“Forgive my penchant for drama.” Helms cast off his topcoat and folded into the seat across from me. Despite his dress, his mannerisms had returned to be the Helms I knew. “These are Edison’s original plans; what you saw cast into the fire were copies made by our assassin.”
“Copies?”
“I shall make it all clear for you. But first you must understand that Edison’s death was not one crime, but three.” Helms leaned forward. “Of course the first crime was the murder of Mr. Edison himself.”
“Of course.”
“It was obvious from just a cursory reading of the account of Edison’s death that more was involved than a professional dispute. My brother saw the implications instantly, alerting us. Consider the first peculiar fact of this case: Edison was killed in an alleged struggle that destroyed his hotel room, in the midst of a crowded hotel. Not only would such an epic struggle raise the alarm in itself, but how could a man be shot without it being heard?”
I nodded. “Some other sound must have covered the noise. Thunder, perhaps?”
“A respectable theory; one I maintained for a short while. But no storm happened that night, nor fire-works, nor anything of a volume that would account for the missing alarm.”
“Perhaps the body was moved?”
“Obviously not, as the bullet holes and the blood in Edison’s room attests. We are left with the possibility that he was shot with a gun that was too quiet to be noted by the other guests at the hotel.”
“So that’s how you knew what kind of gun was used.”
“Yes. A suppressing device is available to clandestine military services and from some black marketers. Such a device is only effective on recent autoloading designs with a small caliber and an enclosed firing chamber.”
“When you studied the barrel of the murder weapon, you were looking for signs of such a device?”
“Indeed, Wilson. Such a device was attached, and quieted the gunshots enough that Edison’s neighbors were quite innocent of the mayhem committed in their midst. Of course, this meant Tesla’s confession was a fraud.”
“Yes, he mentioned nothing about such a device.”
“More than that, Wilson. The entire character of the crime is different. Tesla would have it a crime of passion after a violent struggle. There was no passion or struggle. Such a silent weapon shows that Edison’s death was planned, and the lack of alarm shows that Edison’s room was demolished with as much care and quiet as the murder itself. Even the papers scattered around Edison’s room confirm this.”
“How?”
“The papers were clean, Wilson. Unstained by blood, which would be an impossibility if they had been scattered about before Edison was shot. Were that the case, at least some pages would have been spattered, or trapped beneath the bleeding corpse. The state of Edison’s room was a planned deception, to hide the premeditated character of the crime, and its motive—”
“But the wounds on Tesla’s face—he was in a struggle.”
“Tesla was the victim of our second crime. Tesla was assaulted, but not in any protracted struggle in the Stanford-White Hotel. His hands were unmarked and his trousers were muddy.”
“Ah! That is why you asked about the police abusing him.”
“Yes. More than likely he was accosted in some alley between the conference hall and the hotel. He was struck a blow rendering him instantly senseless and in his captor’s power.”
“But why?”
“Most likely to extort his fraudulent confession. They held something over him, perhaps threatening a family member back in the dangerous ferment of the Balkans. No matter, it was, at most, a distraction; a misdirection to shield the true villains in this matter. The true assassin secreted himself in Edison’s rooms and waited until he was able to shoot the man silently in the back. First in the neck, to prevent any screams or moans, then the coup de grace in the back of the head when Edison had collapsed on the floor. Then he systematically ransacked his rooms, quietly enough to avoid raising suspicion.”
I shook my head. “I fail to see why anyone should conduct such an injustice. Why stage the struggle, and why force Tesla to implicate himself? With such a silent weapon, Edison’s assassin had no fear of being caught.”
“The answer is in your hands, Wilson.”
I glanced at the paper tube in my hands, and Helms gestured that I should unroll it. When I did so, I was greeted with detailed drawings of the complicated mechanism, the same as I had seen in the warehouse. Now that I had a clear view of the object depicted, it bore some resemblance to a typewriter, or a teletype machine, but there was a confusing array of interlocking cylinders, each bearing a series of letters and numbers around their edge. “Helms, I am sure I can make no sense of this.”
“Should it become clearer if I told you that it was the potential sale of these plans to one of the Central European powers that precipitated the unfortunate demise of Mr. Edison? That it was these plans that our assassin searched for as he dismantled Edison’s hotel room? That it was these plans our assassin was employed to deliver to a representative of the French Consulate, and was—with the typical duplicity of his kind—prepared to auction off to representatives of several major criminal syndicates?”
I leaned back. “One of Edison’s designs, I suppose?”
“A modified telegraph machine, a design with the potential of producing an unbreakable cipher.”
I looked at the page, trying to make sense of the mechanism. “How did you know Edison had this?”
“Oh, I didn’t know what this was until I examined the plans themselves. Until I replaced our assassin’s French contact, I only knew that what Edison had was quite valuable, and was a subject of interest to at least two major world powers. You, my friend, were responsible for making me realize that.”
“I’m sure I don’t know how.”
“Before I questioned Mr. Tesla, you prompted me to think upon the ethics of Mr. Edison.”
I remembered his comment, “I shall admit that intellectual genius does not guarantee moral character.”
“I had, at that point, concluded the nature of Edison’s assassination. But I was attempting to answer the question you just asked. Why stage a struggle at all, unless the object was to conceal a theft? But theft of what? No mere patent, as such are public knowledge. Nor was it likely some trade secret. Businessmen resort first to bribes and chicanery for their illicit gains, not assassination. Edison worked for the American government, so perhaps it was some state secret? But it would not make sense to carry anything like that to another country, where it would be vulnerable.”
“Unless Edison planned to sell it to some foreign power?”
“Exactly, Wilson! Edison was first a capitalist, and if some other nation would pay more for his device than his own, he felt no qualms about selling the plans to it. Unfortunately for Mr. Edison, Great Powers are often not resigned to being outbid for such things.”
He reached over and took the plans from me, rolling them back into a cylinder. “I questioned my brother about the embassies in London, who had contact with Edison, and who had recently wired large amounts of money. Such activity is closely watched, and my brother replied to me that Edison had seen members of both the French and German delegations, and that the Germans had wired the equivalent of one hundred thousand pounds sterling to the United States.”
“My word.”
“I knew then that Edison had tried to sell this device to both Germany and France, and Germany had the winning bid. The French had wired a smaller amount, twenty thousand, to a London bank, the day before Edison’s murder—most likely a payment to the assassin. So, you should now understand our first stop after Scotland Yard; I visited the bank in question to obtain a description of the gentleman who withdrew the French money and a copy of the gentleman’s handwriting. My suspicions were confirmed when the bank informed me that the account holder closed the account upon withdrawing his money, within an hour of the deposit.”
“W
hat about the newspapers?”
“Such men, freelance criminals, assassins for hire, must communicate with their employers. They often use the classified columns of a newspaper to make assignations and set meetings. I knew that our man would have to transfer his prize. So using my handwriting sample, his description, and the fact he most likely paid for an advertisement in the evening edition with cash earlier in the day, I obtained a list of advertisements that could have come from our assassin.
“After some winnowing, I came upon two that seemed equally probable. I could make no decision on which was announcing the actual transfer, when I had the fortunate realization that both indicated a transfer. As the French had double-crossed Edison, their assassin had double-crossed the French. Our man had copied the documents and planned to give the originals to his French contact—” Helms gestured at the clothing he still wore. “Whom I took to be the man who failed in his negotiations with Edison. Our assassin then also planned to auction off the copies you saw to his cohorts in the underworld. By the time his employer would have realized his deception, he would have retired to some far country with his double payment.
“While you and Lestrade made to intercept the second meeting, I intercepted the French diplomat as he left the Embassy.” Helms rubbed his hand. “I am afraid I was quite rough with him—but his testimony will only tell of a shaggy brigand striking him unconscious and stealing his diplomatic pouch.” Helms smiled. “It was a simple matter to take his place at the meeting and retrieve the documents. I sat upon a bench and the assassin walked by me, dropping these documents next to me with hardly a look.”
“That was a brazen risk, Helms.”
Helms laughed. “The man saw what he expected to see, and was too preoccupied with his own deception to see mine. I assure you he is yet convinced that he transferred these documents into French possession. That is why he cast his copies into the fire, you see. It was his vain hope that their destruction would save him from French retaliation. In his mind, the French have their documents, and if no copies are discovered, the French have no reason to suspect him.”
“While in the French mind, he never transferred the plans at all.” I shook my head in admiration.
“I have suggested to my brother that we exchange this villain for some diplomatic consideration on the part of the French. Possibly for an assurance of safety for Tesla’s family in Serbia.” Helms smiled. “It is a fitting punishment for our murderer to disappear into the clutches of his former employer. He has committed the unforgivable French sin: he has wounded their pride, and they will exact a payment that our sensibilities might fail to consider. More important,” Helms picked up the cylinder of paper. “It will help establish that Great Britain does not have these plans.”
As masterful as he was in the art of discerning information from misdirection, Helms was an artist when it came to disinformation in the service of the Crown. He reviewed the evidence for Lestrade and produced a report, including an analysis of the ash within the stove at that warehouse. An analysis that stated, incorrectly, that the ash was from drafting paper of American manufacture.
When the French, through a known double agent, received a copy of that report, they became quite convinced that their diplomat had been intercepted by one of the assassin’s agents, and that his story of passing the documents to the French was an attempt to gain some sort of mercy at their hands. Mercy he did not receive.
The Americans, for their part, eventually discovered Edison’s duplicity. Of course it was too sensitive a matter to ever publicly admit and, uncovering the same information as the French, they came to the same conclusion; the assassin had destroyed the plans in an attempt to save himself and Edison’s design was lost.
Edison’s device became property of the Secret Service, and true to Helms’ word it provided unbreakable ciphered communications to the British Empire through the end of the Great War. It was instrumental in preserving the Empire through that decade-long conflict.
Tesla was completely cleared in the matter, to much fanfare in the press. Blame for Edison’s murder remained publicly in the hands of the criminal syndicate rounded up by Lestrade that night. It was put down to a simple robbery—though it was never made public what was stolen and the criminals, while suffering dozens of charges and trials, were never actually tried for Edison’s murder.
Tesla would never live to know who cleared his name. His biographers all tell the tale of how he was accosted by men who threatened the death of his parents in Serbia if he did not confess to the crime. Under such circumstances, Tesla viewed the unexplained French intervention on his family’s behalf as something of a miracle.
Tesla would go on to produce great things, far eclipsing his American rival, but, like Helms, he would always refer to Edison’s loss as a tragedy.
CIRQUE DU LUMIÈRE
Brad Beaulieu
Grignal stopped on a rise and leaned forward onto his huge, leathery arms. He breathed in the dry, acrid air and studied the beauty of the horizon as the troupe’s wagons continued on. Far ahead, surrounded by miles of wasteland and framed by predawn clouds, the city of Ale Surçois waited. Its hemispherical shield acted as a lens, bending light like the lone remaining piece from God’s own kaleidoscope. Towers and buildings and arching bridges could be seen within, each painted with an indigo brush against a harsh yellow canvas, and to the city’s left, running northward, a slim line of white traced a curve over the blighted land.
This was Grignal’s favorite part of their journeys through the badlands, the time when the city was alluring and full of promise. Nothing could be further from the truth—Alé Surçois was in the midst of a fierce and potentially bloody political battle—but he couldn’t help pretending at times like this.
“Grignal!” Bayard, leader of their ragtag group, was waving his top hat from the rear of the line. His stained crew shirt and hanging suspenders warred with the jodhpurs and black boots. There was no question of his authority and yet he always wore his top hat like a badge of leadership.
“Keep your eyes on the line,” Bayard said as Grignal approached. He pointed to a nearby wagon, doffed his top hat, and walked toward the bulk of the train.
“Sorry, boss.”
The wagon—little more than a mishmash of ancient tank parts and welded scrap metal—had become stuck. Remmiau, the show’s dagger thrower, stood by the front of the wagon, staring with coral-colored eyes at an ancient fusion engine. He removed his brown bowler and cleared his forehead of sweat before trying the engine again. It wouldn’t be the first time Remmiau was unwilling to accept help from a lizard.
The engine spun its bald wheels forward and backward in quick succession, trying in vain to dislodge the wagon and the bulk of canvas in its bed. Finally, Remmiau stopped and stared with a look on his red-skinned face as if it were Grignal’s fault the wagon had become stuck.
Grignal lumbered to the wagon and cradled the rear. The musty smell of canvas struck Grignal as he lifted the wagon from the deep rut in which it had fallen and set it on even ground.
“About time, you big ugly lizard.” Remmiau smiled, baring his sharpened teeth. The metallic bronze tattoos crossing his eyes glittered in the sun. Remmiau was always saying things like that. He mostly didn’t mean them.
Remmiau took to the driver’s seat and guided the wagon toward the rear of the line. Grignal held pace, not really wanting to talk, but not really wanting to be alone either.
“Such a sourpuss,” Remmiau said. “No one would ever guess how thin that skin is, would they?” When Grignal didn’t respond, Remmiau continued. “Listen, son, I might have a deal for you if you’re nice.”
“Not interested,” Grignal said.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. The last one went bad, am I right? But this one’s simple. Simple as pie.”
“They’re always simple, Rem.”
“No, I mean really simple. A pick and a pop, half now, half when we reach Balgique-en-Leurre.”
He meant a
body. He’d found someone who wanted to transport a person, most likely in a cryosleeve, to the troupe’s next port of call. Grignal didn’t care one way or another who—the troupe took on jobs like this often enough—but Remmiau seemed too eager, which could only mean trouble.
Instead of arguing, which would only serve to prolong the ordeal, Grignal stopped and waited for the wagon to continue on.
“Right, you be that way, but lizards need dosh just like the rest of us. You remember that.”
When the wagon had moved far enough that Grignal could have some peace, he followed. Grignal knew Remmiau was right. He paid well enough, and he was one of the few people who would actually work with him. But his deals, no matter how simple they seemed, always managed to develop complications.
The troupe pushed hard to reach the city’s entrance by dusk—no one wanted to be in the open when the badwinds struck. When they were only a few hundred meters from the entrance, a tram flew toward the city on its quicksilver track. It slowed and entered the city’s outer dock, where it would be purified before being allowed to slip into the affluent upper reaches of the city.
Grignal smiled as he stared up at the glimmering shield. He didn’t much believe in signs, but sometimes they were too powerful to ignore. They were entering the same time as a tram, which could only mean good things—for him, for the show, he didn’t know which, but something good . . .
Several days later, Grignal stood backstage, watching Ijia ply her trade among the three rigid poles in the center of the big top. It was the beginning of Act III, the point at which her character was lamenting her decision to leave her homeland. She dove between the poles, catching herself with apparent ease and spinning about before climbing to the top with the graceful ease of a desert lynx. The diaphanous blue trailers attached to her upper arms and thighs and accentuated her otherwise naked body. Nearly every seat was filled and the audience marveled at her. Grignal was no different; he’d been with the troupe nearly seven years, and he could watch Ijia for another twenty before tiring of her.
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