Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3)

by Alexander, MK

“Why?”

  “I think she may be following us.”

  “Is she the one leaving you tarot cards?”

  “No.”

  “So, two people are following you?”

  “It could be.”

  “Another beautiful woman?”

  I turned to Anika. “You’re not jealous?”

  “Not at all… well, maybe a little jealous of Madeline. She is quite stunning and seems to be rather flirtatious towards you.”

  I laughed, nervously. “Think of Madeline as a doddering old woman trapped in a young body.”

  “What?” Anika looked at me oddly.

  “That’s the way I see her.”

  “You don’t see me like that, eh?” she asked.

  “Not at all.” I pulled Anika closer and gave her a kiss.

  Back in the Metro, on the way to Pavel’s apartment, two men stepped out of nowhere and roughly pushed me up against the station wall. One man held a badge to my face and said, “Police…” The other man was frisking me and finally came across my passport. He glanced at it. “Américain…” he said to his partner.

  “Bonnes vacances, Monsieur,” he said and brushed me off in a pantomime sort of way.

  “What was that all about?” I asked Anika who looked slightly startled.

  “Ah, the gendarmes, that’s all. They didn’t like the look of you… or maybe that cane of yours.”

  ***

  Anika left me sipping coco at a cafe for a time while she shopped. Returning, she handed me a box. “It’s a gift. You need a proper phone, Patrick. I programmed my mobile number, the house in Amsterdam and Pavel’s.”

  “He has a phone?”

  “A land line at least. You must call me as soon as you find any news.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “And I may call you, if I feel lonely.”

  “Anytime…” I smiled and probably blushed.

  “Now, you must take me to the train station. You have a long flight ahead.” She rose and paid the check. “Also, I will track down this lost cane of yours with the airline.”

  “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

  “I will be fine.”

  “Promise me you’re not going back with him.”

  “Who? Pavel? No. If I do go back, it will only be because of my sleepwalking.” She gave me a pout. “But, I will check my cache at home and look carefully to see if any of my acquisitions match the necklace.”

  “You’ll call me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Alright… be careful, be safe.” I gave her a kiss. “I’ll be back as quick as a wink— are you sure you don’t want to come with?”

  She nodded, then buried her head in my shoulder and held on tightly.

  ***

  “You won’t reconsider?” Pavel asked.

  “I’m sorry, no… let’s call it a plan B for now.”

  “Very well…” he said with some resignation, then called out to the Count, “Apporte la voiture... vous êtes au volant Patrick à l'aéroport.”

  I was pleasantly surprised to find a Citroën Déesse waiting downstairs, a classic… circa 1964. Mr Mekanos had outdone himself. I slid into the back with my carry-all and settled in for the drive to Orly airport. Oddly, I felt a little disappointed not to have found another tarot card. I expected one, in fact, I started searching the cracks between the seat cushions for this very reason. A few moments later I found two: The Hierophant and The Fool.

  “How are you enjoying your vacation, Mr Jardel?” Mortimer asked while merging into a giant rotary filled with a chaotic swirl of traffic, maybe seven or eight lanes’ worth.

  I looked up to notice the Arc de Triomphe going by the window. “Very nice, thanks,” I replied automatically. “Wait a second, you speak English.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “But…”

  “The damn fools…” He laughed and shot a glance through the rearview mirror. “Don’t you dare tell them.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d spoil all the fun. It’s lovely to listen in to their conversations when they think I can’t.”

  “So the whole Count thing?”

  “Accurate enough, I am a Count,” this Mortimer said a bit defensively, then paused for a long while. “I don’t remember much else… but fear not, I do know the road to the airport.”

  chapter fourteen

  mr quandary

  Anika also turned out to be an excellent travel agent. She might have booked a flight through Jakarta, but the easiest way was via Australia; no messing with visas or Indonesian authorities. She had me down as a holiday-maker on a Virgin package tour: Perth direct to the Coco-Keelings. A bungalow was booked and I had two weeks to gather any information I could about Inspector Fynn. I doubted I’d need that long. From previous experience I knew that the Quantifier and I did not get along so well.

  In all it was a long flight from Paris, some twenty hours or more. I slept the miles away and kept buckled in for the most part. There was at least one rapid descent, an incident of turbulence in the bathroom. I felt the floor drop beneath my feet and had to hang on for dear life. Perhaps worse, was a group of middle-aged Aussies who got duty-free drunk and insisted that all the passengers should join together to sing old Bee Gees songs.

  Upon landing in Perth, I expected to find kangaroos jumping about, but saw none, nor did I encounter a single koala bear, platypus or crocodile, except graphically. After a brief layover and bus ride between terminals, I connected to another flight, this time on a smaller plane, and we flew across a great expanse of Indian Ocean for about five hours. By now I was part of a raucous tour group bound for West Island in the Keelings. As we descended, I could see dozens of tiny specks of land below, all arranged in a semi-circle around a shallow sea.

  Next morning, we were shepherded into a waiting ferry. It took us across the huge lagoon to Bantam Village on the Home Island… local color, Malay traders. I steadfastly refused to call them the Cocos just out of pride and an attempt to fend off irony. My specific destination however was not on the tourist map. It was a bit of sand some miles from the main atoll, situated between Home and South Islands, simply named the Wind Isle. I persuaded a local fisherman to take me there.

  He called it the “Whistling Tower.” As we approached, there was no doubt that this was the right place. I could see a gleaming white structure against the tropical sky. It was like a piece on a chess board, wide at the base and tapering as it rose. There seemed to be a room on top, something akin to an observatory.

  The ferryman left me on a pristine beach and was suddenly less than fluent in English as he turned the boat around and sped towards home. I’d get back somehow, I was certain. For now, I inspected my new surroundings. The island wasn’t more than a half mile in diameter and at the far shore I could see the tower set amidst a formal garden. Nothing here had been planted by accident, everything was neatly arranged: shrubs, palms, lawns, and a crushed shell path that split off in several directions. I could see the stout round tower, quite large in circumference and about two hundred feet in height. I started towards it, though it seemed to take forever to traverse the distance. The breeze had picked up as well, that is to say it became a steady wind.

  As I got closer, I noticed massive metal doors were embedded vertically in the tower, maybe six or seven of them. They were painted white but I could see stains of rust around their edges, marring the stone finish. It was hard to imagine why anyone would need doors so high up. Finally I came to an iron gate which was unlocked, and walked through to the main entrance of the tower. A small sign read: The Museum of History. I knocked and waited for a long while. A voice eventually came from the other side of the door. It was a bit distorted and spoke very slowly:

  “We’re closed.”

  “When are you open?” I asked.

  There was a delay before someone said: “Come back next week.”

  “What are your hours of operation?” I persisted, since I clearly recognized the
voice from the other side. It was Mr Quandary without a doubt.

  “It’s painted on the sign.”

  “It’s not,” I said to no reply. “There is no sign.”

  Some time later, I heard some locks and chains rattling. Someone cracked the door. It seemed to open in slow-motion.

  “Go away, please,” Mr Quandary said with an impatient tone.

  He was exactly as I recalled him: tall, lanky and with a tuft of steely hair on the top of his head, whereas the sides were closely cropped.

  “Do you remember me?”

  “No, you’re not at all familiar.” He looked me up and down but his eyes eventually rested on the cane. “I’m sorry, the museum is closed today. You’ll have to come back another time.” Mr Quandary began to close the door again.

  “I’m searching for Tractus Fynn.”

  “He’s not here, I suggest you look elsewhere.”

  “Wait— any ideas?”

  “Well, he’s more of a Northerner, Fynn is.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He tends to stay in that hemisphere, not this one.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Fynn is dead… oh, for about five hundred years now.”

  “Dead? How did he die?”

  “Eaten by spiders in the Yemeni desert.”

  “How can he be dead? You were with us in nineteen thirty-three. Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “You were there. I was… Fynn was…”

  “What year did you say?”

  “Nineteen thirty-three.”

  “I’d have to check the book. Do you have an exact date?”

  I thought for a moment. “March first.”

  “Well, I can’t say I remember that. Maybe I haven’t traveled there yet.” He paused to think for a moment. “Hmm, I do seem to recall having some business in New York City around that time. An astronomical conference, a black-tie formal dinner. I was giving a presentation on gravity waves.”

  “We met at the Library.”

  The Quantifier stared hard at me. “Hardly… it was a smoldering ruin when we arrived— am I right?” He raised a single eyebrow. “Yes, I remember you now, Patrick the Pesterer. You mucked things up just prior to World War Two.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Of course not.” He smiled. “Why are you here exactly?”

  “I’m looking for Fynn.”

  “I suppose you’ve checked his usual haunts?”

  “No…”

  “You must search the past then, and thoroughly.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  The Quantifier chuckled at this. “What a curious thing to say.” He opened the door a bit wider. “Perhaps you might find Fynn in the future then?”

  “But you told me he died five hundred years ago.”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said. “You saw him in nineteen thirty-three— remember?”

  “It was an entirely different timeline.”

  “Well, I’ve talked to people in this timeline who’ve said they’ve seen him.”

  “How very curious. When?”

  “Some say twenty years ago, some say as little as a year. And, I was just with his daughter a few days ago… he couldn’t be dead.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t accidentally switched timelines in the interim?”

  “Very sure. Kept both my feet on the ground. I haven’t traveled at all since I discovered Fynn went missing.”

  “How did you get here then? Did you walk?”

  “Pardon?”

  “We live on an island. Did you swim here?”

  “No,” I said, laughing slightly, not sure if he was being sarcastic. “I took a boat.”

  “I see…” The Quantifier hesitated. “And how did you come to lose track of Fynn in the first place?”

  “Oh… I jumped back to my present from the past. Fynn was gone and my doppelgänger was there waiting.”

  This gave Mr Quandary pause. He raised an eyebrow and opened the door fully. “Alright then, do come in. It seems you are in need of genuine assistance.”

  “Thank you, Mr Q.”

  “Must you call me that? I feel as if I’m waiting on line.”

  “Have you chosen a first name yet?”

  “No…” He glanced down at the cane. “You haven’t a chance of finding Fynn unless you know what you’re up against.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The quantum of events. Your reluctance to travel to the past…” he said as if it were obvious. “It’s a rather parochial view of things. Your thinking is limited. Of course things will change if you travel back, but that’s rather the point.”

  “If I knew where Fynn was exactly, I’d be happy to go there, past or future,” I said, and hefted the cane for emphasis.

  This seemed to get the Quantifier’s attention. He ushered me into the museum, such as it was, dimly lit and dusty. The room itself was shaped like the inside of an inner tube. I could glimpse a perfectly circular courtyard at the center of the building. This was encircled by the tower, and made it more like a smoke stack than anything, or a hollow French cruller.

  I couldn’t help but notice the museum was very small with hardly an exhibit case, and those I did see, seemed beyond boring. A brown parchment with some unreadable writing on it, a few small statues, and some odd bits of broken pottery. Apparently the entire collection could be toured in just a few minutes.

  “You don’t have many artifacts here,” I commented as the Quantifier led me through the main hall.

  “We don’t get many visitors, and we certainly do not want people to linger,” he replied.

  “No gift shop?”

  The Quantifier turned and raised an eyebrow, then burst out laughing.

  I couldn’t help but notice he was wearing a cape that trailed to the floor, not necessarily the same cape I had seen him in before. “Is that required dress down here in the Coco Islands?” I asked, and not without some sarcasm.

  “If you are referring to my cape, I always dress like this. I’m most comfortable thusly. It might give you a clue as to where I’m from originally.”

  “Late Victorian London.”

  The Quantifier chuckled. “You’re not so far off the mark. And I would say that cane of yours would do me rather nicely. Complete the look, don’t you think?” He smiled but it did not seem very friendly. “By the way, isn’t that Mr Mekanos’ walking stick?”

  “Well, he hasn’t invented it yet, exactly.”

  “Quite.”

  Mr Q led me along a rickety staircase that tunneled below the museum. “We’re going down?” I asked.

  “We are.” He looked at me. “You’re surprised?”

  “Well, living in a tower and all…”

  “Oh yes… the kitchen is downstairs in proper time.”

  “Proper time? And the rest of the place?”

  “The higher you go, the slower time passes,” Mr Quandary explained without embellishment.

  I started to think about this, but was assaulted by the enticing aroma of freshly baked cookies; ginger snaps, if I had to guess. We turned the corner into a modern but dimly lit kitchen, all done in stainless steel and granite. An enormous man, indeed, a giant in a chef’s hat and white tunic, came rushing over. He towered above us and I wondered how he avoided hitting his head on the low ceiling. When he took off his cap I recognized him immediately. I shrank back a little.

  “Ah, there you are, Lothar… Smells delicious as usual… We have a visitor. This is Mr Jardel, and he has a first name as well: Patrick.”

  “Very nice to meet you,” he said and gave me a firm if not giant hand. He also gave me a closer inspection. “We’ve met, surely?” Lothar asked. I was about to reply but he continued, “Don’t tell me, it will come to mind…”

  “We were hoping for a cup of tea,” Mr Quandary said. “Patrick and I have a few things to discuss in th
e study. Maybe you’d care to join us?”

  “Splendid. I’ll just put the kettle on and take the ginger-men out to cool. Go up without me and I’ll be along in no time.”

  This was not the Lothar I had first encountered in 1933 as a looming guard at the Saint Albans Asylum. While he was the same shape and size, he was missing the two crescent shaped scars on his forehead. For a man who had previously spoken in grunts and monosyllabic words, he was surprisingly conversant. I asked about Lothar as the Quantifier led me back upstairs.

  “Lothar holds several degrees in advanced mathematics… he’s won the Fields Medal and the Abel Prize. Invaluable when I need any sort of calculations done… and he has some skill as a baker.”

  “I met him before, in nineteen thirty-three.”

  “Oh yes, quite an adventure for Lothar. He was keeping an eye on Mortimer for me… though I dare say, he shan’t be returning to that particular time.”

  “The scars?”

  Mr Q nodded. The stairs ended and we came upon a ramp that spiraled upwards at a very gentle angle. I came to realize the building was not exactly a tower at all. Circular walls comprised both sides of the room with windows like portholes facing an inner courtyard. The place was more like a very orderly pile of donuts.

  “Torus is the word you are looking for,” Mr Q said, seemingly able to read my thoughts.

  It was possible that the room tapered slightly as it rose, and I imagined it must snake ever higher and ever narrower, but this section was laid out as a wide study. The floor lost most of its incline and the room was full of old-fashioned adding machines, antiques mostly, as well as a collection of abacuses.

  “They’re just for show nowadays. Lothar does all the calculations for me,” Mr Q explained.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “You make it sound as if I never leave.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course… every year or so, Lothar and I travel to the past and begin again.”

  I saw a good number of books, a writing desk with a huge ledger on it, and other volumes stored nearby. The shelves had been carefully crafted to compensate for the curved walls, and I spotted a clock, much like I had seen at the Library, only with two dials instead of three. The hands on one of them were moving quite fast. I sat quietly and tried to discern any motion in the entire building.