Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2)

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  Roget looked at him curiously. “You’re returning to England?”

  Slaughter shook his head. “If nothing else, I have the image of Poulpe. At the very least, I can move about Paris, asking questions, showing the litho, making people nervous. I’m quite good at that, at poking the wrong people. Poking people often gets results.”

  “I should be happy to…”

  “Thank you, Inspector, but I think in this I might be better on my own,” Slaughter interrupted.

  “You know the city then?”

  Slaughter shrugged. “I know my way around the low spots of any city. That really doesn’t change, no matter what language the signs are in. If I’m lucky, I’ll attract some unwanted attention.”

  Roget frowned. “Paris can be a very dangerous city, even for those who know their way around. The Apache gangs that control entire districts are the least of the city’s dangers, especially if this MEDUSA is more than the phantasm of a desperate man. I urge you not to venture out alone.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Inspector, I really do,” Slaughter said, surprised by the fondness he felt toward this Frenchman who was no less dedicated to his job than was he himself. “But I feel I shall not be alone.”

  Roget gazed doubtfully, then sighed and shrugged. “I do not agree with your decision, but I will respect it. Here is my card.” He jotted a series of numbers and letters on the back. “The telephone may be called at any time, or you may use the cable-address. But, remember, they are not secure like the aether-wireless.”

  “Thank you, Inspector Roget, I appreciate your help and your concern.” Slaughter stood and shook the man’s hand. “I shall do my best to keep you informed.”

  Roget nodded. “Should I need to contact you, I will leave a message at your hotel.”

  When Slaughter departed the Prefecture de Police, the city spread before him did not seem nearly as bright and gay, and the broad boulevards seemed much narrower and thronged with shadows. The people, who previously had appeared busy and in high spirits, now seemed furtive and sly.

  As Slaughter crossed the Pont Saint Michel to the mainland, he kept a close watch for spying eyes.

  Engaging another steam-cab, this one of a less antique vintage, Slaughter made his way to the General Post Office without incident. He first checked with the Poste Restante to enquire whether any mail was awaiting him, to which the long-faced woman clerk shook her head in the negative, but told him the morning delivery was still being sorted, to check back in an hour.

  He then went to the Telegraph Division on the other side of the building and prepared a coded telegram, using a cable-address which appeared to belong to a commercial bank in the City, but was in reality maintained by Section 6. He worded the message very carefully, for Roget’s paranoia about the Sûreté had not left him entirely untouched. But he had to set the wheels of officialdom in motion, so he did what he could to explain the situation.

  The Telegraph clerk took the paper and dutifully counted the words, frowning as he did so. Though most of the telegram seemed to relate to the dull workaday world of high finance, he had had to resort to cipher in places.

  “Monsieur?” the young clerk inquired laconically, regarding Slaughter suspiciously through half-lidded eyes, indicating the ciphered portion.

  “Bank code to protect the interests of my employer,” Slaughter explained, this time showing a letter authorizing him to act as an agent of the Greater London Commercial Credit Bank in Lombard Street, a long-established and respected establishment, but also a façade for Section 6. “You cannot be too careful.”

  The clerk thought for a moment, then decided both that the Englishman might be right and that he did not care enough to report the message to his supervisor. He wanted no trouble for himself, and he well knew that no good deed ever went unpunished. He finished counting the words, applied the rate of 25 centimes per word for Great Britain, then told Slaughter the amount.

  Another trip to the Poste Restante window resulted in Slaughter being given an envelope containing a single sheet of paper. It was a notice from a Section 6 chief, known only as W, which instructed Slaughter, after decoding, to contact a man named Forgeron tonight at the Café de la Nouvelle Athènes in the Pigalle District in the north of Paris. He destroyed the communiqué and departed.

  He neared the river, strolling, just another tourist quietly awed by the art and technology of the city. If he were being followed, and he thought he was, he did not want to make it too difficult.

  Slaughter had not been entirely honest with Roget about the value of the government file. Though much had been removed or substituted in an effort to obfuscate any details about the murdered scientist, much had been left behind to give the impression the file was complete. Included were several receipts Poulpe had submitted for reimbursement, all at restaurants clustered along a certain stretch of the Seine.

  The river was rather lovely, Slaughter reflected, as he strolled on a wide curving walkway that lined it. The watercraft were quite numerous, with schooners and steam-launches prevalent, scurrying among the larger paddle-wheelers and other large cargo ships. Busy it was true, he thought, but not a patch on the commercial ships and pleasure craft that thronged the Thames. Of course, he realized, this was only Paris, not the Capital of the World.

  Occasionally, he glanced back discreetly, stopping to admire the vista of the river or to have a cup of coffee at some riverfront café, but there were so many pedestrians out and about it would have been an easy matter for a spy to remain concealed.

  Once he reached the district he sought, he began showing the litho facsimile to waiters and shopkeepers, street hawkers and sidewalk artists. Have you seen this man? Do you know this man? Is this face familiar to you? Do you know where this man lives? All he received for his efforts were polite no’s or silent shakes of the head. He could not say he blamed them, as it was obvious the man in the image was dead, and it was not prudent to involve oneself with the affairs of the dead. Finally, however, a fat man in a gray undershirt sweeping out the front of his shop, gazed at the litho a little too long, was a little too slow in denying any knowledge.

  “No, monsieur, he is a stranger,” the man said.

  “Take another look, please,” Slaughter insisted.

  “No, I am sure…”

  “A careful look,” Slaughter said, calling upon the tone that always worked so well when an old lag was denying his villainy. “I think you will see he is familiar to you.”

  “No, I am sorry.” He started to turn back into his shop.

  He gripped the man’s corpulent shoulder, his fingers like bands of steel. “It is not good for your soul to lie, monsieur. Honesty is always the best path when a citizen is asked an official question.”

  The shopkeeper reluctantly turned, features clouded with doubt. He thought the questioner a busybody, but was now not sure.

  “Perhaps I could take another look, monsieur,” the shopkeeper offered. “I did not perhaps see clear.” He gazed at the litho, aware of the hand still clamped powerfully to his shoulder. His yellowish, blood-shot eyes glanced at Slaughter’s hard onyx eyes. “I may have seen this man before.”

  “Oh?”

  “Though, of course, I may be mistaken.”

  “Who do you think he is?”

  “I would not want to involve an innocent man with the law,” the shopkeeper stammered.

  “Is it not better that he be involved than you?”

  “Yes, monsieur, there is certainly wisdom in that,” the man said, his muscles relaxing as Slaughter released his hold. “In fact, now that I have had time to think it over, I am sure the man you are looking for used to live around here, but has not for at least six months, perhaps more.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Regrettably, no, monsieur, not his name, for he seemed a very private man.” The shopkeeper flinched as he saw Slaughter’s hand make a small movement. “However, I do know where he lived since I once had to make a delivery.”

/>   “Where was the delivery made, monsieur?” Slaughter asked.

  The shopkeeper pointed down a very narrow street. “Number Twenty-three, at the top of the stairs on the left.”

  “Thank you very much, monsieur,” Slaughter said, stepping back from the man, returning the image to his pocket. “I shall keep in mind how helpful you have been.”

  The shopkeeper beamed.

  “Unless, of course, I am forced to return.”

  The man’s face all but collapsed. “I am sure that will not be necessary, monsieur. I have been very cooperative.”

  “Yes, you have.” Slaughter moved uncomfortably close to the man again. “A word to the wise, my friend. Should anyone else come by with an image of this man, it would be much better if you developed amnesia. I hope I make myself clear.”

  The merchant nodded sharply. Perspiration flew from his brow.

  Slaughter smiled to himself as he headed for the street the man had indicated. It was reassuring to know that his ability to smell out falsehoods transcended language and nationality. A good copper could put the fear of God into anyone.

  Number Twenty-three was a soot-stained brick building with windows so grimy the threadbare curtains could not be seen. He mounted the stairs and spoke to the building’s concierge, a gaunt ancient man with white hair that seemed to explode from his head.

  “Yes, that is M Poulpe,” the hoary guardian of the building said in a papery voice when shown the litho. “I have not seen him in a long time. Is he…yes, he is dead, is he not?”

  Slaughter nodded. “I’d like to take a look at his apartment, if it is not currently occupied. I am investigating his death.”

  “No, no, not occupied, monsieur, it is paid through the end of the year,” the concierge replied so softly that Slaughter had to lean in and cock his ear. “I am sorry he is dead. He was a quiet man, did not cause any trouble, did not attract attention to himself.”

  The old man reached into his apartment, grabbed a ring of very large and old fashioned keys, then trudged slowly up the stairs into darkness. Slaughter followed, adapting to the man’s weary pace.

  “How long has it been since you saw M Poulpe last?”

  “Eight months.”

  “Did you not think it odd, the long absence?”

  The old man shook his head. “M Poulpe was often away. This was a very long absence, but…” The old man shrugged. “As I said, he was a very quiet man. Since he caused me no trouble, I made no trouble for him.”

  “How long has he lived here?”

  The old man paused upon the stairs as he thought, then started back up. “A little over three years. In that, alone, he was unusual, for most of the other tenants are in and out, out and in. Like a hare and its hole.” He smirked. “You understand?”

  “Did M Poulpe ever have any visitors?”

  “No, not ever.” Again the man paused, then started up. “There was one man, but he came only once. A tall man, thin, with a dark face. He had shiny black hair and a beard like…like horns.”

  “A forked beard?” Slaughter asked, depending two fingers from his chin like an inverted ‘V.’ “Like that?”

  “Yes, as you say, a forked beard.”

  “How long ago was that, do you recall?”

  “Almost a year ago.”

  “And none others?”

  “No, monsieur, only the one,” the concierge assured him. “And only the once. Ah, here we are, monsieur.”

  Using one of the keys, the old man unlocked the door and pushed it open. He turned and started back down the stairs, moving no faster than he had ascended, then stopped and looked back.

  “Will someone be coming for M Poulpe’s belongings?” he asked. “An heir, perhaps?”

  “I understand there was a daughter.”

  The man’s bushy white eyebrows lifted. “A daughter?”

  “So I was told.”

  “Children,” the old man sighed. “When they grow up they turn from you, unless you have money.”

  “I will try to inform the proper people, but I cannot promise that anyone will come to remove his things.”

  The old man shrugged. “As I said, it is paid through the end of the year. And then there are the rag-men. Goodbye, monsieur, and good luck with your enquiry.” He resumed his journey downward. “Poor M Poulpe. He was a quiet man.”

  Slaughter waited until the concierge’s footfalls upon the stairs faded from his hearing, then entered the rooms of the murdered man. The furniture was plain, of the same vintage as the flat. It consisted of three rooms, a small sitting room, a slightly smaller bedroom, and a tiny bath which had a commode, a cold-water tap, a porcelain basin on a table, and a rectangular mirror upon the wall.

  He started his search in the bathroom, then the bedroom, and finally the sitting room, in which he would have to spend more time. The bathroom contained no razor, shaving soap, or any of the other toiletries one would expect for a gentleman’s use; the small wardrobe in the bedroom contained only two suits, but for warm climates. The clothes, the bedding, everything held the mustiness of disuse, the hint of creeping mildew.

  The sitting room was also musty, slightly damp from a hearth, tiny as it was, left unlit for months. Newspapers abounded, stacks of them like trees in a forest, all layered with fine dust. There were also scientific periodicals in myriad languages, and a bookcase that appeared newer than the other furniture. Slaughter noted gaps here and there on the shelves, as if someone had carefully winnowed out the books to vital too leave behind.

  A sound penetrated the silence, drifting through the partly open door. It was not the concierge, Slaughter noted, for the footfalls upon the stairs were not the same, these made by tiny feet, a furtive intruder. Quickly, he stepped out of sight and waited.

  After what seemed an eternity, the door creaked open, then whined softly as the intruder made an effort to silently close the door. The latch clicked. Stealthy footfalls started for the bookcase, paused about halfway, as if listening for traces of occupation, then moved on. Slaughter heard the sounds of books being pulled out and pushed back in.

  He stepped from his hiding place, watched the back of the person searching the bookcase, then softly cleared his throat. The searcher whirled at the slight sound, grabbed the edge of a shelf to keep from falling.

  “Oh!” cried Marie Devereaux.

  “Good day, Mlle Poulpe,” Slaughter greeted.

  “M Slaughter!” she exclaimed. “I am…”

  “Yes, I know, the daughter of Professor Jean Louis Poulpe,” he finished, not wanting to hear any lies from her lovely lips. “Don’t bother denying it.”

  “And you are no bank official,” she accused.

  He shrugged. “You knew that before you engineered a meeting outside the Customs House. However much you think you know about me, I doubt searching my room helped you any. Nor did your attempts to follow me.”

  She glared at him.

  “You know what has happened to your father?”

  She nodded. “I want to find out who killed him.”

  “As do I,”

  “You?’ she sneered with Gallic fury. “An agent of Section 6?”

  “Actually, I am Detective Chief Inspector Ethan Slaughter of Scotland Yard,” he told her, showing his warrant card. “We should leave. Nothing of any importance has been left behind.”

  “Leave with you?” she demanded. “Why?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “I do not want to…”

  “I want to talk about MEDUSA.”

  She stared at him. “Very well.”

  As Slaughter and Mlle Poulpe exited the building where her father had lived his quiet and secretive life, they were observed by a man in shadow.

  Chapter 5

  Dust Town.

  The very name evoked visions of slums and rookeries, of rampant industrialism and all that was the worse of both Mars and Earth. The district was located at the southernmost extremity of Syrtis Major, connected only distantly with
the Grand Canal by a miserable little waterway, dirt-banked and ever in danger of silting over during the dry season. Unlike most of the canals that united the cities of the Lowlands, Plains and Forests, this pitiful shipping canal had been dug by the Martians themselves, though it was maintained, more or less, by the Dust Town Trade Association, a loose and often warring confederation of Martian, human and Venusian traders. The area was a district of dismal warehouses, jammed-together tenements and intermittent manufactories, and it was the dark heart of the city, home to vice and vileness. Most of the crime within Syrtis Major occurred within the limits of Dust Town. It was a place where life was cheap and death was sudden.

  “If this Poulpe was such a hot-shot scientist, what in blazes was he doing here in Dust Town?” Sergeant Felix Hand demanded.

  Captain Robert Folkestone glanced about the darkened streets, the shrouding night unrelieved by even a single gaslamp, and gave a little shrug. “If he had a flat down here, like Baphor-Ta said, I’m surprised he wasn’t murdered long ago.”

  “We could have left this till dawn,” Hand said. “Though the place is not much better in the light.”

  “Maybe a little worse,” Folkestone pointed out. “You can actually see it then.”

  The streets were blacker than the Pit. Even the stars and the one moon currently passing over did little to relieve the stygian gloom. The only real illumination spilled from taverns and dives, gaming dens and bordellos, burlesque houses and music halls. And beyond those façades of ill repute were back rooms and grottoes and secret chambers were the desperate and the slumming rich enjoyed rough sex and such forbidden pleasures as opium and dream spice, erotic slavery and masqued torture.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, or maybe because of it, the streets and alleys were thronged with people of all races, some in rags and others in silk cloaks. Some posed brazenly in slivers of light while others pulled their hoods forward to conceal features that might otherwise be recognized. Gentlemen and ladies of note hid behind curtained windows in slow-moving steam carriages, some rented for the night, others with livery concealed. Domino masques were in abundance. And everywhere there were the cries of the damned and the hopeless, the carefree and the joyous, the hawkers of sin and the lost souls who had nothing left to sell but themselves.