by MK Alexander
“Was this man killed with a katar?”
“A what?”
“An Indian dagger.”
“No.”
“Then it wasn’t me. Any white man I would kill, I would use a kattari, and since he was a white man I believe he deserved to die.”
“Wow, that sounds completely racist to me.”
“Does it? That is because you are a white man as well.”
“Don’t you work for Mr Gandhi?”
“Indeed.”
“How do you think he’d feel about your remarks?”
“I don’t care to ponder the question. All anglo-whites deserve to die, and they will, once the future arrives in earnest.”
***
At Soren’s Sanctuary, Madeline took us aside. “I don’t even know why Mr Abbas bothers to come to the library, the man is positively bibliophobic.”
“I hope he’s not contagious,” Brigadier Thomas worried.
“No, he’s from the Yemen or some such place,” she said and knocked. The sheik appeared dressed exactly as you might expect with white flowing robes and a keffiyeh. He smiled pleasantly and had more than one gold tooth.
“Thank you for the gong, Madeline.”
“The gong?”
“To know when to pray…”
“Oh. Well, dinner is a bit delayed, I’m sorry to inform.” She smiled. “Do you remember Mr Fynn?”
“Ah yes, of course I remember… Mr Tractus, though surely you had a different name when last we met.”
“Sheik Abbas, it’s been many years since we’ve crossed paths.” Fynn gave him a double kiss and a hug in greeting.
“This is something of an understatement. You are having a joke with me, yes?” He laughed to himself. “You were quite persuasive… talking the Grand Mufti into writing that fatwa about coffee… When was it?”
“A good four hundred years ago… Fifteen twenty-something.”
“Yes, it was cantankerous old Mehmet, eh? Ha, a job well done, and very good for business. Thank you again.”
“My pleasure, though it’s something else that brings me here tonight. A man was killed downstairs.”
“Who?”
“Mr Drummond, we think.”
“Oh, Drummond, Drummond, yes, yes, the oilman from Texas. As rich as a prince and just as ruthless.”
“You know him then?”
“Well, know is such a strong word. We did some business together… equipment, expertise, transport.”
“I see.”
“It’s not good to find so much oil in Texas. I must decide, is it now worth digging so many holes in my tiny nation?”
***
Madeline gave us a quick summary at the next door marked Bacon’s Boudoir: “Myra comes here quite often, likes to stay in tip-top condition. She’s actually our only paying guest.” Madeline knocked lightly.
The door opened and Mrs Hatchet presented herself in a sequined gown that trailed to the floor. She was drop-dead gorgeous, sultry and statuesque with an ivory pale complexion and black hair.
“Yes?” she queried with a pronounced foreign accent and a fluttering smile. As soon as she saw Fynn though, her expression changed markedly. Her smile turned to a look of contempt. She flew at him suddenly and embraced him with a savage kiss.
Somehow Fynn seemed to expect this and spoke to her soothingly in an unknown language. She listened intently then raised her hand and slapped him hard across the cheek. This did take Fynn by surprise, and he quickly led her to a chair.
“Please Myra, you must calm yourself. I am only here in a professional capacity. Mr Drummond has just been murdered.”
“Drummond, you say? But the man is an absolute swine with an appetite to match.”
“What an odd thing to say.”
“He eats for two and his table manners are atrocious. He sits there with food all over his shirt.” Mrs Hatchet gave us a scornful look. “And he is a terrible lover...”
“Pardon?”
“It was many years ago. I was foolish and innocent, and he was very rich indeed… all this black gold, he tells me. Promises— ha.”
* * *
chapter thirty
suspect edition
The dinner gong sounded for a second time and the guests meandered down the staircase talking among themselves. I was unsure how many minutes had passed and started to wonder if time flowed at yet a different rate upstairs. Fynn held me back.
“Let’s have a quick look around before we dine,” he said quietly.
“As in search the guest rooms?”
“Exactly this. Ming has provided me with a master key.”
“What about their privacy?”
“We must catch a murderer. Privacy does not apply here and now.”
“Are they all still suspects?”
“Hardly,” Fynn replied. “Though each guest has something interesting to tell us, yes?”
“What about Mortimer? Did he do this?”
“I think not. He would not dare to go into the stacks.”
“Why not?”
“He’s very old.” Fynn paused. “Recall the fifth rule of travel.”
“Avoid dying at all costs?”
“Yes. And cane or not, no one can jump within the confines of the library.”
“Why is that?”
“Something to do with the odd flow of time, I’d say. It interferes with libra lapsus.”
“Well, my money is on Raj.”
“And why is that?”
“Aside from his obvious anger issues, he knows too much. He knew Drummond was a white male for example— before you mentioned his name.”
“That’s very good.” Fynn smiled. “Anything else?”
“His jacket… I’m no expert, but it strikes me as anachronistic… I don’t think those were popular until the nineteen-sixties.”
“Perhaps he traveled back from then?”
“I thought he worked for Mr. Gandhi.”
“Indeed.” Fynn gave me a glance. “And his motivation? Why would he kill Mr Drummond?”
“No idea.”
Fynn started to unlock Sarah’s Suite, Drummond’s room.
“How odd. It’s not locked.”
“What does that mean?”
Fynn examined the door more closely. “It looks to me as though the latch has been tampered with. Someone has broken in, I think.”
There wasn’t much to find: a small suitcase, a few personal items, and duplicate toothbrushes in the sink.
“That’s a little strange,” I commented.
Fynn paused to examine the bathroom. “It looks as if someone has shaved recently.”
He was right. There was a razor near the sink and some lather around the edges that hadn’t made it down the drain.
“We should examine his clothes more carefully.”
“Why?”
“The victim, if you recall, was dressed in garb from the nineteen sixties,” Fynn said as he sorted through some shirts and alike. “The clothing here seems to be contemporary.”
“Contemporary?”
“From this era.”
“And this?” I asked and held up a white Stetson.
“Ah, the missing hat.” Fynn said and resumed his search. I found some postcards tucked away on a bookshelf. They were from all over the world and addressed to Drummond in Uvalde, Texas. One of them pictured the Taj Mahal; written on the back, a note said, Looking forward to meeting with your Cactus Jack.
“Okay, that’s weird.”
“I will agree, though I do not know what to make of it.”
Searching Zalika’s room seemed to me a waste of time, but Fynn insisted on being thorough. At the very least he wanted to be sure no one was hiding upstairs. There was nothing to find of interest; some language books, a trunk full of fanciful costumes and a portable typewriter. Fynn checked the closet and emerged a few moments later with a large Bowie knife. He cradled it in a handkerchief since the handle and blade were smeared with blood. It wasn’t co
cktail sauce this time. Clearly we had the murder weapon.
“You don’t think she’d…” I started to ask but had trouble believing it.
“Planted here, I might guess,” Fynn assured. “But why her closet? This is very suspicious.”
Cursory searches of the other philosopher suites turned up little, though we did find a second Stetson in Raj Ashoka’s room, a gray one.
“Two hats now?” I asked.
“Curious, don’t you think, Patrick?”
In Carlos Santayana’s room, Fynn found a pile of crumbs on the carpet.
“What’s that?” I asked, as Fynn was on all fours now, studying the floor.
“Something fishy.”
“What?”
“A kind of fish paste that has dried out. Someone is a very sloppy eater.” Fynn got back to his feet. “A trail leads from that table to there, the closet…” He pointed. “Is someone hiding perhaps?” The inspector quickly opened the door and reached into the darkness. “Ah, the perpetrator,” he called out and reappeared holding a ginger kitten.
I laughed. “Looks guilty to me.”
“And where is your mother, little one?” Fynn asked as he set the cat down to the ground. It scampered to the hallway and we followed. The kitten seemed to wait for us, rubbing against the door frame to the next room. It meowed feebly until I opened the entrance marked, Sarah’s Suite, then ran inside and vanished behind a armoire.
It was Drummond’s room again, and this time Fynn and I examined the place more carefully. We pried loose a piece of paneling where the kitten had disappeared and found its family: mother, brothers and sisters. Also tucked behind the wall was a large suitcase, obviously hidden by someone. I hauled it out and threw it on the bed. Fynn opened the latch and lifted the top to find it stuffed with money.
I looked over his shoulder. “Thousand dollar bills? Wow, it’s Grover Cleveland on them. Are these even real?”
“I believe so.”
“There has to be a million dollars here.”
“At least.”
“Well, that’s motive enough for anyone to kill Drummond.”
“Surely not anyone?”
“What?”
“I happen to know Myra Hatchet is wealthy beyond measure. This would mean little to her.”
“Anybody else then.”
“If we take Carlos at his word, he is traveling to a time where this suitcase would be worthless.”
“What about Abbas or Raj?”
“The Sheik I know somewhat. He might be tempted, though he usually resides in a distant past. As for Mr Ashoka? I do not know him well enough to say one way or the other.”
“Edmund?”
“No, he barely understands the concept of money. Only his inventions matter to him.”
“Still, it’s got to be a big clue.”
“Perhaps. What are the dates on these notes?” Fynn asked.
I looked through several stacks. “Recent, nineteen twenty-eight mostly.”
“Well then, it is a clue. If this is Mr Drummond’s money, he resides in the present and brought it with him. The clothes in the room tell us the same thing. Yet the clothes on his back are from the nineteen sixties.”
“What does it mean?”
“It is a great puzzle for now.”
We examined the sheik’s room but found nothing relevant, certainly no one hiding there. Mrs Myra Hatchet’s closet proved another matter. Inside was an old backpack filled with books, journals really, Drummond journals, dating back to 1836.
“Well, our most significant find so far,” Fynn said and smiled. “It looks as though we have some reading to do.”
“Why would Mrs Hatchet want Drummond’s journals?”
“Indeed, a question I must put to her eventually.”
Fynn secured the suitcase and backpack in the hall linen closet. We also came across two locked doors: Socrates and Aquinas. “Madeline and the Brigadier’s rooms,” Fynn explained. He knocked anyway but after several moments there was no reply. “I am satisfied that no one is hiding upstairs.”
On the way down, I asked the inspector, “Shouldn’t we get people to look at the body? Make an identification.”
“It’s hardly worth upsetting the guests. For now, we must assume the victim is Mr Drummond or some iteration thereof. And we should not spoil people’s appetites, yes?”
“Don’t you think it’s a good idea?” I persisted.
“He may be hard to recognize… the beard and all.”
“Still… we don’t really have a positive ID… only the Brigadier and Madeline’s word for it.”
“Meaning?”
“Not the other guests.”
“Yes, you are right as always, Patrick. We should be thorough. Perhaps after dinner then.”
***
At the bottom of the stairs, Fynn lit a lantern and proceeded to check each door in the corridor. They were all securely locked. Evening had descended outside in proper time, the stained-glass windows had lost their potent glow, and I began to consider that the library was probably a terrifying place at night, once absolute darkness had fallen. A good place to hide, or not.
Everyone had gathered in the dining room. Two huge candelabras cast a flickering glow on their faces. “No mention of anything to anyone, eh Patrick?” Fynn whispered to me as we entered.
Dinner was far better than I could have hoped and the company far stranger than I could have imagined. I ate ravenously. To my right sat a princess, a diva, and an old redcoat. Opposite, a well-dressed detective from a film noir, an aging seductress in flamingos, a Peruvian militant, and a man still wearing goggles. Gandhi’s friend and the sheik sat to my left. I laughed to myself. I was smack in the middle of some twisted costume party.
Conversation was oddly absent for most of supper. Frequent trips to the buffet table seemed to be more important. The clinking of silverware against porcelain dominated the evening, punctuated by a few bouts of laughter and the occasional comment between seat mates.
After dinner, everyone was handed a candlestick. Brandy was served and the guests began to spread out along the downstairs rooms. Fynn discreetly got them all to file past our corpse in question, one by one. Everyone agreed it was Drummond, though his first name seemed to vary widely.
A bit later, I found the brigadier, Fynn and Madeline sitting by the fireplace, and they urged me over.
“Patrick here was describing the most dreadful present before. Is there any truth to it?” Madeline asked Fynn specifically.
“It would seem so.”
“Have you spoken to the Inquisitor?”
“Of course not. He couldn’t be bothered about politics.”
“It’s all to do with Kip, we’ve been hearing.”
“That seems to be the case.”
“Surely you’re not blaming me, Tractus. I didn’t muck anything up this time…”
“Of course not, Brigadier.” Fynn gave him an easy smile. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with you.”
“Well then, how does it all turn out?”
“Who can say?” Fynn replied with typical vagueness.
“What do you remember, dear boy?” The brigadier turned to me.
“Well, in a few years the whole world will be at war.”
“Ah, the war to end all wars. World War One. Very nearly, the end of civilization…”
“No, World War Two.”
“Two, you say? That wasn’t much of a war at all… rather more like a one-sided conquest,” the brigadier replied.
“What do you mean?”
“In twenty years or so, we’ll all be speaking German,” he said. “I suppose it’s just a matter of time before they come knocking at our door. I honestly don’t know what we’ll do then. I’d hate to have to shut the place down.”
“It won’t come to that, Thomas,” Fynn assured.
“Well, I must say, all this is rather confusing…” the brigadier continued, “How on earth were the Nazis stopped?”
&
nbsp; “Patrick is more familiar with that particular timeline. You might want to ask him.”
“I think it has something to do with Britain,” I explained. “That seems to be the key to everything.”
“How so? To my knowledge, the English were rolled over in less than a year,” Brigadier Thomas said. “No opposition aside from guerrilla tactics and the Underground— not meaning the Metro of course… The Middle East succumbed to the Germans… Oil was easy to get. Most of Russia fell a year later. The Japanese took all of Indochina, Oceania, Australia, the Pacific Islands… It all happened so quickly and rather bleakly.”
“My timeline is a little different… America fought in this war.”
“Did they?” The brigadier paused to glance at me. “How did the United States get involved?”
“Well, there was Pearl Harbor.”
“Hawaii?”
“December seventh nineteen forty-one, if I remember right. A surprise attack.”
“Hmm. That’s all very intriguing, but what do you expect us to do now?”
***
“I’ve been told you come from quite far in the future,” Raj said as he came over, escorted by Madam Madeline. I was perusing the card catalog, but looked up at him. He glanced at Madeline with a smile.
“Not that far, early next century.”
“What can you tell me about India from now till then?”
“Hmm… Wouldn’t that be breaking some unwritten rule about divulging the future?”
“What an absurd notion,” Madeline said with a small laugh. “What may happen is very different than what has happened or what will happen.”
“Okay, well, if I remember right, India does gain its independence, if that’s what you mean.”
“When?”
“Um, late nineteen forties maybe? After the war.”
“Not until then?” Raj said, seemingly disappointed. He paused and looked hard at me. “What war do you speak of?”
“World War Two.”
“And the British?”
“Gone…”
“Yes, but did they win or lose this war?”
“Won the war, sort of... lost their empire though.”