My Clockwork Muse

by D. R. Erickson

  "And you say this Mr. Burton was an actor?" Olimpia asked.

  "A comic actor, yes."

  "And something of an acrobat, you say?"

  "A sportsman." The gears of my mind began spinning as surely as Pluto's once must have.

  "Surely a man who could imitate a corpse as well as an ape. Don't you think, Eddy?"

  "Yes..." I saw where she was heading.

  "And one who could contort himself to crawl inside walls as well as scale them."

  Of course! I had assumed an actor had made himself up to resemble Burton, failing to realize that Burton himself was an actor. How could I have missed it?

  "Go on," I urged when I saw that Olimpia still had not finished.

  With a long slender index finger, she tapped her cheek softly, her knuckles curled under her delicate chin. With her eyes closed in thought, she asked, "And where was this Mr. Burton when you were attacked by the swordsman?"

  The question took me off-guard. I had to think for a moment. "Now that you mention it, he was gone by the time the swordsman had appeared."

  "And when he came back?"

  "The fiend had already vanished." I smiled. I wanted eagerly to believe it, to leave no nagging doubts. But I could not and I shook my head. "Oh, but surely my masked assailant was too short and slight to have been Burton. And the timing makes the deed impossible in any case. No sooner had the murderer vanished than Burton came rushing around the corner. It would take not an actor to pull that off—but a magician!"

  "No doubt an associate of his," Olimpia said, undeterred. "It's a funny place to lose one's walking stick, don't you think, Eddy? What a coincidence that Mr. Burton's stick should appear at the very spot of your ambush."

  "You think he and the swordsman are associates, then?"

  "Perhaps fencing partners. He is a sporting man, after all."

  With an expanding grin, I gave Olimpia a long look. A blush began to redden her cheeks. "Olimpia, you astonish me!" I exclaimed at last. "The world thinks I am the master of ratiocination. But look at you. Why, you would make a fine Dupin!"

  Olimpia smiled demurely, and then said, "It is simple deductive reasoning, Eddy. Once you eliminate the impossible, the rest falls into place."

  I was intrigued. "And what is the impossible in this case?"

  "That you are guilty," she said.

  ~ * * * ~

  "He has thought of everything," I said with a feeling almost of admiration once I began putting it all together. "He even staged the scene witnessed by the boarding house cook that had me dragging Fortunato to the basement door." I shook my head in amazement. Then I suddenly remembered that the entire object of my returning to the cottage had been to retrieve the laudanum vial. I excitedly fished it out of my pocket and held it up with a flourish. "But this!" I exclaimed, admiring the rainbow sheen of the hardened liquid that had solidified in its base. "This is how I shall catch him!"

  I stuck my head out the window and called up to Dansby. "Dansby!" I cried. "Change of plan!" And I gave him the address of the chemist's shop in the city.

  Settling back into the seat, I contentedly spent the next few minutes examining the vial, knowing by faith alone that it would be my salvation.

  "But how will you link it to Mr. Burton?" Olimpia asked, breaking my happy reverie.

  Until that moment, simply identifying the substance had dominated my thinking. I had failed to devise a firm plan for what exactly I meant to do with the information once obtained.

  I did not want to appear indecisive, however, so I said in a tone of greater certainty than I felt, "If it can be shown to bear some unique characteristics, I can then compare it to something similar known to belong to Burton."

  "Ahhh..."

  Olimpia seemed unconvinced. I went on, "While he may be plotting against me, he does not yet know that I suspect him. Until he becomes aware of it, I can use the charade of our friendship against him."

  Just how I would do that, I did not yet know. Olimpia's skepticism gave me an uneasy feeling, however. I felt as if my investigation had entered a new phase, a phase that extended beyond my initial plans and into a dreadful unknown.

  I felt even more uneasy when we arrived at the chemist's shop and I saw the look the man gave me. It was a look of recognition, to be sure. But it was more than that. I thought I detected fear in the man's eyes. I suddenly became very nervous.

  "I will be right with you, sir," he called over the shoulder of a patron for whom he was putting something in a little paper bag. As his female customer fished a few coins from her purse, the chemist kept glancing fretfully over her shoulder at me, forcing a smile. I glanced at Olimpia and she frowned in puzzlement.

  The lady bid the chemist good day and pushed past us out the door.

  "Now, what can I do for you, Mr. D-D-Dupin?" the chemist asked, lowering his head to gaze at me over his pince-nez eyeglasses.

  "Inspector Dupin," I corrected him, adopting the officious tone of my last visit. As I spoke, the chemist, behind the sales counter, began sliding sideways towards the door to the back room. The door stood open a crack and letters set in frosted glass read: "A.G. Witherspoon, proprietor." Having refreshed my memory as to the man's name, I used it now. "Mr. Witherspoon, I have brought you a sample of the substance we spoke of yesterday, if you recall."

  "Ah!" Witherspoon exclaimed with a tremulous, long-toothed smile. His Adam's apple rose and fell nervously in his throat. I believed the man was sweating. As he continued to side-step his way towards the door, I noticed that his hairy-knuckled hands were trembling. "V-v-very good, sir ... That is ... I mean to say ... Inspector..."

  All at once he lunged for the open door. But my suspicions had been aroused and I thrust my foot between the jamb and the door before he could close it against me. Pain shot through the arch of my foot, but it subsided almost immediately. I tried to break in, but the weight of the chemist, leaning on the door, prevented my entry.

  "Go away!" Witherspoon cried. I could see his face in profile through the crack. "Please, just leave me alone."

  I signaled to Olimpia and she locked the front door and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. When she lowered the shade, the room dimmed noticeably.

  "What is it, Witherspoon?" I inquired hotly. I shoved, but, even though the chemist was not a big man, I could not budge the door. I decided to appeal to his reason. "Look!" I thrust the vial towards the crack, hoping he might be able to glimpse it. "I brought you the substance I was telling you about. My investigation—"

  "I'm not interested!" he cried. "Please go away!"

  "Damn-it-all, Witherspoon! What has gotten into you?"

  I waved Olimpia towards me and indicated the door. She understood and, taking a few quick preparatory steps, added the weight of her shoulder to mine. Together, we pushed and the door budged a few inches. Witherspoon cried out in anguish, but the chemist held firm against us.

  "Please, sir," the obviously terrified Witherspoon pleaded. "I have a wife and children to support—"

  "What is this about, man?" I cried in exasperation. "Just yesterday, you were—"

  "I have been warned about you," Witherspoon blurted out all at once. I could hear the strain in his voice as he labored against the door. "The police were here and they told me—" He cried out in fear again as Olimpia and I gave another shove.

  My stomach lurched at the mention of the police. I should have known. "What did they tell you?" There was almost enough space now for me to squeeze my body into the crack.

  "I was warned to be on the lookout for a man calling himself Dupin—a wanted murderer! You!"

  I burst out laughing. "And who told you this? Was it a man named Gessler?"

  I could sense Witherspoon's confusion. "Yes," he said. "Gessler, it was. Just as you say."

  "Ha-ha!" I cried. "Only the very man I am investigating!"

  "What's that you say?"

  I could feel the pressure on the door slacken. The words began to spill from my lips. I found it surprisingly e
asy to lie. "Gessler. He is the man under investigation. It is strictly an internal affair, Mr. Witherspoon, involving corruption and—indeed!—s 12murder, as you say. But not committed by me. Ha-ha! Oh, no. This Gessler is slippery indeed, sir. He has got to you before me."

  "It is this ... other man ... who is the target, then?"

  I could fit my entire head through the crack now. I was able to look Witherspoon in the eye.

  "Trust me, Mr. Witherspoon. You had been face to face with a murderer—but not now. Your fear is misplaced. Gessler was attempting to trick you. Who knows where else he has spread his lies?"

  "But why me?"

  "Perhaps because he knows I have this!" I awkwardly reached my hand through the gap and showed him the vial. I kept hoping the sight of it would rekindle the enthusiasm I had witnessed in him the day before.

  "This is the poison?" he asked.

  "That is for you to determine."

  Witherspoon took the vial and held it between his thumb and forefinger. Even with my head thrust into the gap, he kept his shoulder pressed against the door, forcing me to maintain a strong counterbalance to prevent being crushed. I could feel my muscles begin to cramp. "I see..." He scrutinized the vial carefully. "The label is torn. It says—"

  "'Laudan'. Yes, I know. But it is the substance itself that is important. See there in the bottom of the glass."

  "Ah, yes... And you say Gessler used this to—"

  "I don't know how he used it. It was found at the scene of a murder. Please, Mr. Witherspoon, may I come in?"

  Witherspoon scowled in thought. "I fear I may regret this, but ... Oh, very well." He stepped back from the door. It suddenly gave way and I stumbled into the room, nearly losing my feet. I straightened and faced him.

  "That's far enough, Dupin." Still wary, he looked me up and down. "Well, I guess I can trust you— Good God, man! Your clothes!"

  "Ah, yes. You noticed." I tried to put on a calm demeanor but I found myself chuckling nervously as I brushed at my trousers and straightened my coat. I was not fit to be on the street, much less posing as a police investigator. My mind worked quickly. "I come to you fresh from the scene of an investigation, rather dirty work, I must tell you. Under normal circumstances, of course, I would have changed first, but the urgency of my task does not permit me to ... Ah ... I should say, rather ... The importance of the substance in that vial you now hold in your hand—"

  "What kind of investigation?"

  Witherspoon's suspicions were back. I had to think quickly. "Murder most foul, Mr. Witherspoon," I said in an ominous tone. "There is dirty work afoot, to be sure."

  "You're talking about this Gessler fellow?"

  "None other."

  "But he seemed—"

  "Of course that's how he seemed, Mr. Witherspoon. But don't let him fool you. He had one purpose in coming here, and one purpose only—to prevent the nature of that substance from becoming known. But we can thwart him, Witherspoon. You and I, working together—"

  Witherspoon threw up his hands. "I'm sorry, Inspector Dupin. I cannot do this. This murderer, as you say, has already been here once. When he knows I have this ..." He held up the vial, shaking his head. "I cannot. I have had my fill of police work. I want no more."

  He grabbed my wrist and was about to thrust the vial into my palm when he suddenly froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. A strange look came over his face. I followed his gaze and saw Olimpia standing in the doorway. Witherspoon was transfixed.

  "So you are the man who is going to help us. Is that true, Mr. Witherspoon?" Her low, sultry voice seemed to fill the room as she sauntered inside. Witherspoon licked his lips and nodded, his eyes never leaving her face.

  Olimpia laid a hand on his shoulder. Through his grasp on my wrist, I could feel him shudder at her touch. "Inspector Dupone tells me—"

  I cleared my throat loudly. "That's Dupin, my dear." I chuckled. "She has trouble with the French pronunciation, I'm afraid."

  Witherspoon looked from one to the other of us. Olimpia went on, "The inspector tells me you have a magnificent new microscope."

  For an instant, I believed the chemist was on the threshold of fainting. I had to admit, I had never seen Olimpia quite in this way, alluring and forward. I might have fainted myself had I been in Witherspoon's place.

  "Oh, yes ... Yes, yes, I do," he stammered, releasing my wrist. I was pleased to see that he did not relinquish his grasp of the vial. In fact, he seemed to take possession of it.

  I could see Olimpia's fingers brushing his bare neck just above his collar. "I would love to see it in operation."

  "You would?"

  "Oh, most certainly I would. Won't you show it to me?"

  Witherspoon uttered a plaintive little moan. I was afraid now that he was going to bolt for the door. I took a step towards it just in case. But he held his ground, despite his shaking knees. "Show what to you?" he asked in a tremulous whisper.

  "I want to see how it works. Eddy says—I mean, Inspector Dupin says it is ever so big. Oh, is this it?" She spied the microscope on the workbench. She walked over to it and squinted into the eye hole. "Is this where you're supposed to look? I can't see anything."

  Witherspoon seemed to wake all at once. Pushing past me, he rushed to her side.

  "Yes, that is indeed where you look. Here, I will show you, Miss ..."

  Olimpia turned her head and gave Witherspoon a playful smile. "Call me Olimpia," she said, and then leaned over the eye hole again.

  Witherspoon turned bright red. "Yes, of course, Miss—Olimpia. Well, look here. You turn this knob like so ..."

  "Like this?"

  Witherspoon moaned again. "Oh, yes. Here, let me get something for you to look at..."

  Less than a minute later, I had a heartfelt promise of Witherspoon's help. Come Hell or high water, he assured me, murderers or no, I would have the identity of the mysterious substance in the vial, by God. The fiend would be brought to justice, he declared.

  I went away with a good feeling about A.G. Witherspoon's devotion to our cause, even if it sprang only from his hope to see Olimpia again.

  Outside in the carriage, we settled into our seats. "I'm glad you're on my side," I told Olimpia. It didn't seem so bad now having a boxful of extracted teeth in my pocket. In fact, I had almost forgotten about them.

  "I am on your side," Olimpia said. "We're a team, Eddy."

  That was fine by me. I thrust my head out the window. "Home Dansby!" I cried.

  I had a clockwork cat to dissect, after all.

  Chapter 15

  Dr. Coppelius slipped his scalpel under the cat's skin and made a short, delicate incision that terminated at the spot of the fatal bullet wound. Then he made two more slits at either end of the first and peeled back the flaps of fur, exposing the internal workings of the feline mechanism.

  I was astonished by what I saw.

  Inside the flexible framework of the cat's artificial skeleton was a complex network of gears and springs. I could see where I had reached in and yanked out a mass of the apparatus. Mangled lengths of tiny brass tubes still dripped the same translucent red substance I had noticed before. Under different circumstances, I might have believed it to be blood. In this case, however, I took it for some form of machine oil. I reached my finger inside.

  "Don't touch it!" Coppelius snapped, and I withdrew my finger at once. "We don't know what it is." In rebuke, he pointed his cloudy blue eye at me sharply. His other—that is, his good eye—peered at me through the eyehole of the small mirror he wore fixed to a leather band around his head. The sudden flash of reflected light temporarily blinded me and I stood blinking in the gloom of the doctor's laboratory as he turned his attention back to the cat. Now directing the lamplight onto his subject, the mirror starkly illuminated the web of interlocking components that comprised the cat's man-made guts. Coppelius probed inside with his scalpel and expressed surprise that so much damage should have been caused by a single small caliber bullet. I confessed to my clums
y surgery back at the cottage.

  "Ah, that explains it," he said. Something suddenly captured his interest. He set aside his scalpel and plucked a forceps from the table. He grasped one of the cat's 'bones'. It flexed like rubber. "Pure genius," Coppelius muttered under his breath. Olimpia and I might not have even been in the room with him. "An utterly unknown substance... Far advanced beyond anything we know... Look here. The flexibility allows it to mimic natural movement. Yet it maintains a perfectly rigid form..."

  Coppelius' laboratory was in the basement of his house, a subterranean chamber of rough hewn stone walls. It seemed to be a combination of medical facility and handyman's workshop. Tables covered with tools for both wood and metal-working lined two of the walls. A cold furnace squatted in a corner. Half-finished projects lay hidden under canvas sheets, their details hinted at only by the tantalizingly mysterious peaks and valleys they made in their coverings. His medical tables included many jars of colored powders and vials and glass tubes of variously hued liquids. A velvet-lined wooden box contained his surgical tools and he picked them out one after the other as he examined the cat. When he finished with one, he would hand it to Olimpia who replaced it with the utmost care. They had obviously worked together many times, and few words passed between them. But for the little sphere of light thrown over the operating table from a single oil lamp, the laboratory was shrouded in gloom.

  Coppelius had been gone when we arrived from Witherspoon's the night before. As eager as I had been to uncover the mysteries of our mechanical Pluto, I was happy for the opportunity to get some rest. After dinner, which Olimpia and I enjoyed alone, I spent an hour or more soaking in a steaming tub. In the morning, we found that Coppelius had returned. When I showed him the cat, I was braced for a flurry of questions, perhaps even accusations. Who knew how a man would react to such an alien, and some would say frightening, thing? But Coppelius was delighted. To my surprise, he seemed less interested in how such a thing might come to be in the first place than how I myself came to be in possession of it. I told him of my adventure, of my somnambulistic trance and my wayward pistol shot into the bush. He clapped his hands together as if I had told him a light-hearted story instead of the rather dreadful tale that still sent shivers of terror shooting down my spine. He grabbed the cat and, taking up a lantern, rushed immediately down the narrow curving stone staircase to his laboratory with Olimpia and I following hot on his heels.