"We are too late," I whispered. "Clearly, the man has fled."
"Quiet!" Gessler snapped, and he cocked his head, listening.
"What do you hear?" I asked. But he merely waggled a finger at me and I followed him inside.
A door to our right stood half-open. The library. Gessler gestured towards it and I poked my head in. A flash of lightning coincided with the sudden chiming of a clock. Startled, I leapt back. For an instant, I felt myself shuddering uncontrollably. I nearly dropped my revolver. Then, realizing what had happened, I smiled sheepishly. Gessler was watching me calmly, a solid presence. We waited for the clock to finish.
Bong! ... Bong!
Then all was quiet as before. Two o'clock. We moved on.
We passed the hall that contained the grand staircase. Then we moved through a pair of open doors to our left and found ourselves in the dining room. It had a desolate, abandoned feel to it. I was saddened to see the long empty table where Olimpia and I had spent at least a few lighthearted moments. To my ears, the air was full of her spectral laughter. Gessler, however, heard only the crack of thunder directly over our heads. He ducked slightly at the sound.
"My men are nowhere to be seen," he said, recovering from his start. "I fear the worst."
I more than feared the worst—I was certain of it. We moved into the parlor and the melancholy that filled me made me realize that I believed it a foregone conclusion that Olimpia had been lost to me forever. Everywhere I looked I saw traces of her. Here was the slender, gracefully curved harp she had played so beautifully. I could hear her flawless voice singing still. I remembered the gaiety of the evening we had spent in this room. I would always recall it as one of the happiest days of my life.
But where I saw Olimpia, I also saw Coppelius. His self-playing pipe organ was a shapeless hulk under its concealing cloth. I viewed it with suspicion, almost with dread. My mind conferred upon it a malevolent consciousness. If Gessler had not been in the room with me, I might have dashed past it. As it was, I quickened my pace only a little and my skin crawled as I strode out of its reach...
...and smack into Gessler's back. He whirled instinctively. I saw the barrel of his revolver flash and I was afraid he was going to shoot me. I immediately leapt away from the pistol and landed against Olimpia's harp. It teetered wildly. My own instinct caused me to grab at it. Doing so, I must have triggered the hidden mechanism that caused it to start playing. The room was instantly filled with the most angelic—though intrinsically mournful—music I had ever heard.
Gessler cursed me mercilessly as I groped blindly along the frame for the lever or switch that must have been there. Somewhere. But I could not find it.
"Oh, just leave it!" Gessler said after a moment of useless groping. I could see the building fury in his eyes. Whatever stealth he had felt was necessary had been blown beyond recovery. The entire household—if indeed there was a household—knew of our presence now. "Blast it!" he cried at last. "Come along, Poe. We'll find Coppelius and put an end to this once and for all!"
Chords of ghostly harp music followed us out of the parlor and into the hall of the grand staircase.
"Coppelius!" Gessler shouted, his voice filling the emptiness. The sound faded away without reply, leaving only the ethereal chords of the harp behind. The house felt emptier than before.
"I'll look upstairs," I said. But Gessler stopped me before I could get started.
"Wait!" he said. "There's something there." I followed his gaze and then I saw it too. Something lay in a small heap on the floor to one side of the staircase. I took it to be a rolled up carpet or a mislaid piece of baggage. Certainly something forgotten by Coppelius in his haste to abscond. I followed Gessler to the place where it lay, and even if lightning had not flashed through the windows at that moment, my mistake soon became clear.
It was not carpet or baggage, but a policeman. One of the men Gessler had sent with Olimpia.
The inspector quickly knelt at the man's side.
"Is he—?" I asked stupidly, for it was obvious he was.
"Dead," Gessler said. "His head has been crushed."
I leaned in close to see in the darkness. The man's eyes were open, bulging even. He looked terrified. For a moment, I fancied he was still alive, but then I saw the dark patches on the side of his head. Blood. Though the wound was hidden in his hair, I could see that the black mass of his scalp glistened wetly.
"A fall from above?" I asked, almost hopefully. I wanted it to be an accident. In his search for the missing Coppelius, the man had crashed through the balustrade from the landing above in the darkness. Certainly not an unreasonable proposition on such a dark night.
But Gessler shook his head. "Feel here." He prodded the wound with his fingers. "This is the mark of a hand. You can feel where the fingertips actually penetrated the skull. Look! My four fingers fit exactly." The way Gessler placed his hand over the policeman's head, he looked like he meant to crush it himself.
"I'll take your word for it," I said.
Gessler turned the dead man's head and examined the other side. "Oh, this would have required great strength," he muttered.
I felt a drip on the back of my head. Rain from a leaky roof, I supposed. Annoyed, I brushed at the drop and my fingers came away damp. Rubbing them together, I found the moisture to be sticky and thick. Not rain water. I felt another drop. Then another. I had pulled back my head and this one missed me. It made a soft splat on the dead man's face. A spot of black appeared on his pallid cheek.
Blood.
I looked up and saw a shape above me. I could not make it out, but then a flash of lightning revealed a man dangling from a broken baluster above. I leapt to my feet, thinking the man was hanging there for dear life fifteen feet above the floor. I called out to him. "Hold on!" I cried and I made to race up the stairs to assist him. But a second flash revealed that I needn't hurry.
The man was quite dead. He wore a policeman's coat. His dead arm had gotten snagged somehow on the broken woodwork. He was hanging there, just above the spot where his colleague had apparently plunged before him.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?"
I looked up and saw the familiar form of Dansby standing at the top of the stairs. He seemed unconcerned about the darkness of the house, the policemen, the harp music, the storm outside. So relieved was I to see him that none of this registered with me in more than a vague manner.
"Oh, thank God, Dansby, it's you! These men have been murdered!"
"Have they now?" he asked.
I expected him to rush down the stairs in dismay. But he did no such thing. He looked placidly to his right towards the dangling cop and then peered over the railing at the man on the floor.
"Yes," I cried. If anyone could shed light on this mystery, it was Dansby. "And Olimpia is nowhere to be found, though her bodyguards lie dead around us."
Panic gripped me as I uttered my fear aloud. I was about to run up the stairs, but Gessler pressed his palm to my chest. "Hold on, Poe," he said. "Something's not right here." I paused and Gessler gazed up at the butler. "You don't seem very surprised to have two dead policemen on your stairs, Mr. Dansby."
Dansby started down, step by deliberate step, laughing. "Why should I?" he asked. "Doesn't everyone?"
The truth suddenly dawned on me. "You did this," I said as Dansby continued to descend the stairs towards us. "Damn you, Dansby! You're a murderer!"
"Oh, I'm quite incapable of murder, Mr. Poe."
"Two dead cops say otherwise," I countered.
"What happened to them is more in keeping with ... Oh, shall we say, an industrial accident." He held up his hands and we could see that they were smeared with blood. "I'm afraid you gentlemen are next."
Gessler raised his revolver and fired. We saw a spark and then a little trickle of steam where the bullet had entered his chest. Dansby merely laughed.
"You see, only a human can commit murder, Mr. Poe. I was one of the doctor's first designs. You will find me far
more durable than the unfortunate Mr. Burton."
He was at the bottom of the staircase now. He reached out with a lightning quick thrust and swatted the revolver from Gessler's hand. Spinning into the darkness, it banged off the wall and fell into some shadow unknown. I used the distraction to race past him up the stairs. Dansby turned and followed. I could hear his footfalls behind me. He was unnaturally swift. Before I reached the top, I felt his fingers brush the tail of my coat. I lunged the last few steps to the landing, barely eluding his grasp.
But my escape was short-lived. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and lifted me off my feet. I felt like a helpless cur. The pain was incredible and I cried out. I saw stars. My feet danced inches above the floor. I was powerless in his grasp. I groped for my revolver. I couldn't remember if it was in my pocket or in my hand—or had I dropped it? I had already seen the result of a bullet in Dansby's chest, but in my desperation, I felt it was my only chance.
I screamed again when he thrust me hard through the balustrade. The wood snapped with a sharp crack just as it must have when he had flung the cop through before me. With a laugh, he dropped me over the edge.
I feared Dansby's mechanical laughter would be the last sound I ever heard. I could feel myself begin to topple. Blindly, I grabbed for anything within my reach. To my surprise, I found my fall suddenly arrested. By pure good fortune, my hand had snagged one of the snapped balusters. Weakly constructed, I could feel it immediately begin to pull from the wooden base to which it had been secured. Each time I struggled to raise myself, it gave a little more until I dared do nothing but dangle, limp as a dead man. I was only happy that my skull had not been crushed. At least I still had a chance.
That chance came in the form of Inspector Gessler, who had raced up the stairs after Dansby. He had to know it was suicide. I shouted at him to forget about me and run. But my voice was lost in the din of his attack. He flailed madly at the powerful automaton, landing blows that seemed to have no other effect than bruising and bloodying Gessler's knuckles. Laughing, Dansby snapped off a section of the top rail of the balustrade as if it were balsa and not three inches of solid oak. He reared back and swung. The club glanced off Gessler's shoulder and I could hear the sharp crack where it struck his head.
I did not know if he was living or dead as he went tumbling head over heels down the stairs. I only knew that if he was dead, I would now soon be joining him.
Dansby turned his attention back to me. I clung desperately with one hand to my broken baluster. But I knew that a single kick would loosen my grip and send me plunging helplessly to the bottom.
I saw that Dansby was preparing to do just that as he looked down at me and me up at him.
"You don't have to do this," I pleaded with him. I saw out of the corner of my eye Gessler laying motionless in an awkward heap at the bottom of the stairs. "Your master would not want you to kill me."
"I am my own master," Dansby said with some irritation.
A spark of emotion. I decided to pursue this line. It was my only hope. My fingers were weakening. "You are a machine. You do only what you are told."
Dansby smiled down at me. "And what if I was told to kill you, Mr. Poe?"
"Then let Coppelius do his own dirty work, Dansby. Is this why you were constructed? To kill?"
"I was constructed to ... to serve."
"To serve," I scoffed. The baluster gave an inch. I could actually hear the nails creaking out of the wood base. I uttered an involuntary cry of fear. The sound of the harp continued to spill from the open parlor door. To me, it was the music of the angels. Unless I could appeal to Dansby's clockwork heart, I feared I would soon be hearing it for real. "Is this how you serve Olimpia? She is in mortal danger and yet here you stand—"
"My brain may consist of gears and wheels, Mr. Poe, but I'm not stupid. Time for you to die, sir."
Dansby reared back. He was going to give my fingers a sharp kick. I closed my eyes waiting for the pain, the last I would ever feel, when I heard a sudden flurry as of great beating wings.
Dansby screamed and the blow I was waiting for never came. I looked up and there was Tap, cawing madly and clawing at Dansby's face. His talons ripped the fabric—or whatever it was—that covered Dansby's cheek. Fluid dripped from the gash. Beating his wings frantically, Tap by turns clawed and pecked at Dansby's eyes. Dansby waved his hands in front of his face, but Tap darted away and came racing back each time. He even managed to yank one of the eyeballs from its socket. He pulled and, retreating from Dansby's thrashing hands, left the eyeball dangling. Then he swooped up and around, striking the automaton on the back of its perfectly groomed head. I could hear the clunk of his sharp beak striking Dansby's artificial skull. The butler was soon running with Tap swooping at him from every angle.
"Get him, Tap!" I urged as I clung desperately to my ledge. I was able to reach my other hand up and grasp a more secure handhold. Now I was in no danger of falling.
I could tell Tap heard me. He shouted at the top of his avian lungs as he swooped down one last time, "Die, Dansby, die!" The next thing I heard was the crack of the balustrade giving way as Dansby plunged over the edge. He fell with a crash to the hard wood floor below.
All was silent but for the spectral harp music. A moment passed, and then I saw Tap peer over the ledge at me.
"I'd love to give you a hand, Eddy, but, as you can see, I don't have any."
I managed to raise myself by fits and starts. When it came to acrobatics, I was no Billy Burton. Finally, I was able to reach my leg high enough to gain the landing, and I hauled myself up to safety. I sat on the carpeted floor with my head on my knees.
"I think I need a drink," I said, looking up with a deep sigh.
"You picked a helluva time to give up laudan," Tap replied.
Chapter 21
By the time we reached him, Gessler was beginning to stir. Moaning, he started to lift himself, but I grasped his shoulders.
"Don't try to move, Inspector," I said, urging him back down gently. The blow to his head followed by his tumble down the stairs could have caused any number of internal injuries. Even though he appeared to be fine, I thought it best to take a quick inventory to make sure everything still worked as it should.
Gessler moaned again and shooed my hands away. "I’m fine, Poe, please," he groaned, turning over onto his back. He tried to raise himself onto his elbows and immediately grabbed his head. "Mein Gott!"
"Any broken bones?" I asked.
"Just all of them." Gessler blinked hard several times until he seemed to come back to life. "Thank God you're all right, Poe. I thought that cursed butler had done you in for sure."
"Not with me around, pal." Tap had ridden on my shoulder as we descended the stairs and was now standing on the back of my neck as I bent over the inspector. He peered around my head at him. "How many feathers am I holding up?" he asked.
Gessler just stared at him.
"He saved our lives," I explained, realizing the matter was now unavoidable.
Gessler just continued to stare. He remained silent for several long, awkward seconds, and then said, "We've met before."
"Yes. I dumped a load on your men. Sorry."
I started to explain further. Words failed me. I stammered through several openings. Gessler was not hearing me, anyway. He simply stared at Tap with a blank expression.
Finally, he shook his head. "I'll be damned," he muttered.
"His name's Tap," I told him.
Gessler's eyes shifted to mine. "He's the most normal thing I've seen today."
"You hear that, Eddy? Normal, he says. To you, I'm gaunt and ungainly. Ghastly, even. Maybe now, you'll—Say, who's that playing the harp? Do you hear that?"
"Quiet!" Something was moving slowly along the floor. I had just glimpsed it out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head and saw a black shape detach itself from the larger mass of Dansby's body. It was moving towards us.
It didn't seem particularly threatening, so I stood
and walked over to it.
It was Dansby's head.
The automaton lay awkwardly on its headless shoulders. It was bent in the middle, its feet planted firmly on the floor. It looked like it had ... died—I supposed that was the right word—while in the act of trying to stand. Its head had somehow become detached from its body. As I looked down at it, I saw that it was struggling to crawl. Its cheek was pressed to the floor and it propelled itself by flexing the muscles of its face. Again, not knowing the actual components of the machine, I could only use words to describe human anatomy, inadequate as they no doubt were. Opening and closing its one remaining eye, it seemed to wink at me as it struggled across the floor. Whether or not it was aware of my presence, I, of course, could not say. I only knew that I suddenly felt pity for a creature whose directive to kill had so overwhelmed it that it would descend to this pathetic level to carry out its hideous instructions.
The man who would create such a machine was truly evil.
I reached into my pocket for my revolver. I took careful aim at the thing's temple. The eye continued to wink, the mouth and cheek to flex. I pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the clockwork head. The eye closed, like a flame suddenly snuffed out. I went back to where I had left Gessler and Tap.
"What was it?" Gessler asked.
"Dansby's head," I replied.
"Oh, is that all?"
~ * * * ~
The gunshot was still ringing in our ears when a sound rose out of the darkness beyond the hall. Our senses were still on heightened alert after our ordeal, and, though it was probably nothing more than the wind or some wayward strain of the harp, we froze, listening. But the sound failed to recur. Rain pattered against the window panes, but that was all.
My Clockwork Muse Page 22