Enigma Variations

by Bradley W Wright

  “Hello. I’m Ray Stevenson. Looking for Lester Dworkin if he’s here today.”

  Hawaiian shirt guy looked confused for a moment, then answered. “Sorry. I’m Jeff. Farnsworth. Les left for the day.”

  “Oh, too bad. I’m helping to organize the speakers for the Boston book fair. I’m in Philly for the day and just thought I’d drop by. I wanted to see if he would give a talk. Was he headed home?”

  “A talk?”

  “Yes. A session during the conference. We need people with his level of expertise to share their knowledge with the other attendees.”

  “I see. Um…he wasn’t headed home. He was going to an estate sale in Ambler. An old college professor’s house who he thought might have a decent collection.”

  “Oh. Perfect. Maybe I can catch him there. If not, I can at least look at the merchandise. Do you know the location?”

  “No. He found it online though. Estate sales dot com I think. Or dot net maybe. I think it was over at four PM though. Don’t know if you’ll get there in time…”

  Jeff Farnsworth’s voice trailed off as I waved and ducked out the door. I needed to hurry if I was going to catch Dworkin. I called the hotel and asked them to bring my car up then searched for the estate sale while walking fast. It wasn’t hard to find. It was the last day of the sale which had started on Saturday.

  My gray sedan was waiting for me out front when I got to the hotel driveway. I handed the doorman a tip which he palmed expertly, proffering my keys in exchange. Soon, I was on Interstate seventy six, headed northwest out of the city. My phone said it would take forty minutes. About halfway, I exited seventy six, crossed the Schuylkill River and got on a smaller, two-lane country highway bordered by trees on either side. Through the trees I could see big old farm houses, fields, and patches of forest.

  At last, the pleasant robotic voice told me I was approaching my destination. I turned into a driveway and saw a two-story gambrel-roofed house squatting atop a rise perhaps a hundred yards away, framed by trees. There were several cars parked in the circular drive in front of the house. One of them was the white van with the bookshop logo. I had made it in time. I parked next to the van and stepped out into the heat. The front door of the house was open so I wandered inside and found a large entry hall with a flagstone floor and high ceiling with exposed beams.

  “Nearly cleaned out. You’re a little late.”

  I turned and saw a middle aged man sweating through a blue button up shirt. “Just hoping to look at whatever books are left,” I said.

  “Through that doorway,” he said, pointing to an arched opening to my right. “That’s the library. Some in the basement too. Door to the basement through the kitchen. Not much left I’m afraid and someone from a bookstore going through them now.”

  “Okay. I’ll just take a look. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure. Come find me outside if you want to buy anything.”

  I poked my head through the doorway to the library but the room and the shelves were nearly empty. I wandered in for a moment, the sound of my footsteps on hardwood echoing around the space. Dark wood, high ceiling, crown moldings—it reminded me a bit of Carlu Ortoli’s library. That had been a quick job. I had known the framework from the outset and just filled in the details. This one was beginning to drag on me. Normally when I planned and executed, I could see the whole. I could project possible outcomes and problems and design around them. With Wolhardt’s missing notes I had no firm idea of how things would go or where I would be next. It was like a fog I had to blunder through as best I could. I turned away from the empty library. It was too much like a mocking metaphor for my clueless state. Dworkin had to be in the basement.

  I found my way to the kitchen. An open door next to the pantry revealed a narrow stairway winding down to a small cellar where shelves lined the walls, heavy with preserves, canned food, canisters, and boxed MREs. The professor must have been planning for Armageddon. A doorway opposite the stairs led from the cellar into a short hallway. I heard the sound of a cardboard box sliding on a concrete floor and followed it to a storeroom lit by a bright bulb in a wire cage, hanging from the center of the ceiling. The bulb illuminated carefully stacked file boxes against one wall and Lester Dworkin crouching over a box, picking through the books inside. I hadn’t really thought about how I would approach him. I would have to improvise but I had an ace up my sleeve. I knew why Dworkin had come to this particular estate sale. After locating it and finding out who the deceased was, I had researched the professor briefly while walking back to my hotel. It wasn’t hard to find information about him. He had been an emeritus at Bryn Mawr—retired after a long career teaching philosophy with a specialization in the intersection of music and logic. A couple of the publications listed on his faculty page mentioned Edward Elgar and cryptography. Dworkin was undoubtedly looking for the professor’s books on that subject.

  “Anything good down here?” I asked.

  Dworkin tensed and looked up, surprised. “Maybe,” he answered, giving me a once over and returning his gaze to the box. “What are you looking for?”

  “Books. Old and rare. Just like you I assume.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ve been through all of these boxes now and there’s nothing worth a rat’s ass. And I know my shit. Dig through if you want but you’re better off just taking my word for it.”

  “Nothing on music? I’m looking for books about Edward Elgar.” Dworkin’s head snapped up and I continued. “I heard the professor was an expert.”

  “Elgar huh?” He put the lid on the box and hefted it back onto the stack. “Anything in particular?” He stood and took a couple of steps toward me. “Biography? Musical scores?” Dworkin’s body language seemed subtly threatening, his tone almost angry.

  “Mainly anything on the Enigma Variations,” I replied, casually. “I’m interested in the mystery surrounding…”

  “Who sent you here?” Dworkin demanded, cutting me off. He stood absolutely still for a moment then darted to the door, surprising me with his quickness. Before I could react he slammed the door closed and stood with his back to it, facing me. “Did they send you? To question me?”

  I held my hands up in front of me. “Who do you mean? No one sent me.”

  “I mean the servants.” Dworkin glanced around nervously. His eyes seemed to be looking through me. It was cool but stifling in the windowless cellar with the door closed. Dworkin’s face looked deranged in the light from the overhead bulb.

  “Whose servants?” I asked. “Someone else who’s interested in the Enigma?”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Dworkin’s mouth twisted with contempt. “They have the knowledge. They have the lore. They don’t need to scratch around like stupid chickens in the dirt, looking for seeds. Like I do. They’re not looking for information. They’re trying to stop people from learning their secrets. Is that why you’re here?”

  The situation had escalated rapidly. I wasn’t sure Dworkin was entirely sane. I didn’t want to make any moves that would upset him further. He could be dangerous. He was a lot bigger than me and panic can give people unusual strength.

  “Nobody sent me here. I’m just looking for books. I’m an amateur Enigma enthusiast. I heard about the sale so I came out. Looks like everything is pretty picked over though. Maybe he kept the best materials in his office at the college. Who are these people you’re talking about though? Why would they be trying to keep you from finding some old books?”

  “People?” he asked, incredulous. “You really don’t know anything, do you? People. The servants aren’t people. Maybe they look like people. You could be one.” A weird, strangled giggle started deep in his chest. He began to shake and the giggle grew louder, escaping from him in shrieks. It went on for a full ten seconds. His eyes never left mine. Suddenly he stopped and his eyes seemed to almost glow. “They’re always watching. I see them. At night. I know they’re there. Outside the door or the window. I hear them!” He shouted. “They know I’m close. Close to bre
aking the code. Elgar knew. He knew it. He put it in the music. The dark saying. Oh yeah.” Dworkin began nodding his head up and down frantically. He was sweating now, his face damp. A bead of sweat flew from the end of his nose. “Oh yeah,” he said again. “They’re sleeping but the dark saying will wake them up. That’s power. That’s real power. No fucking around.”

  Now I was sure his mind wasn’t totally right. I had not eliminated the possibility that he was the thief who stole Wolhardt’s notes though. People can do amazing things based on fantastical ideas.

  “Have you been to Los Angeles recently?” I asked.

  The question seemed to confuse him for a moment and bring him back to reality. “Los Angeles,” he nearly spat. “That cesspool. The servants are in control there.” His eyes blazed again. “They run everything. The movies. TV. That’s their hive. Stir up the nest if I went there. Too dangerous. Is that where they sent you from?” Dworkin raised a fist, shaking it at me. Something flashed. A blade. His meaty hand had been concealing a box knife. “You won’t get me! You shouldn’t have come alone!”

  I ran straight toward him then darted left at the last moment. He swung the knife in an arc but I was already behind him. Back to the wall I kicked, getting the flat of my foot on his hip. He fell sprawling and the knife clattered across the floor. As soon as he was down, I lunged through the door, slammed it closed behind me, and bounded up the stairs. Back in the kitchen, I closed the door to the basement too and latched it. I could hear him lumbering up the stairs. I hurried through the house. A dull pounding came from the kitchen. On the front steps I found the guy running the estate sale again, staring off into the distance, cigarette smoke hanging around him in a gray cloud.

  “What’s that noise?” he asked as I passed him.

  I shrugged, giving him my best expression of deep imbecility, and kept going, heading for my rental car. He watched me go, head tilted to one side in confusion. I got behind the wheel, started the engine, then waved to him as I began to pull away. Through the windshield I saw his mouth move, mumbling some profanity as he ground out his cigarette in the gravel and turned, heading back into the house to find the source of the pounding. I was glad I wouldn’t be around when he released Dworkin from the basement.

  Chapter 10

  Breaking and Entering in Hammersmith

  June 31-July 1: Philadelphia, London

  Back in Philadelphia, I stopped for a drink in the hotel bar and considered the encounter. Dworkin was as obsessed with Lovecraftian nonsense as Ashna had thought—so obsessed he had gone over the edge. Mental illness was no joke. I couldn’t blame him for something he couldn’t control. I felt bad for him but also relieved to have gotten away as easily as I did. Beyond his problem with reality, Dworkin also clearly had a big problem with Jewish people and probably most other people whose ancestors came from places other than northern Europe. That had been obvious. Equally obvious was the very high likelihood that Dworkin was not the thief who had stolen Wolhardt’s notes.

  The more I considered it, the more I thought the person who broke into my place was probably the same person who broke into Wolhardt’s. A similar signature tied the incidents together—the rented van, the lack of worry about their actions being discovered. As a cat burglar, I had always prided myself on my deeds not being discovered for at least several hours but hopefully for days or even months after I had left the scene. I sometimes left carefully crafted fakes in place of the pieces I stole. I always picked locks if possible. I never set off an alarm if I could disable it. In contrast, the thief who had hit Wolhardt and me was clearly not trying to hide his tracks. He left obvious evidence of his break-ins. That didn’t rule him out but I could not imagine clumsy Dworkin as the intruder who had climbed to the top of my building and drilled the lock on my roof door to gain entrance. I also couldn’t imagine him willingly going to L.A. given his clearly stated dread and disgust. It had to be somebody else. Maybe the fourth person from the online forum. What was he after from my place though? And how did he even know I was involved?

  I decided to get in touch with Ashna, fill her in, and see if she had anything new for me. I dialed her number using an encrypted voice calling app she had commanded me to download and waited for one ring, two. She picked up in the middle of the third.

  “What the fuck, man? You know I hate talking on the phone.” Her voice sounded tinny with a hint of robotic echo chamber.

  “Sorry. Easier to talk than text or email.”

  “Fine. What’s up? Did you meet Dworkin?”

  “You could say that. Although I think his idea of who he is and what is going on around him is not constrained by what we would call reality.”

  “Got it. Bat shit.”

  “Let’s keep it clinical and say psychosis. Not funny. He took a swing at me with a box cutter. He thought I was the swarthy emissary of some chthonic or maybe Semitic demons.”

  “Box cutter?”

  “Yes. Luckily he’s kind of clumsy. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s not the one. He definitely wants to solve the coded message in the variations if it even exists. He thinks it’s some kind of magical spell or incantation that will wake up an ancient, evil power. His spiel didn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Interesting. Okay. Well, glad you didn’t get cut, man. I like you despite the fact that you place actual phone calls to me sometimes. I have some news for you too. I figured out the identity of music nerd number three.”

  “Cool. What’s the story?”

  “Well, I wasn’t having any luck breaking into the email account. It’s one of those Gmail accounts where the address is really anonymous. Just random numbers and letters. No clues pointing to a real identity. And he has two factor authentication set up. But, I remembered what you said about the rental vans. So, I anonymously registered a domain that looks a lot like the real SFPD domain, set up an email server for it, and sent an email to the rental company saying a white van without plates but with their logo on it had been used as a getaway vehicle in a crime on such and such date and time. I told them I needed the identity of the person who rented the van. I also told them we had reason to believe the same person had rented a van in Los Angeles sometime in the last few weeks which had also been used for criminal activity. I made it look real official with a signature and a scary badge logo I stole from the SFPD site. Someone emailed me back half an hour later with the info. You see how eager these people are to bow down to authority? They should have demanded a warrant. Or at least called the SFPD to see if my made up name and badge number were real. Anyway, our man is named Nigel Bathmore. How’s that for a British name? You can’t get much better. It sounds so British he just has to be British and it turns out he is. They sent me a scan of his UK driver’s license. They also sent me the email address he used when he booked both vans and it’s the same as the one he used to register for the forum. I did some digging and verified his address. He lives in London. So, guess where you’re going next?”

  “London,” I answered.

  “Yes. London. I’ll send you his address. Maybe I can come join you in a couple of days. We’re almost done with the new release. I need to get back to it now. I have some shit code the intern wrote to debug. Six months at a coding boot camp and they think they’re software architects.”

  “Thanks. Have fun. I’ll get in touch from London.”

  “Don’t call me. Just text like a normal person.”

  Ashna hung up. The bartender saw me put my phone down and wandered over. She placed her hands on the bar, bracing herself and leaning toward me, showing off the hard shoulders and biceps of someone who lifts beer kegs all day.

  “Another for you?”

  “Yes, and a menu please.”

  She smiled and walked off in search of the menu. While I waited, I pulled out my phone and, for the third time in four days, began searching for plane tickets.

  ****

  On the plane I read Cellini and slept fitfully. I had not yet come across much in Cellini’s auto
biography that pointed to his supposed involvement with the occult. I did find one interesting passage where he related his alchemical skills:

  “I also used to make a very fine sort of powder, in doing which I discovered secret processes, beyond any which have yet been found.”

  I could only read a few pages before I had to give myself a break from Cellini. He was like one of those people who is always embroiled in something super intense and interesting and who carry the weight and chaos of their activities around, sharing a bit of it with whomever they meet. He was exhausting but also fascinating enough that I kept going back.

  The flight from Philadelphia to Heathrow took seven and a half hours. I left at ten PM but arrived at nine thirty AM due to the time difference. My eyes felt gritty and my head felt hollow as I made my way through the airport.

  Bathmore lived in an area of London called Hammersmith. I didn’t know London well. I had only been to the city once, many years before, and that was just passing through. My only connection with Hammersmith was the Clash song called White Man in Hammersmith Palais—not much to go on, just a song about a Reggae club. I had mapped it before I left though and since my strategy of getting a vacation rental nearby had worked well on the previous job, I tried it again. Unfortunately, I had not been able to find anything directly across the street like I had before but I was able to find a place several doors down—a garret apartment that the owners of the townhouse rented out for an exorbitant fee.

  I took the connecting train from Heathrow to Hatton Cross station and then boarded the Piccadilly line for Hammersmith station. The Tube was not crowded. The other passengers were mostly bleary-eyed travelers like me who had flown into Heathrow and were now riding into the city. Some were business people, putting on game faces for their late morning meetings. Others looked like Londoners returning from trips. Not many tourists arriving in the middle of the week. The train rattled and clattered through its station stops until we reached Hammersmith. Dingy concrete and ceramic tile greeted me as I stepped off the train. The station had the utilitarian character of other places I had visited, all over the world, that many people per day passed through. I judged from the lack of fancy finishings that Hammersmith must not be a particularly touristy destination. Usually, underground stations near popular destinations or government buildings were the ones they saved the marble and polished brass and grand public art for. When I exited the station my suspicion was confirmed. Warm sun shone down on a hodgepodge of old, two and three story brick edifices intermixed with modern, steel and glass office blocks rising as high as twelve stories into the pale sky. The city air smelled of diesel exhaust and what I thought might be a fishy muddy whiff of the Thames only a few blocks away.