He was giddy at first. "I don't know if I need my surgical kit or my toolbox!" he quipped with a laugh. But he became more subdued the further he dug into the workings of the feline automaton. His dissection absorbed him more and more until he scarcely seemed to be aware of my presence in the room with him.
As each idea struck him, he would quickly call for a different instrument which Olimpia expertly placed in his palm. I could see that he was working his way towards the thing's head. As he pried apart the ribcage, he drew back with a start.
"My God," he exclaimed.
He stared into the distance, lost in thought.
"What is it, Doctor?"
When he made no reply, I craned my neck to see what had startled him. The artificial ribs had sprung back to their original position, so I pried them apart with my fingers and looked inside.
There I saw the usual assortment of gears and tubes, but these were almost lost amid a network of clinging strands of biological tissue. They seemed to have grown up over and around the brass fittings and springs, increasing in density the further I looked.
Where the back end of the cat was a pure artificial construct, the front seemed to be a combination of clockwork and biological structures. I could more readily accept the former before I could even conceive of the latter.
"It's not possible," Coppelius said, looking at me at last with a birdlike twitch of his head.
"That was the conclusion I had arrived at, even before I had seen ... this."
"Tell me, Edgar. You say these ... cats ... of yours were indistinguishable from one another?"
"On the contrary, Doctor. They were as different as night and day. Indeed, even before all the facts were known to me, I had come to believe there were two cats, one that loved me and one that seemed bent on my destruction."
"And which was which, Edgar?"
"Physically, it is true, the cat's were indistinguishable. That is what made the issue so perplexing. By sheer chance, I had never seen them together. And their behaviors were so diametrically opposed that I believed the cat must have gone mad, somehow."
"But which, Edgar?"
I swept my hand above the prostrate form of the clockwork cat. "This was the cat I knew, Doctor. This ... this thing. This is the loving cat I remember. The same one that curled up on my lap and purred at my feet. This is Virginia's little kitty, as I knew him."
The admission hurt me more than I would have suspected. While the man-made sham of a cat loved me, the real one wanted to destroy me. The horror of what I had done to him came flooding back. But none of this mattered to Coppelius. In fact, the news seemed to please him.
"Ah ... Interesting ..." he said. "So this was the gentle cat? The one that most resembled your ... late wife's kitty, as you call it?"
The word 'kitty' coming from Coppelius' misshapen lips made me want to shiver in horror and laugh all at once. But my mind was beginning to spin with thoughts of too many cats.
"I would have thought that this was Virginia's cat—if I hadn't accidentally shot him and found these spilling out of him." I picked up a displaced gear and spring from the table and let them fall in disgust.
"While the real one—"
"Can we be sure of that, Doctor?" I asked before he could continue.
Standing over the cat, hunch-backed in his black frock coat, Coppelius turned his head and gave me a cock-browed stare while his vulture's eye gazed somewhere disconcertingly over my shoulder. "Sure of what, boy?"
"How can we know there is a real cat? Perhaps"
"One of the cats is real," Coppelius assured me. "And we can be certain that it's not this one."
"But how do you know that?"
"You tell me, Edgar. When you plucked the eyeball from this fellow's twin, was it a real cat that howled in rage and pain? Or was it more like this?"
He took up his scalpel and with a series of rapid, deft strokes soon had the automaton's eyeball out of its head. It clung to the socket by a spidery network of glistening tendons and, I saw buried within, a short length of copper wire. With a flick of his wrist, Coppelius jerked it free. He held the naked eyeball between his fingers and pointed it at me. "I see you!" he said in a playful, high-pitched voice. I was not able to laugh. The overall effect was grotesque.
"It was a real cat," I conceded sheepishly.
In fact, I could not recall ever telling Coppelius of my shameful act. On the other hand, he had tended Virginia for months and I could not recall many subjects about which we had no doubt conversed. In my spiritually weakened condition throughout that period, I might have told him anything. I might also have told Olimpia. Who knew?
What I did know was that my feelings of guilt often overwhelmed me. When I was honest with myself, I understood that it was only my guilt that made me believe the cat sought vengeance. When I thought back dispassionately, I could remember no hatred from Pluto, only fear. He ran from me, not at me. I would have welcomed his hatred if only to be free from the creature's pathetic terror of me. It was not until later that he became aggressive. In fact, it was at about the same time that I often found him having returned to his old loving self. That is, he did not become the hateful, violent creature I have come to know until after he had become two.
There was something about the artificial cat that had somehow altered the behavior of the real cat. But what it was I had no way of knowing.
"It wouldn't surprise me if Burton wasn't behind this somehow," I said. I had been mulling various scenarios that would explain the existence of the cat and Burton's role in it but had come up with nothing satisfactory. I spoke my thoughts aloud now in hopes that Dr. Coppelius might have an answer I had not thought of.
But he said nothing immediately. He was struggling with something deep inside the cat. Whatever it was suddenly broke free, and he looked at me, still grimacing from his effort.
"Oh, this is far beyond Burton, my boy."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we are dealing with a work of genius here, Edgar."
"Then you think Burton is merely a pawn and there is some greater intelligence at work behind him?"
With one hand still inside the cat, Coppelius called for a scalpel. Olimpia laid it in his palm. "Most assuredly," Coppelius replied, working by feel only. "There, that's got it!" He pulled something from the chest cavity. "I had my doubts at first, Edgar. But now I must tell you that I believe you are in grave danger."
Finished with his work, he pulled the mirror-band from his head and inspected an object closely under the light. I looked on with interest and saw that it was a glass sphere, about the size of a dollar coin. It looked to be partially full of a silvery fluid. In the center of the sphere hung some sort of tiny mechanism, which from my vantage point looked something like a pendulum arm. Wires and tiny tubing led into and out of the sphere. Coppelius turned it in his fingers. I noticed that however it moved, the pendulum remained stationary, like the needle of a compass.
"The creature's heart," Coppelius muttered in awe.
I leaned in close to get a better look. I had the impression that I was gazing at a man-made object cast somehow in miniature. It was so small that I could not discern the details of its construction. Even Olimpia, who had exhibited little curiosity until now, bent in close to look. I could feel the warmth of her hand on my shoulder.
"It is a perpetual motion machine," Coppelius said. "It is the power source of our dear departed."
"How does it work?" I asked. The room had become silent. It seemed inappropriate to speak above a whisper.
"To answer that question will take years of study. Who is responsible is our more immediate concern."
"Whoever it is—"
"Has you as his target," Coppelius finished for me.
We stared at one another.
Someone was standing in the gloom behind us. Startled, I jerked my head around only to find that it was Dansby. I let out a sigh. The strangeness of our discovery and the murkiness of our surroundings had excited my ima
gination. Instead of the butler, I had fancied some grim clockwork man come to retrieve his pet. But, even at his most animated, Dansby was a dour, inexpressive man, so perhaps my fancy could be forgiven.
He held a burning lantern in one hand and a silver tray, upon which had been placed a calling card, in the other.
"A visitor for you, sir."
Coppelius quickly wiped the sphere with a rag, and then his hands. He glanced at the card, and said, "Come, Dansby." Then, to Olimpia and me: "I shall return shortly." He paused. He seemed about to lay the sphere on the table next to its erstwhile carrier, but, thinking better of it, slipped it into his pocket instead. Then he and Dansby started towards the stairs.
"Oh, and, uh, Edgar," Coppelius said, turning back. "I, uh, wouldn't say anything about this cat, if I were you."
I was intrigued. "You wouldn't?"
"No, I wouldn't. The police already suspect you of madness. Talk of this cat will only make matters worse."
I wanted to ask him why. It seemed to me that the cat could only help exonerate me. But I decided against it. I would take his advice. At least for now.
~ * * * ~
"What a peculiar man," I said, after he had gone. I had forgotten for the moment that he was Olimpia's father. "Oh, sorry."
Olimpia waved my apology away. "One cannot choose one's father, I'm afraid," she said, as she began lighting another lamp.
"Alas, it is true." I felt suddenly wistful. "Did you know your mother, Olimpia? My own was an actress." The memory of my mother buoyed me. I added with a surge of pride, "An actress of some renown, if I may say."
Olimpia had had to climb atop a stool to reach one of the lamps. I moved to catch her in case she fell. My caution proved unnecessary, for, having lit it successfully, she began climbing down without incident. "Ah, just like Mr. Burton," she said, her feet once again coming to rest on terra firma.
"Nothing like Burton. My mother was an artist, not a pratfalling clown."
"Sorry, Eddy. I didn't mean to—"
"No, no, of course not." I was instantly filled with remorse. I had spoken more crossly than I should have. Thoughts of my mother could often provoke me to tears. She had died when I was only a child. So I wanted to move off the subject as quickly as possible. "But you did not answer my question," I went on with a smile.
"Oh, did you ask me a question?"
"About your mother. Did you know her? I have often thought that she must have been extraordinarily beautiful to produce a daughter such as you." Olimpia blushed and I found myself stammering in an attempt to explain. "Given the, uh ... I mean, taking into account, uh, who your, uh—"
Olimpia laughed. "Who my father is? You don't have to say it, Eddy. But he is not my natural father. I sometimes feel us ... drifting apart."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I am not the girl he ... remembers. And I never knew my mother, I'm afraid."
"I didn't mean to pry, Olimpia. I know what it is to be an orphan." Olimpia turned her back to me and pretended to be tidying some objects on the work table. Seeing her discomfort, I decided that I would not pursue the subject. But now I noticed that with the room fully illuminated I could see what had only been hinted at in the gloom. I moved towards a stack of books on the edge of the table. They were dusty and obviously very old, and written in a variety of languages. Latin, I saw, French, English, German, even Arabic. The pages were brittle and yellow with age. I read some of the titles on their spines.
"'A Chymicall Treatise of ... Arnoldus de Villanova'," I muttered, tracing my finger along the engraved lettering, wiping away dust as I went. I moved to the next. "'The Alchemical Art' ... 'Philosophical Summary' ... Hmmm ... F.M. Van Helmont ... Here's one from the Comte de St. Germain. Fascinating!" In amazement, I looked up at Olimpia. She was watching me with detached interest. "Oh, but these are quaint and curious volumes, to be sure!" I exclaimed. The volume that formed the peak of this mountain of print lay open. Closed, the tome would have been a good nine inches deep. I began to read the thick black gothic text with difficulty. "'The men only ... looke ... to the words which they ... reade or heare, ... and not to the hidden sense that is ... in those words.'" I gave Olimpia a smile and continued. "'For truly the Sulphur ... Arsenicum, Auripigment, Zan ... Zandorit ... Vibrick, Mercurius, Salt ... Saltpeter ...' Astonishing! Your father is a very learned man, Olimpia!"
"He has mastered many disciplines, Eddy. Those books attest to the breadth of his curiosity—and his intellect. He is not a man to be trifled with."
"I should say not, indeed. And quite wealthy, too, it would seem. It wouldn't surprise me if some of these are not first editions. Why, they must be hundreds of years old. Priceless, in fact! And yet he just stacks them here willy-nilly, as if they were nothing more valuable than back issues of the Gentleman's Magazine!"
"His resources are nearly unlimited," Olimpia said.
I gazed around in wonderment. The objects under the sheets now pulled me to them with an irresistible attraction. I flung the covering from the nearest one, a squat bulky object. It was revealed to be some sort of wheeled contraption that consisted of a copper barrel-like body out of which protruded a finger-thick black hose. The hose was draped over a hook and out of its end sprouted a dozen or more smaller rubber tubes affixed with an array of needles that glinted in the lamplight. There was a seat which could be rotated in any manner around the base, along with a set of foot pedals that looked to operate a bellows below. The machine put me in mind of Coppelius' pipe organ upstairs.
Whatever its function, it was a complex instrument that was both fascinating and vaguely terrifying at the same time. The needles reposed like sleeping snakes and awakened in me an uneasiness that caused my neck to tingle. I rubbed it and could feel the raised welt of flesh that surrounded my mysterious puncture wound. In a way, I was sorry I had uncovered the device.
Olimpia rushed to where I was standing and threw the sheet over the needle-machine, covering it. "I don't know if Father would want you to see this," she said fearfully, but without reproach.
"I daresay, there may be a lot of things he would not want me to see. Like what is behind that door, for example." My eye had lit upon the dark recess of a short arched corridor leading out of the room. I strode past the table upon which Pluto lay sprawled and dissected and rounded the edge of a deep bookcase full of dusty tomes. The door stood at the end of the narrow archway. Despite Olimpia's protestations, I tried the handle and found it locked.
"What is in here?" I demanded.
"I don't know."
"Oh, surely, Olimpia, you must have some idea. This is your house, after all."
"I have never been down here without Father," she said. "I am not allowed—and I have learned never to ask questions."
I turned back to the door, muttering to myself. "Clockwork cats, ancient texts and arcane devices... It is madness." I rattled the door handle violently, but to no avail. I let the handle fall with a clank and turned and strode out of the archway and rounded a corner...
...and found my head painfully striking the open door of a cupboard. I made to slam it shut when something inside caught my eye. I looked and saw racks of glass vials filled with various substances, both powder and liquid. Some were labeled, some were not. I scanned them quickly out of idle curiosity until I found one with an oddly familiar look. It was filled with a red-tinted fluid. On the handwritten label was the word 'Laudanum'.
My heart leapt into my throat.
I inspected it closely to be sure, but there could be no doubt. It was written in my hand. Open loop, closed loop, sweeping horizontal. It was identical to my 'Laudan' vial.
I patted my pockets only to realize that I had left my vial at Witherspoon's. Everything else from the previous day I had stashed in my room—including my pepperbox revolver, whose lack I sorely felt at that moment.
"Eddy," Olimpia called to me from the laboratory.
"Just a moment," I replied quickly.
There was something else in the
cupboard, a folded sheet of paper. It had been wedged in behind the vial and had fallen askew into the empty space. I opened it and found handwritten upon it many iterations of the word 'Laudanum', written in an evolving script. Evolving, I say, because the first words were in a hand I did not recognize. But with each iteration, the letters became increasingly similar to my own until the handwriting was identical to that found on my vial and in my desk drawer.
As if the writer had been practicing.
Now I was filled with fear. The paper slipped from my fingers and fluttered to the floor. At the same time, I heard the scuffling of footsteps coming towards me out of the darkness. Surely, Coppelius had returned. Unsure what to do, my instinct was to replace the vial in the cupboard. But there was no time. I quickly thrust it into my pocket and turned just as the man himself came shuffling out of the gloom towards me.
"Edgar, there you are," Coppelius called when he saw me. "No need to worry, my boy. I got rid of him for you."
I uttered a nervous little laugh. "Got rid of whom?" I asked, hoping I did not look too guilty. With a trembling hand, I calmly smoothed my hair in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner. Then I noticed the little sheet of paper next to my foot. I surreptitiously tried to cover it with the sole of my shoe.
"Can you believe it? Gessler," Coppelius laughed. "He brought his cops looking for you. He was none too happy with me either, after that little chase I gave him the other day. It'll take more than a handful of beat cops to bring down Coppelius, though."
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