when she became wealthy. When she’d had time, she’d had no money… and now that she had money, she had no time.

She sighed, then resolved to find an assistant who was more trustworthy than Tucker had been… one who could handle more of the mundane details of day-to-day business without getting ideas about taking her seat at the Cartel. She pulled a list of traders out of her desk drawer and began to go through the names.