by MK Alexander
The officer looked over Fynn’s papers. “Dominion of Canada, eh?” The policeman chuckled slightly. “What’s in the back?”
“Something quite illegal, I’m afraid to say.”
“What?” The policeman’s attention piqued.
The inspector and I got out of the car and walked around to the trunk. I opened it and hauled out one of the crates for a better view. Fynn pried the top off and I saw several bottles of Canadian whiskey.
“Evidence,” he said, then took one of the bottles, slid it into a paper bag and handed it to the policeman. The officer looked about furtively for just a moment and then nodded for me to close the trunk again. He took our fifty cents and waved us through the barricade without another word.
“What was that all about?”
“Better for them to find whiskey than a crate filled with gold coins.”
“The Georges?” I asked, alarmed. “I’m glad I didn’t know.”
“I thought it best not to mention it,” Fynn said with a smile. “We’ll have to drop them off, of course.”
“At a bank?”
“A bank? No, not exactly a bank.”
***
I admit to being totally unprepared for our drive through New York City. Endless avenues of clattering automobiles and pushcarts. And grey people wandering without purpose. It seemed the life had been drained out of them, grim looks all around. Most appeared preoccupied and worried. Despair was apparent on a lot of faces, as if they were personally to blame for something beyond their power.
Taciturn, cheerless, and colorless. Flinty looks of determination, hopelessness and few smiles. Everyone was so similar, homogeneous in terms of race, and the color of their clothes, with gray being the predominate hue. Some of the streets were filled with long lines of men, all wearing hats, all waiting for something. Long queues snaked around corners for blocks at a time.
“A job...” Fynn said to my unasked question. “Or a soup line.”
“It could be a Clark Gable movie,” Madeline offered her own opinion.
“I have to say, I’m a little startled by the lack of diversity.”
“In what sense, Patrick?”
“In every sense, I guess. Everyone looks the same.”
“Dismal, you mean?” Fynn said.
“Well, there’s that, but there’s more. I mean ethnically… And everyone seems to be dressed the same. Hardly any women on the streets either.”
“Quite different from your own time.”
“For sure…”
A detour, probably some kind of parade, forced us off Broadway over to Columbus Avenue. I could now catch glimpses of Central Park as we lurched southward block by block. Hardly a green expanse, it looked more like a camp ground with tents everywhere and desperate characters loitering about.
Despite it being the end of August, I could also see many people in tattered coats, just sitting on the sidewalk, or leaning against buildings. Not a smile on any face, and no laughter. More though, no one was speaking on a phone or any other device, plugged into an earpiece or chattering to some unseen companion. In contrast to my present, nearly everyone I saw was carrying a newspaper.
We caught up with the parade again at Columbus Circle, or the tail end of it. The marching bands were now silent and breaking ranks. Last in line was a group of woman dressed in togas. They were throwing flower petals over their shoulders in a sort of dance. Behind them was an army of little men. They all had mustaches, funny caps and white uniforms. They followed with giant push brooms and dustbins.
Stopped in traffic for the moment, I turned back to Fynn. “I wonder what happened to Carlos?”
He laughed at my question. “Yes, hardly a Viking to be seen. Perhaps he now searches for Madoq ab Owain Gwyneed.”
“What, or who?”
“A Welch prince named Madoc, from eleven seventy or there about.”
“Who’s that?”
“Another man who is rather good at sailing the Atlantic.”
***
Easily finding a parking space, I pulled up to the curb at 10th Avenue and 37th. I shut the engine down and it finally clanged to a stop. There was a small brownstone midway up the block.
“I wouldn’t leave your automobile unattended in this neighborhood,” Madeline said. “It’s a disreputable part of town.”
“Have we another option?” Fynn asked.
“Well, I’ll drive up to midtown. I have some shopping I’d like to do… We can meet later… Perhaps the Tea Room? It’s rather new, but very atmospheric… How’s your Russian, Patrick?” Madeline smiled. “You two can afford a taxi, yes?”
“Madeline dear,” Fynn began patiently, “I fear that Murray will not talk to us unless you are present as well.”
“Honestly, Fynn, I’d much prefer if I didn’t have to speak to him at all. He’s such a tragic little man. It makes me ever so depressed. You go up and chat with him.”
“Please Madeline,” Fynn asked again. “Murray is difficult enough to talk to as it is. If you don’t come along, it may be a wasted effort all round.”
“Alright. I don’t suppose he’d even give you the time of day.” Madeline let off a deep sigh. “But what about your motorcar? You don’t want it to be stolen?”
“It’s a risk we must take.”
“Let’s see if he’s home first,” I suggested. Turning to Fynn, I asked, “Who should go in?”
“Well, someone has to stay with the car,” Madeline said stubbornly.
I spotted a policeman strolling up Tenth Avenue. He wore an old fashioned blue uniform with a chest full of buttons, and was twirling a baton. “Maybe he can help?” I pointed him out to Fynn and Madeline.
“He’ll do nicely,” she replied and exited the car. I watched as she closed the door and sidled up to the officer.
“You’re quite a hunk of man, aren’t you?” Madeline started fiddling with the buttons on his uniform. “Would you be so kind as to protect me from ruffians?” I heard her say, and Fynn began chuckling. We made our way up three flights to a shabby tenement. Fynn rapped on the door and called out: “Mr Hill? Could we speak with you for a moment.”
“Go away,” was the muffled response.
“Madame Madeline sent us.”
Some chains rattled and a lock unclicked. The door opened a crack to reveal a face framed with perfectly round glasses, these with extremely thick lenses. “Madeline?” he asked with an expression of delight that quickly changed to a gnawing anxiety. “Is she with you?”
“No, we came alone.”
“Go away then. I don’t want to talk to anyone.” He slammed the door.
On the stairs, I took Fynn aside, “I know this guy… I’ve seen him before.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Where?”
“In the future… on my very first jump.”
“He doesn’t seem to recognize you.”
“That’s because it hasn’t happened yet, at least not for—” I stopped in mid-sentence and looked at Fynn. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“You’re right, Patrick, as usual…. though it is most curious, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Definitely.”
Fynn and I returned to find Madeline positively draped around the policeman. They were leaning against our Blue Streak.
“He doesn’t seem to like us very much,” I said.
Madeline laughed. “Alright, I’ll go up.” She patted the policeman on the shoulder. “This kind officer has volunteered to watch our car for a few minutes— isn’t that right, Constable Runyon?”
“My pleasure and my duty, Miss.” He tipped his cap to Fynn and I as well.
We returned to the dark apartment and this time were granted entry. Inside, books and newspapers were piled everywhere.
“Oh Marty, there you are…” Madeline said and traipsed through the cheerless room.
“Murray,” he corrected.
“Murray darling, of course. I’m so sorry. Do
forgive me, dear Murray.”
“You’re younger than I remember, more beautiful. You know, I can’t think when you’re around.”
“That’s very sweet of you to say.”
“I have trouble remembering anything when you’re here,” he complained. “I can’t think straight.”
“And why would that be, darling Morty?”
“You know why. I’m hopelessly in love with you.”
“Well that’s very sweet, Maury… Now these two friends of mine have some important questions to ask. Could you help them— for me, please?”
I’m pretty sure she batted her eyelashes.
“What kind of questions?”
“The usual thing, names and dates.”
Murray pushed against his glasses. “I’m not sure I can answer any questions today. My memory is not what it used to be.”
“Nonsense,” Madeline said and smiled. “Let’s just try, eh?” She patted Murray on the cheek. “Well then… what happened three years ago on this date?”
“How the heck should I know?” Murray shot back defensively.
Fynn stepped between them. “May I?” he asked Madeline politely, but turned to Murray: “What did you have for lunch on the seventh of April, nineteen thirty-one?”
“Tuesday, April seventh… An egg salad on rye and a root beer at Ben’s deli...”
“And on the fourteenth of September, nineteen twenty-five?”
“Monday. Tuna on white, a garlic pickle and a cup of coffee.”
“Can you tell me what happened on the second of May this year?”
“Tuesday. The first alleged photographic sighting of the Loch Ness Monster occurred.”
I stared hard at Murray. He didn’t seem to be in a trance or anything; he was not much more than conversational. Fynn continued:
“Tell me about this Mr Garner…”
“John Nance Garner, aka Cactus Jack, Thirty-second President of the United States. Born, Detroit, Texas, eighteen sixty-five. Son of Jessie and Sarah Garner. Elected to Congress, Nineteen oh-one. Served as…”
“Stop, please,” Fynn said gently. “Perhaps you’d like to have a seat, Murray?”
He looked over at Madeline who had just perched herself on the nearest sofa. She patted the cushion and Murray walked over to sit next to her.
“When was FDR assassinated?”
“Wednesday, February fifteenth, at nine thirty-two local time.”
“And where?”
“Miami Florida, Bayfront Park.”
“Why was he there?”
“A fishing trip.”
“A fishing trip?”
“He was on vacation.”
“Where was he staying prior to this?”
“Aboard Vincent Astor’s yacht, the Nourmahal.”
“Who was the assassin?”
“Giuseppe Zangara, itinerant bricklayer, born July twenty-two, nineteen hundred, Ferruzzano, Italy.” Murray began to laugh.
“What?”
“Calabria, Italy… the big toe.”
“Do you recall what he looks like?”
“I have a photograph,” Murray said and walked over to a stack of newspapers. “Height: five feet, one inch, weight: one hundred and thirty-two pounds.”
“Where does he live?”
“Three-eleven West Nineteenth Street, cabana Six, North Miami.”
Fynn continued his line of questioning until Murray began to tire. Madeline slinked her way through the piles of books and papers to a surprisingly clean kitchen. She made us all coffee and returned to the sofa with a tray.
“Could I ask a question?”
Murray nodded as Madeline held his hands in her lap.
“Ever hear of someone named Julian Spotts?”
“Spotts, Julian, managing engineer for Mount Rushmore.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.” I tried another name, “How about Doctor Burtan?”
“Burtan, aka Valentine G. Burtan, aka William Gregory Burtan, a noted New York heart surgeon, first comrade of the American Communist Party.”
“You’re a regular walking wiki…”
“Wiki, wiki, a Hawaiian phrase meaning quick. Are you calling me a fast walker?”
“Memory-wise.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.”
Murray smiled then pushed against his glasses again.
“Who are these people you ask about, Patrick?” Fynn turned to me.
“Oh, just some names I heard in Sand City. They were unfamiliar to me.”
He turned back to Murray. “If you don’t mind, I also have a final question or two,” Fynn said hopefully.
“I’m feeling kind of tired now…”
“Please, just a few names.”
“Alright.”
“Karl Guthe Jansky?”
“Engineer at Bell Telephone Laboratories in Holmdel, New Jersey. Investigating ionospheric properties using ‘short waves’ for transatlantic radio telephone service.”
“Willem de Sitter?”
“Co-authored a paper with Albert Einstein, nineteen thirty-two, in which they argue that there must be large amounts of matter which do not emit light.”
“Jan Hendrik Oort?”
“Most recently determined that the Milky Way galaxy rotates like a giant pin wheel.”
“Fritz Zwicky?”
“The first to use virial theorem to infer the existence of unseen matter, which he refers to as Dunkle Materie.”
“Very impressive indeed. Murray, I cannot thank you enough,” Fynn said with some finality and vigorously shook his hand. “Is there anything you need, anything at all?” Murray slowly rose from the sofa.
“Aside from Madeline’s undying love and devotion?”
“Is there anything else?” Fynn laughed.
“Just her promise that she’ll visit me soon.”
“Such is beyond my power… though I can double your usual fee.”
“That’s very generous of you, Mr Fynn. Thanks.”
I took the inspector aside as Madeline made her dramatic good byes to Murray. “Maybe he should come with us to Florida.”
“Murray?”
I nodded.
“That’s not the worst idea you’ve had,” Fynn said. “I doubt he could be persuaded though.”
“Madeline might convince him.”
“I’m not sure I’d want her along for the journey south.” Fynn smiled; it looked a bit painful. “Just the two of us seems like a better idea.”
***
Madame Madeline was in quite a huff on the drive back. Her expectations had all been dashed and she had achieved none of her objectives: no shopping spree, no luncheon, nor a night out at a Harlem club. She sat sullenly in the backseat while Fynn and I discussed our plans. It seemed to be a simple matter of traveling back to early February in order to thwart FDR’s shooting. We were certainly armed with enough information.
“The Inquisitor might take a rather dim view of your actions, Tractus,” Madeline said as we drove uptown.
“The who?” I asked.
“The Inquisitor, darling boy,” she replied. “Or whatever grand title he’s given himself these days.”
“I think he prefers Quantifier as of late,” Fynn said.
“Does he?”
“It seems obvious this assassination is the focal point. I don’t need the Inquisitor to tell me as much.”
“Well, it should be fun then,” Madeline said. “I’m looking forward to our little adventure.”
“It’s not a good idea that you accompany us,” Fynn said.
“I absolutely insist.”
“But it’s not very practical…”
“Do you think I’m staying here? I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
Fynn gave no reply but smiled patiently.
“At the very least, we’ll need some winter attire,” Madeline continued. “I know a wonderful place to shop nearby.”
“Hmm?” Fynn said absentmindedly.
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“An overcoat… If we’re going back to February, it can be quite cold that time of year.”
“I suppose you’re correct, though we’ll be in Florida. I doubt we’ll need such a thing.”
***
Once back at the library, Fynn tossed me my duffle bag. We took the long steep path down to the Hudson and exactly to the temple. He was carrying a large book with him.
“What’s that?”
“I borrowed the Brigadier’s ephemeris,” he said as if that were explanation enough. I watched him dust the base of the temple with a small brush, until he found an inlaid brass triangle.
“Anyone could come along and just jump here?” I asked.
“I suppose so…”
“It seems dangerous, not to mention, irresistible.”
“In what way?”
“If I were a little kid or something…”
“No one really comes here. It’s private property.”
“Still, if you should happen here…”
“Patrick, there are only a few minutes in any given day when libra lapsus will operate successfully, and half of those moments occur during darkness. It seems a very unlikely event.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I suppose Edmund can describe it better than me. What was it he said? Imagine yourself at the center of a circle… you can jump in three hundred and sixty different directions, each being a degree. Easy, eh? Now imagine you are at the center of a sphere… You have many more directions in which to jump; many, many thousands of steradians.”
“And only one causes libra lapsus?”
“Yes.”
“What’s a steradian?”
“I do not know. Mathematics is Edmund’s forte.”
“Okay, so how do I jump to Friday, February tenth?” I asked. It was on the other side of the temple. “I’m not even sure I can make it that far.”
Fynn climbed the circular wall and stepped to the space in between columns, just over the day in question. “One only has to wait until the marker gets a bit closer.” He tossed a sovereign onto the mosaic. “Aim for exactly that spot.”
“It didn’t disappear.”
“What?”
“Your coin, it didn’t libra lapsus.”