The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  “Mr. Lacey?” he questioned, suddenly experiencing a queer chill along his spine. His voice rang emptily in the silence. The chamber, evidently one of a three-room suite, was empty, though the high-posted bed at one side showed evidences of recent occupancy. Framed tapestries on the walls, shelves of priceless porcelain, and a collection of jades on a long table accentuated the Oriental atmosphere, which had been apparent in the entrance corridor. Archaic Sung and T’ang figurines were grouped with three draped, terra-cotta, female figures, the last the only Occidental note in all the chamber. Lacey was not certain, but guessed them to be Tanagras, brought into juxtaposition with the Chinese art objects, perhaps for purposes of comparison.

  Lacey, in doubt whether or not to proceed further, was urged onward by premonition that all was not well with the invalid—if Noah now deserved that appellation. Tapestry portières at the doorway to one of the adjoining chambers had been slid aside. Half in trepidation Lacey advanced; finding himself rising to tiptoe, even though rugs would have muffled his footsteps. In the doorway he stopped, momentarily petrified by the sight which met his eyes. At the opposite side of the adjoining room sat Noah Lacey, arms hanging limply over the sides of a deep leather chair, head fallen backward, and sightless eyes—staring wide open from chalky mask of countenance—fastened upon a point on the ceiling at one side.

  Chapter III

  In a second, professional instinct rose uppermost in Lacey. No longer was he the poor relative, precariously balancing a chip on his shoulder, prepared to resent condescension and accept no favors. He was the skilled crime investigator in pursuit of working data. As he sprang to the side of the unconscious man little doubt was in his mind concerning what he should find. Yet his guess was wrong. Noah Lacey was not dead, though only the faintest flicker of a heart beat testified to continued existence. Beside him stood a small table with a decanter and a few glasses. Cube smelled the liquor hastily and found it to be French brandy. Pouring a tablespoonful into a glass he pressed it to the sick man’s mouth. The latter scarcely could swallow, yet a few drops went down. In a moment Noah Lacey’s eyes fluttered, he coughed feebly and a quiver ran through his relaxed frame. Cube set to chafing arms and legs. Then a few moments later, he gave the man a little more of the potent liquor.

  Noah’s revival was quick and complete. Five minutes after the second draft, which he swallowed in its entirety, he straightened and looked at Cube, bewilderment quickly replaced by dawning recognition.

  “Reckon—reckon I must have fallen asleep. You are Kuban Lacey?” he asked, voice mounting from initial hoarseness to ordinary quality.

  “Yes. Take it easy for a while,” advised Cube. “You had a fainting spell. Thought for a moment you were out for good. Shall I send for a doctor?” The question was prompted by the fact that despite the elder man’s death-like pallor he seemed to have recovered full command of himself; otherwise Cube would have acted without asking.

  “No, it is nothing. I remember now. I just sent word by Kohler Andrews that you were to be admitted. Then I got up to make myself a little more presentable.” He waved a hand deprecatingly at his brocaded bathrobe and silk pajamas. “Of a sudden I felt giddy and had to sit down. Wanted to reach for a swig of that brandy but couldn’t do it. Always keep it handy because the last two or three days I’ve had several such spells.”

  “Then I should think a doctor—” persisted Cube.

  “Don’t want one!” interjected Noah with unmistakable emphasis. “Don’t trust them.” He reached for the decanter, poured himself a drink equal in volume to the two Cube had administered, swallowed this, wiped his lips and hunched forward, seemingly ready to take up the business which he had with Cube. The latter shrugged. From harsh lines of arrogance on his uncle’s face he guessed that the old man would tolerate no interference with his wishes. Cube decided privately that he would cut short the interview, and on the way out apprise Miss Irene Jeffries that the services of a physician were strongly to be advised. She probably could influence his uncle to a course of greater wisdom. He accepted the chair to which Noah motioned him.

  “I want you to give up that tom-fool business you and that other young man are attempting to run at present!” The old man began abruptly. “There’s no money either in working for a newspaper or playing Nick Carter. Where did you get the idea, anyway?”

  Cube smiled tolerantly. He did not believe the other could get under his skin. Good-naturedly he told of choosing his career because of the two best talents he could boast. His tastes had run to English and higher mathematics. The first had taken him into a newspaper office.

  Recognized capability for sustained thinking had encouraged him to desert a sixty-dollar job for the profession of detective. Cube told, with a humor which redeemed his statements of fact that might have sounded immodest, of an uninterrupted string of small successes. Also he was frank concerning the fact that he and Guest had been chronically hard up—and expected a continuance of that unhappy state for weeks or months to come.

  “I wasn’t going to come out here,” he concluded frankly, “but Sherrod seemed to think there was a chance that you might need the services of a pair of investigators. That hunch is absurd, of course?”

  A grim smile twitched at Noah’s lips. “Let’s not tackle that just yet,” he cut in. “I’m only fifty-nine years old, but five years of that time would stack up well against two decades of any ordinary life time. I don’t go down to office or factory any more. Do most of my necessary work by private wires.” He motioned toward a battery of telephones on a table in the corner. “Romantic business, this making of brick. Didn’t ever look at it that way, eh? Well, it has its artistic side as well as its humdrum routine. The artistic side is dangerous, too. It takes you all the way from sand-clay-wall brick to—to Ming porcelains. And it gives you plenty chance to fear for your life. But I can explain that better later. What I want to know now is if you’ll drop this business of yours and come out here with me. I’ll try out that brain of yours and see if there is anything but empty wrinkles in it. Give you something solid to think about—bricks, perhaps. Give Mr. Guest the whole business and office equipment. You’ll never miss them—or him.”

  Cube smiled, but shook his head decidedly. “Sorry, Uncle,” he answered, “but I can’t do it. I have a sort of superstition about a man who changes his mind too often in regard to what he wants to do in the world. I’ve changed mine once. Now if I can only make something of a living, I know the future will take care of itself; and I’m satisfied.”

  * * * *

  Noah Lacey was obviously nettled; he had not expected opposition to this scheme. Like a good business man, however, he did not lose his temper and thereby precipitate an open break. Instead, he helped himself to more brandy, drew out a cigarette case of hammered copper, and lit a fragrant Egyptian after tendering the case to Cube. “Let’s look at the matter in another light then,” he continued blandly. “As you probably know, I’m called a rich man. Someone constantly is attempting to defraud or kill me. Note the way in which I’ve had to protect myself in this house. No one can get in without ringing half a dozen bells. All the inside doors are concealed, and operated by a complicated arrangement of push buttons. No one can enter any room in the house that is occupied without warning the occupant and receiving permission. Provisions and all household deliveries are made through an ingenious arrangement in the wall at the rear. When Irene; Kohler Andrews; or his wife, who is housekeeper, leaves the place she or he must be let out by someone else, or must utilize a secret passage so far known only to Irene and myself.

  “Perhaps you can guess now that I could find for you enough work out here to satisfy your detective instinct. Also, in my day I have been an active man. I’d like to have the company in the hands of a youngster who still is able to do things. I might make that youngster a proposition—say of salary as a detective, plus excellent prospects of a substantial legacy later. What do you think of it now?”

  Noah Lacey’s words lacked a
ny hint of objectionable quality. It was rather the sophisticated half sneer which lingered always on the elder man’s countenance, which antagonized Cube. He saw, or thought he saw, that Noah for some reason had set himself a task of winning Cube Lacey from his chosen life work and ambition. The mention of detective work, of course was mere subterfuge, notwithstanding Noah’s evident concern for his own personal safety. Cube felt a queer mingling of pity, contempt and admiration for his scheming relative, yet the whole plan as stated repelled him. If it became a starvation matter between himself and Sherrod Guest, the two could find jobs somewhere out on a paper for a short time. Cube preferred this alternative to the easy way of shiftlessness suggested by Noah. He expressed himself courteously but decisively, arose, and made his way out. His last glance at Noah Lacey showed the old man, after pressing a button controlling the door, helping himself to another glass of brandy.

  Miss Jeffries was not in evidence when he emerged. Kohler Andrews, however, whisked into sight from somewhere and conducted him out into the street. Cube ventured to advise medical attention for Noah. “The old duffer has a heart lesion of some sort, I’m afraid,” he said. “And that booze is not doing him much good, I’d wager.”

  No answer was returned to this friendly suggestion. Kohler Andrews maintained the same mask of stern indifference on his accipitrine features with which he had greeted Cube. The young man reached the street outside with something of a feeling of relief. In his mind was absolute certainty that he never would call at Brick Knob again—unless, by chance, at some time he happened to meet Miss Irene Jeffries without her smoked glasses.

  But he was wrong. Next morning at eleven o’clock as he sat idly in his office the phone rang. Irene Jeffries was speaking, and unmistakable agitation was apparent in her voice. She dispensed with preliminaries. “Your Uncle, Noah Lacey was murdered last night!” she stated. “Come right out just as quickly as you can!”

  To the best of Cube’s antecedent knowledge he had been alone in the office. Guest was in court; the flimsy partition door to his half of the office stood open at Cube’s left hand. So startled was he by the news he received from Irene Jeffries that out of the tail of his eye he saw only a dark blur as of something descending swiftly. That something landed heavily upon the crown of his head, driving nose forward against the telephone mouthpiece. Cube did not know that minor feature of his injury until later. For him the world had dissolved in a starry swirl of oblivion.

  Chapter IV

  Cube regained consciousness almost as violently as he had departed that state. Sherrod Guest, bursting in with the epochal news of a seventy-five-dollar fee from a client he had expected to charge only one-third that sum, did not notice for some moments the chaotic disarray of the office. Cube, crouched forward on the desk, looked as if he had fallen asleep. Guest shook him with unrestrained exuberance. Lacey’s eyes opened dully and he gazed about at a room which seemed to be swaying like a steamboat cabin in choppy sea.

  “Come to! Wake, thou dreamer!” adjured Guest. “A porterhouse steak with plenty of mushrooms looms on the horizon before our hungry eyes! Hey! What’s the matter with you? Doped?” At that instant his hand encountered a trickle of dampness on his comrade’s scalp. One glance showed him it was blood. From that instant his bombastic manner vanished, and he devoted himself solicitously to bringing back Lacey from his groggy condition.

  Thereupon Cube briefly sketched the startling news which had come to him over the wire, and told of his attack by someone who had been concealed in the inner office. Both halves of the place had been wrecked systematically, the files torn open and contents dumped upon the floor, books thrown helter-skelter from their shelves, and the locked drawers of Sherrod’s desk pried open with some heavy weapon. Lacey’s, because they had been unlocked at the time, escaped with merely having their contents strewn about. For some time Sherrod scarcely mentioned the fact of Noah Lacey’s demise. The attack upon Cube and the interior of the office interested him far more.

  “What on earth do you suppose they were after? Was it those darn Chinks? There have been half a dozen near me every place I went today!” he exclaimed explosively, ready to launch himself for vengeance in any suggested direction.

  Lacey was thoughtful but had no explanation to offer. The wound on his head had transformed itself into a right-angled lump, and it seemed as though the entire roof of his brain had been bruised. Nevertheless he shook himself together and announced an intention of returning immediately to Brick Knob.

  “I don’t know how you see it Sherrod,” he observed, “but it looks to me as though we ought to establish a causal connection between the two ends of this coincidence. Let me sketch it. All in one day, twenty-four hours, we find ourselves beset by Chinese. One followed me all the way up to Brick Knob. Guess I didn’t mention that before. These attentions from yellow men are subsequent to a phone call from Noah Lacey. I go out to his house to find it crammed with objects of Oriental art. He hints to me—though at the moment I confess I thought it nothing but rather clumsy subterfuge to get me out there to live with him—of certain detective work he proposes to me to do. He even admits that his life is in danger, but I only half believe him. I dope him out to be a rank coward, even if he is my uncle. A few hours after I leave, however, he is murdered. Doesn’t that appeal to your logical mind as the beginning of a sorites?”

  Guest shrugged. “As usual you’re several steps ahead of me,” he admitted. “Sounds wild, but at the same time reasonable, in a way. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay right here for the time being. I’m not so sure that they won’t try to involve me in that mess out at Brick Knob. I’m the only surviving relative. At the present moment I am being cut out for a chance at Noah’s fortune by a rank outsider. A girl. Pretty, too, I think. Still, vengeance or some other sordid motive might be ascribed to me. It might have come about that I was the last person to see my uncle alive, though that scarcely appears probable. If you went out with me, they might decide to hold you also as a possible accomplice—or as witness. I’d rather have you on the outside, at least until tomorrow. Then our guesses are apt to hit close to the mark. Get on the trail of these Chinese. If any of them bother you smash after them hammer and tongs!”

  * * * *

  Irene Jeffries herself admitted Cube. A uniformed policeman was stationed at the entrance, but Cube noticed that he lacked the officious seriousness usual in striking murder cases. Irene whispered a quick explanation. “Don’t mention to anyone just yet that I told you he was murdered,” she requested. “They think it was an accident, and I believe it would be best to leave it that way for a time.”

  Cube stared at her. She had taken off the atrocious spectacles, and he saw that she had been crying. Gone was the aspect of studiousness, the old-maidish primness suggested by the shell-encircled glasses. She was pretty! Yes, more than that, for in spite of signs of sincere grief a sweet, almost wistful feminine trust shone in her eyes. Though the procedure she suggested was far from regular, in Cube’s estimation, he could not question her motive at that moment. He nodded gravely, and took her arm as they descended the steps.

  “I—I simply told them that he was dead,” she continued rapidly. “They sent down several different officers and Inspector Harris. Dr. Mitchell was here when they arrived. They didn’t stay long, because it seemed apparent to them that your uncle died from a fall. He hit his forehead.”

  “May I see him? You don’t need to come, Miss Jeffries,” he suggested kindly. “Won’t you lie down for a time? When I’ve made my examination I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  “No, I’d rather stay with you,” she shivered. “This house—well, I know too much about it, and the reasons for its being such a fort. Though you may not believe it, Mr. Lacey had reasons!”

  “I am prepared to believe anything,” Cube answered, passing back along the corridor to the door by which he had entered previously. This now was propped open. “What time did it—it happen?”

 
“No one knows exactly. Mr. Lacey ate dinner with me. Then he went down to his workshop in the basement for a few minutes. I tried to keep him upstairs, because I think he was—” she hesitated.

  “Drunk?” suggested Cube.

  “Well, a little, yes. He insisted on going down, but returned to this floor almost immediately and retired. He was reading, for an open copy of Montaigne lay beside him on the floor. Apparently some time in the night—Dr. Mitchell estimates it at about ten or eleven o’clock—he rose, and started to walk, perhaps for another drink. One of the spells overcame him, and he toppled forward. His forehead struck heavily against the sharp corner of a chair.”

  “But I thought you said he was murdered?”

  A peculiar expression flitted across her countenance. She started clutching Cube’s arm. “It’s I, Kohler!” she exclaimed sharply. Cube saw that this was occasioned by the appearance of the servant in the doorway leading to Noah Lacey’s private living-room. Andrews held a leveled automatic! He looked as if he had been stopped in the very act of firing, and his pistol had been aimed directly at Cube.

  “You may go now, Kohler,” Irene continued, a trifle unsteadily. “I’ll call you when I leave.” The man obeyed, thrusting the automatic somewhere below the left lapel of jacket. He had not spoken, yet as he passed Cube black, beady eyes were fastened suspiciously upon the detective.

  “Andrews, hell!” was Cube’s silent comment. “He never owned that name honestly. A gunman, too. I’ll keep an eye on him!”

  Noah Lacey’s body was stretched upon a leather couch in the chamber where Cube had seen him on the previous day. Because the coroner had not yet arrived, nothing had been done save the draping of a silk handkerchief over his face. Cube lifted the cloth gingerly. Above Noah’s right eye was a broken indentation telling plainly of skull fracture which undoubtedly had caused instant death. The wound immediately attracted Cube’s interest for one particular reason. Though the skin was broken open to an extent of more than an inch, little blood was in evidence.