After von Preiss had left the army, he'd evaporated into thin air. If anyone had seen or heard from him again, they were quiet about it. Presumably, he didn't want to be found.

If a man were hiding in Germany, you couldn't find him from New York. You probably couldn't even find him from Berlin, given the chaos in that country. But what if Jefferson's rumor were true? If a man — or at least a man with the wits and personality of the Blue Baron — were hiding in New York, you might be able to find him. If you knew what sort of man he was.

What sort of man was Conrad von Preiss?

An enigma, at first glance. He seemed to have no past, appearing in the army at the start of the war just as suddenly as he disappeared at its end. His exploits were always covered from a distance, the blue plane much more than the man.

Victoria focussed on the most recent news. All of the reports agreed that he had been brought down in French mountain country by one of Britain's own great aces. A longer piece in a London paper mentioned something else: the baron's attacker also crashed that day, and he had a name, Lieutenant Max Caulfield.

Caulfield. The war had mobilized sixty million men, but there were no more than a few thousand pilots in the entire world. Had this one come to America and started flying in New York? It would be easy enough to find out. Maybe Max Caulfield knew something about his quarry.

It was a short trip to the pier, and Victoria was soon strolling down it toward the white biplane. She'd never visited Caulfield & Price before, and was struck by how out of place their contraption appeared among the boats and barges of the busy New York docks. She could see a pair of mechanics in grimy overalls working on the plane's engine. One stood on a ladder, hands deep in the machine, while the other looked on from the dock, hands on hips. As Victoria approached, she saw that the mechanics were… women? How on earth, or for that matter why on earth, would a woman become a mechanic?

She suppressed a sneer. She needed to make friends. She put on her best, most innocent, wide-eyed affability.

The shorter of the two women, young, brunette, looked over at her from where she stood on the dock. "No flights today, I'm afraid. We'll be open for normal service tomorrow."

Victoria smiled at her. Despite the grotesque overalls, she was rather pretty. "That's quite alright. In fact, I was hoping to speak to your pilot. Max Caulfield."

The taller woman on the ladder silently unscrewed a part from the engine and handed it down. The brunette took it. "Well," she said, scrutinizing the greasy, black metal, "you are."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm Maxine Caulfield. What can I do for you?"

"Oh, I apologize. I had read about a pilot in the war, Max Caulfield, and I thought this might be his plane."

The girl sighed, tossing the part into a bucket and fetching a replacement from a box at her feet. "You assumed correctly. It's her plane all right." She looked at Victoria again. "I suppose there was an error on my army paperwork."

Victoria failed to hide her consternation. "You're Lieutenant Max Caulfield? Sixty-two victories for the Royal Flying Corps?"

"I was. Just a civilian, now."

During the war that would have been a scoop in itself, except that Victoria would have caught hell for disparaging a prominent allied pilot. Now, it probably wasn't worth the ink. She shouldn't get distracted from her purpose.

"Ah, of course. Then, I'm to understand that you… were responsible for downing the Blue Baron? Conrad von Preiss?"

At this, the woman on the ladder, who had ignored her entirely until that moment, slid a vaguely annoyed, sidelong glance at Victoria. Caulfield nodded. "So they tell me. The plane was blue. Can I ask what your interest in this is? I'm not in the habit of being interviewed by strangers."

"Victoria Chase," Victoria said, smiling. "I write the Chase Report in the Gazette on Saturdays." She briefly extended a hand, then thought better of it, contemplating the black grease which covered Caulfield's own.

"Sorry, haven't heard of that one."

Victoria blinked. How could you be anybody in New York and not at least know of the Chase Report? "I cover the evening goings on of the city's wealthy and powerful," she explained, smiling innocently. "In so doing I often find myself forced to report on more unsavory or underhanded behavior. You understand how it is. Men and power."

Caulfield handed the new part up to the tall woman, who plunged it into the engine. "So you're a gossip columnist turned muckraker. Doesn't explain why you're asking me about a deceased German pilot."

"Ah. He is dead, then?"

Caulfield shrugged. "His plane burned."

"In fact I have evidence that he survived the war."

There was the briefest tick of silence before Caulfield responded, but her expression didn't change. "I suppose it's possible," she said. "You still haven't told me why you're asking."

"It's rather exciting news that such a legendary figure did not perish after all. I'd think of all people you would take an interest."

"The war's over, Miss Chase. We should let the ghosts rest."

This wasn't going anywhere. It was so much easier to wring information out of her usual subjects. Drunk, arrogant, boastful, and most importantly, men. Easy marks for a pretty young woman like herself, most of them anyway.

"Can I ask then," she ventured, "do you have any information about the man? Did you ever see him? Know where he might have gone?"

"No. I'm a pilot. I flew the planes. I wasn't especially interested in the rest."

"Ah. Well, thank you for your time, Miss Caulfield. And… I didn't catch your name?" Victoria looked up at the mechanic on the ladder, still rummaging in the engine's bowels. There were streaks of black grease in her hair, where she'd brushed it away from her face.

"My business partner Chloe Price," said Caulfield. "She's a bit busy."

"Of course. Pleased to meet you both. I have been thinking about taking a tour…"

At this, Caulfield finally graced her with a something resembling a smile, and her voice softened. "The city is beautiful from the air, especially just before sunset. You'll need to speak to Molly in the office to book a time. We do offer a discount to ladies."

Victoria cocked her head. She didn't need a discount. "Why is that?" she asked.

Caulfield's brow knit, as if the answer was obvious. "Because women are paid less."

"Ah… of course." This much was true, Victoria's salary from the paper was less than a man's. She could afford a decent lifestyle only with the allowance from her father. She ducked her head. "Good evening."

Caulfield nodded to her, then accepted another greasy part from the plane's engine. Victoria turned and walked down the pier toward the street, thinking. When she heard a murmured conversation and a sudden burst of laughter, she didn't look back. Those two were definitely hiding something. Did it matter?

A female pilot and mechanic, aviation company owners, not especially friendly, not particularly helpful, not entirely honest. Victoria didn't like it. She wanted to pull on the thread, unravel whatever they were about, but it was unlikely to get her any closer to the Blue Baron. Or to anything really salacious for her readers. Still.

She walked up to the office. Inside, the walls were adorned with huge photographs of New York and area landmarks. A large sign listed services: tours, photography, transport, instruction. Behind a desk sat a black-haired young woman, working intently on a ledger, adding a column of figures with a practiced hand. No mere receptionist, then.

Her dress was simple but well-made, cut slimmer than most. A touch of makeup, not too much, accented her natural beauty. Here was a girl with taste. As Victoria entered, the woman closed the ledger and gave her a warm smile, appraising her with clear, confident green eyes. "I see you've met my bosses," she said. "I hope they were polite."

Victoria smirked. "They're lovely. I was so pleased to discover women engaged in such a daring profession."

"Indeed, they're an inspiring pair. How can I help you?"

Victoria held out a hand. "Victoria Chase, I write—"

"The Chase Report, of course, I never miss it. An honor. Although I hope you're not here on business."

"Not to worry. I've made up my mind to take a tour. Miss Caulfield recommended sunset."

"Or just at dawn, but that's not very civilized, is it? Let me see what we have, it's a popular time."

The company's schedule was busy, so Victoria made an appointment weeks hence, and then she was back outside. She didn't even want to take a tour. Flying in that cacophonous, flimsy-looking machine sounded simply awful. And yet, here she was. At least it would make good fodder for conversation.

But she was sure that, whatever inside joke Caulfield and Price had, the office girl was in on it. None wore wedding bands. What did these unusual women get up to when they weren't working?

Most businesses were already closing for the day. Victoria installed herself on a bench a few blocks down the avenue, with a view of the office, and waited. When the girl emerged, she hastily followed, blending into the crowd of commuters hoofing it uptown from their midtown offices.

After covering the better part of two miles, she watched the girl disappear down a flight of stairs from the sidewalk and into the basement door of a modest apartment building. Victoria stood at the top of the steps, intrigued. It wasn't an apartment; there weren't any windows. It wasn't a regular business; there was no sign. She marched down the steps and tried the door. Locked. A private club, then. But not one Victoria was aware of.

As dusk gathered, she crossed to a cafe opposite the door, taking a seat at the end of the counter. Over a cup of black coffee, she watched as more women arrived, singly and in pairs. Mostly working types, nothing remarkable about them, some in work attire, some dressed for a night out. But not a single man. If it weren't for the smattering of short skirts it might be a suffragist meeting.

And, as the evening commute died down, there were Caulfield and Price. The filthy overalls had been replaced by simple dresses and hats. If the aviation business was a lucrative one, you'd never know from its owners.

So. Here was an excessively private club of only women, an evening sort of place, which had remained heretofore beneath Victoria's notice. She paid for her coffee, thinking as she made her way back downtown toward her usual high-society haunts.

She knew just who to ask when it came to the city's seedy little corners. Where she took the high road — spending her evenings amidst the city's upper crust — Smith Walker took the low, dredging the real muck of bathtub gin, cheap girls, and every scam and low-life imaginable. If a place was at all suspect and she hadn't come across it, he probably had.

Victoria appeared at Smitty's desk first thing after lunch the next day. He was one of those men who had a five o'clock shadow at eleven in the morning, perpetually disheveled. He looked up from his typewriter, giving her a lopsided grin.

"Hey Vic. What's up?"

"Need the story on a club in the upper west. Basement level, blank black door, seems like girls only."

"Where?"

"88th just off Amsterdam."

Smitty leaned back in his chair, eyes darting around the ceiling as he thought. "I dunno Vic, there's not much up there. How'd you come across this mysterious door?"

"I followed the office girl from that aviation company. She went straight after work, but the door was locked, I couldn't get in. So I hung around, and more women showed. Some singles, a few pairs. Work clothes mostly, some a little more dressed up, nothing special."

"Huh… wait, all girls, 88th and Amsterdam?" Smitty laughed. "Ah, Vic, that's the Ladies' Uninteresting Underground Auxiliary. Old lesbian speakeasy, got going long before prohibition. Your office girl's a queer!"

"And the owners."

"Caulfield and Price?"

"The very same."

"You ain't kiddin'? Didn't even know they were ladies, how about that. New York's finest aviators, a couple of perverts."

"Did you ever write about the club?"

Smitty shook his head. "Nah. It's right there in the name, it's uninteresting. Plus the dame who runs the place, tough customer, see? Connected."

"Know any way I could get in there?"

He leered at her. "Yeah Vic, I know exactly how you could get in there."

Victoria narrowed her eyes, glaring at him. She wouldn't dignify that with a response.

"What? Guy like me, place like that sounds like the promised land. 'Cept they wouldn't give me the time of day. Why not try one of those girls on for size, maybe you'll like it."

"You've spent too much time in the gutter. You know I don't operate that way."

Smitty leaned forward to his typewriter. "Whatever you say, Vic. Don't sweat it though, there really is nothing interesting about that place. Nobody important goes there, I think they like it that way." He shrugged.

"Sounds like a dead end."

"For the Chase Report? Are you kidding me here? Yeah it's a damned dead end, don't you have a union guy who's in with the reds who're in with the mob who're in with the cops? Who're in with the council who're in with the union who're…" he trailed off, tracing circles in the air with a finger.

Victoria smiled.

"You'll just have to read next week's Chase Report and see."

"Hell, I can't afford this paper."

"Aw, you spent it all on liquor and girls again? Do you need a loan?"

"You know I'm good for it, Vic."

"I know you aren't. See you later, Smitty."

"Yeah, yeah."

Lesbians. The sort of thing that could ruin your reputation, but only if you had a reputation to begin with. Nobody bought papers to read about the everyday immorality of a bunch of nobodies.

And Max Caulfield had shot down the Blue Baron, but didn't know and didn't care what had become of him after that. Victoria needed to start over. She stopped in the doorway.

"Hey Smitty?"

"Yeah?"

"If I'm a down-at-heel German vet, where do I drink?"

"In Germany."

"I immigrated."

"Quietly, at home."

"Wife won't allow it."

"On the job."

"Smitty."

Smitty chuckled, relenting. "It's a pretty long list."

After the beer halls had closed or gone dry, dozens of underground bars had emerged. Grubby, spare little places where a man could still have a drink after a day in a factory or meat-packing plant. Somewhere, in one of those cheap little watering holes, she would find a man who had known the Blue Baron.