Inspector Fynn was waiting impatiently when I emerged into the living room. “I happen to recall that the party is tomorrow night in London, and we must be there.”
“Oh, that party,” I said, realizing what he meant at last. “Didn’t you already steal Mortimer’s cane?” I asked.
“Yes, and I must be sure to do so again.”
“But it’s a completely different timeline. No coffee, remember?”
“Better safe than sorry… Tell me, Patrick, which cane has Mortimer been employing of late?”
“The jackal head.”
“Not Edmund’s bear claw?”
“No.”
“Come along then, you and I have a party to attend.”
“Crash, you mean?”
“Yes… we’ve not been invited.”
“Mortimer may not even have the cane at this point.”
“It’s true, but we are here at the right place and the right time. Certainly it deserves a look see.”
***
“Sadly, I have very little money to lend, just a few hundred francs,” Anika explained. “Only enough for train fare.”
“Nouveau francs, I suppose you mean… hmm, we will also need some English money.”
“Oh, well, let me check the jar,” Anika said and reached for a high kitchen shelf. “You’re in luck… I have ten pounds and a few shillings.”
It felt very odd to be in a vehicle again. Anika took us to the train station in her white Renault van. I sat on my knees against a hard metal floor between her and Fynn, swaying painfully around each bend and hairpin turn. She was a competent if not daring driver. I noticed Fynn was clutching the strap hanging by his window.
The route took us west along the Cote D’azure towards Nice, and everywhere were signs of construction. Trucks clogged the narrow roads, cranes loomed in the distance, and heavy machinery snaked along the shoreline, spewing dust into the blue waters of the sea. Anika’s horn was feeble and ineffective no matter how many times she used it.
I tapped Fynn’s shoulder. “Why am I seeing so many Grimaldi signs around here?” I pointed to a billboard as we drove by.
“Oh, they are Genoese feudal lords from the tenth century. The House of Grimaldi has dominated this area for nearly a millennium. Hmm, I did not know they were in the cement business as of late…”
Anika laughed. “They are in every business around here, it would seem. In fact, I bought this very car from them.”
We arrived at the train station with minutes to spare. “Next we meet it shall be in twenty fifteen,” Fynn said and kissed Anika. “Can you find your way back to Amsterdam, my dear?”
“Of course… but what day are we speaking of?”
“An exact date is not really necessary, only that you are in that present. Shall we say late spring?”
“Rest assured, father, I will be there.”
She turned to me to say goodbye. “And you, Patrick. We’ll be together again soon, eh?”
“Absolutely,” I gave her a hug and whispered in her ear: “You’ll be happy to know I speak Italian now.”
She smiled. “Do you? Congratulazioni, il mio amore.”
“Well, an obscure dialect at least.”
***
Many hours later, at Calais, we boarded a ferry to cross over to Dover, and from there, we planned to connect with the London train. The Channel was calm when we started out, but soon the weather turned as a storm blew in. The boat began swaying a bit. There were some giggles among the passengers at first, as the craft rocked and swayed, almost as if it were an amusement park ride. The crossing grew very choppy though, and the first person aboard began to feel sick, sea sick. I could see it in one face, a young girl in her teens. Her smile fled and she rushed to an outside door. When she opened it, frothy sea spray smacked up against her; she ran to the railing and got sick over the side.
She was only the first. Like a trend on Facebook, others joined in, all feeling deathly ill. Soon enough the bathrooms were full, and long lines ensued. Others were heaving over the side and I could see vomit streaming in ribbons across the outside windows. There was that particular smell also.
“You don’t get seasick, do you Patrick?” Fynn asked with a smile.
“No. You?”
“Not that I remember. What say we get a bite to eat.”
“Sounds good.”
The inspector and I were down to a few scant pounds. Fynn counted our meager funds as we entered the lounge. “We must leave aside enough for train tickets to London. The rest we can use for lunch.”
The dining room was completely empty aside from a kitchen staffer and a cashier. All we could afford was an order of french fries and sat across from each other at the table. Fynn put the plate in the very center. I was about to reach for one when he held up his finger, indicating I should wait. I wondered what he was up to as a smile crossed his face.
A moment later the plate slid across the tabletop in my direction. I grinned and took a fry. Another moment passed and the plate slid back towards Fynn. He took his share and let go a chuckle. The potatoes then slid towards me. Back and forth it went. Soon enough we were both laughing so hard, it became difficult to eat.
***
It was early evening when we landed in Dover. Fynn made me wait. We were among the last stragglers off the ferry. He pointed to a curious sign with an arrow: Disembarkation. “Do as I do,” he whispered and marched through the customs line as if no one was there.
“Sir, sir…” one of the officials called out plaintively. “You can’t go through without a passport.”
“Passport? My dear man, I don’t even have a pocket in this costume, let alone a passport.”
“But—”
“The rest of the troupe has already gone through… Didn’t you see them? Did not the stage manager show you our passports already. He has them all.” Fynn glanced at a nonexistent wristwatch and gave the customs official an impatient glare… “We’re terribly late, my good man,” he explained with a passable upper crust British accent.
“I can’t let you through.”
“But you must,” Fynn said very loudly. He began strutting through the terminal, attracting as much attention as he could. “As you can see, we have no luggage, nothing to declare… Good heavens, man, do you think we’d be dressed like this if the show wasn’t about to begin.”
“What show?”
“The Scottish play, of course…”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“There can be no doubt everyone here knows me. I am England’s most renowned thespian. Surely you’ve experienced my King Lear?” Fynn bowed grandly and took off his hat with a flourish. A few people in the terminal began to applaud. “If we don’t get aboard the London train, the curtain will go up without us.”
The other officials gave off smiles. The customs man turned to his colleagues. “You lads have any idea what this gent is going on about?”
The all indicated negative, then one spoke up, “I did see an odd group of people go by just before…”
“Odd?”
“Well, by the way they were dressed. Never seen anything quite like it.”
“Dressed like him?”
“Well, not exactly the same… but odd nonetheless.”
“Why, the young Queen herself, her Majesty, is attending tonight’s gala performance. Will you be the one who spoils her entertainment… Mr F. Luggs?” Fynn read the man’s name tag.
He hesitated, seeming a bit confused.
“As I’ve already told you, the rest of the troupe has gone through to the train. My fellow actor here was delayed in the WC. Rather a rough crossing thus far, and he became dreadfully ill.”
“So I’ve heard,” the customs official glanced at me. I put my hand to my mouth and burped a little for effect.
“Alright then, go ahead through… and sir…”
“Yes?” Fynn turned.
“Break a leg.”
“Why thank you, my dear man. He grasp
ed the official with both hands and shook vigorously. “Stop at the theatre next Thursday. Come to the stage door and I’ll see that you get two tickets to the show. One for you and one for the wife. It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I can’t believe you pulled that off,” I said to Fynn in a whisper when I caught up.
“Nor can I. A performance of a lifetime, wouldn’t you say?”
***
A light rain fell and London was refreshing, so alive and seemingly up-to-date. Unwittingly though, Fynn and I had stepped into a pitched street battle between Mods and Rockers. We avoided further complications and made our way underground. Fynn seemed to know the tube by heart and guided us to Oxford Circus. The party was on the first floor of a house along Broad Street.
He was banking on the fact that our attire would work a second time. I wasn’t so sure. We came upon a brute of a man who was the bouncer or gatekeeper, and he steadfastly refused to let us pass. Other guests went up the stairs with impunity.
“It is a fancy dress party. Are we not attired appropriately?” Fynn protested in vain. He was loud enough however to get the attention of another man who was sitting on the stoop. He looked somewhat familiar to me but I couldn’t place him. He sized us up with a bemused smile and nodded to the bouncer. He finally let us pass.
“Keep an eye out for Mortimer. He’ll be easily recognizable,” Fynn whispered as we went inside.
“At a masquerade?”
He laughed.
“Eye patch tonight?”
Fynn nodded. “Find me if you see him, or simply grab his cane and we’ll make a hasty exit. It is a simple plan, but I’m sure it will be effective.”
We split up and began our search. Most of the guests wore stylish masks, the kind that covered just the eyes. I spotted more than one person wearing an eye patch, but they turned out to be pirates, not Mortimer. I also tripped into a guy wearing a shiny Nehru jacket. His drink went flying and I apologized the best I could. For a brief second I thought he could be Raj Ashoka from the Library, but he introduced himself as Peter.
Soon enough, Zalika appeared, not surprisingly somehow. She presented herself in a Queen of the Nile motif, a very tall Cleopatra. She recognized me, I thought, and gave a smile and a nod from across the room. She didn’t seem able to disengage from a huddle of admirers though.
Sifting through the crowd, I now fully expected to run into Chloe and Lilly. Sure enough, they appeared together, and as separate sisters, hovering close to the punch bowl. I walked over to say hello. Costume-wise, they seemed to be a kind of Jekyll and Hyde, both wearing tails and top hats. One of them was looking rather disheveled with wild hair and false teeth. Neither of them said a word, but Mrs Hyde handed me a tarot card before Doctor Jekyll whisked her away. I glanced at the card: the Five of Pentacles. It showed two destitute people walking in a storm. When I looked up, the sisters were gone, lost in a sea of writhing dancers.
All that was missing was Carlos. I did pass a man dressed as a conquistador, and it may have well been him, but I never got a good look at his face. Inspector Fynn drifted through the room and spoke above the blaring music. “I’ve heard some rumors, whispers among the guests that Lenin is to attend this party, though I cannot think how this is remotely possible.”
“I think they might mean Lennon.”
Fynn looked at me a bit confused.
“John not Vladimir.”
“Oh, not Mr Ulyanov— that makes sense now.”
“Do you see him?” I said just loud enough to be heard and nodded to my left.
Fynn followed my gaze. Mortimer was there, costume-less, though his classic black eye patch seemed to suffice. He was conversing with a young woman. Her costume consisted of a gold mask, a pearl choker, and a stetson pushed far back against her red hair. She wore a fringed leather jacket and toy six-shooters which hung at her hips. She was also maddeningly familiar… that huge smile…
“What is it, Patrick?”
“That woman with Mortimer. Have you ever seen her before?”
Fynn gave her a once over. “She’s not completely familiar.” He took me by the elbow. “We must not waver now. I’ll go to the left and you to the right.”
With a few steps we flanked Mortimer on either side. He was clearly astonished, unable to mask his expression and certainly recognized us both. I smiled. Fynn yanked the cane from his grasp and ran towards the open balcony. I followed a step behind. We jumped to the road and ran as fast as our garments would allow, around the corner into an alley and out of sight.
“He’s going to come after you again,” I said, catching my breath.
“Yes, I know. Still, it’s best we buy some time for ourselves, eh?”
***
We walked until we came upon the Thames and took refuge under a stone arch. It was raining quite hard now and probably close to midnight. Our biggest problem was how to return to Amsterdam, and when exactly. Fynn’s idea was to use Mortimer’s cane but I was dead set against it.
“We can’t use the cane to get back to the present,” I told Fynn.
“Why not?”
“That’s how things got messed up in the first place. Remember? Me, erasing myself, meeting my doppelgänger?”
“You believe it’s the cane that did this?”
“What else?”
“I don’t like the implications of such.”
“Why?”
“It might mean there is more than one cane at large in the world.”
“Duplicated?”
“Perhaps. A vexing problem to which I must give some considerable thought.”
“The only way I can figure it, is when you use the cane, you end up in a parallel timeline.”
“But every jump is such, cane or not.”
“It is?”
“Of course. I doubt it’s the cane.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no evidence as yet.”
“What about the whole no-coffee thing?”
“I suspect it is our own actions that have caused this— nothing more.”
“Mortimer told me the cane always doubles you… no soft jumps.”
“Yes… What are you trying to say?”
“Well… there’s always Madeline’s leave-behinds.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“No, hear me out… it’s possible that when you use the cane, you leave behind a version of yourself.”
“You were not left behind,” Fynn countered. “I was expecting you for brunch and you never appeared. That’s when I grew worried and began my search.”
“You’re saying this is all my fault?”
“No.”
“Well, I jumped to the past. Maybe it only works when you jump to the future.”
“Leaving behind a doppelgänger, you mean to say?”
I nodded. “If I was left behind, that version of me would be stuck back in nineteen thirty-three. Maybe that’s who you met in New York City.”
“I see… when you departed, after saving Murray.”
“That’s right.”
“Ah, Patrick, you’ve given me too much to think upon,” Fynn complained. He sat brooding.
“If the cane doubles you, creates a doppelgänger, then it stands to reason there’s a leave-behind.”
“It seems very doubtful.”
I thought about Fynn’s own rules, then said a bit too excitedly: “As soon as you go to the past, you’ve change that present— so nothing can be left behind. But if you travel forward? You might leave yourself in the past.”
“I see…” Fynn said and smiled. “You employed the cane to travel to the future… hmm… it is not something I considered before.” He paused to think. “It still doesn’t explain Mortimer jumping at the Quarry and not disappearing.”
“A fluke, maybe? He wasn’t holding the cane the first time he fell.”
“Though he was, on his second leap. It goes against your idea of leave-behinds…”
“I don’t think so. Mortimer told me he jumped to the past that night.”
“Alright then, obviously there is much I do not yet understand about this cane. Can you describe how it feels to use it?”
“Well, when I pressed the button there was a kind of tingling in my hand… and then I got a funny instinctual feeling about which way to face… which direction I mean.”
“It affects your very mind?”
“It sort of feels that way, but not in a conscious sense. More like muscle-memory.”
“I’m not following.”
“Muscle-memory… the kind of thing that lets you drive a car or a bike, or throw a ball.”
“Or a frisbee?” Fynn asked with a smile.
“Exactly that.”
“Well, I agree with you. We shall not risk using this cane.” Fynn pried open the jackal head and removed a silver sphere from inside. He looked skyward. “Pavel, forgive me, wherever you are…” Fynn said and hurled the mechanism as far as he could. It plopped into the muddy Thames and sank.
“How do we get back now?” I asked.
“To the future?”
“Our former present… to Anika.”
“I think I can manage to get us there without this dreadful device, though I would prefer to be rather more east of here.”
“East?”
“To arrive in Amsterdam. As you well know, most of our jumps tend to lead us westward, geographically speaking.”
“Where would we need to go?”
“To compensate? Somewhere near Germany… but we must get there by conventional means.”
“Modern travel,” I said. “Complicated.”
“Indeed. Nor do we have adequate funds at the moment.”
I sat against a wet stone wall feeling a bit disheartened. “Have to admit, I never thought I’d be sleeping rough under a bridge along the banks of the Thames in nineteen sixty-four.”
“That’s it, of course,” Fynn said excitedly. “You’re a genius, Patrick.”
Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3) Page 33