Jump City: Apprentice

by MK Alexander

  “Very well. What about this Percy fellow, or Higgins?”

  “Definitely not. Neither of them are killers. They spoke very highly of Doc Valenti for the most part.”

  “I see.”

  “Look no further than Mallinger and his buddies over there. I’m pretty sure they’ve got a good motive.”

  “Yes, I will agree. They might want to see Doctor Valenti dead.” Fynn paused to consider. “And this other man, Burtan?”

  “I don’t know him… wait, something Murray mentioned, do you remember?”

  “No.”

  “I asked about him… he’s from New York… a cardiologist, and what was it? A communist.”

  “How is that relevant?”

  “I don’t know. You should talk to Durbin.”

  ***

  “Burtan, Burtan, yeah, I heard about that guy…counterfeiter, I think… Say, where’s Hank? He should know all about this.”

  Agent Bigelow was not to be found.

  “Better make some calls,” Durbin said after returning from the front door. While he was on the phone, Mallinger sauntered over to Fynn with his entourage, Drummond and Mears.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Tractus Fynn… I was wondering when you would appear. A bit too late, I should think.”

  “Mortimer…” Fynn replied with all the politeness he could muster.

  “You show up tonight of all nights. Well, you won’t find me guilty of this crime.”

  “No?”

  “Absolutely nothing to do with me, or my associates.” The professor offered a weak smile. “Seems to me you’re running out of suspects.”

  “Evidence is all that matters,” Fynn replied.

  “I suppose I should thank someone for getting Valenti out of the way. He was a thorn in everyone’s side. The man was far too honest for his own good.”

  I heard Drummond talk to the professor: “You know this hombre, this Fynn guy?”

  “Indeed I do. We have met once or twice…”

  Drummond glared at us as Mallinger began formal introductions: “This is the Reverend Drummond… and Mr Mears… I’m sure they are familiar to you?”

  “That’s the fellow I told you about,” Mears whispered to Mallinger, though everyone heard. “He was here in the winter… say… wait a minute, you were there too, only you weren’t a waiter.”

  “And you are?” Drummond asked with a sneer.

  “Patrick Jardel.”

  “Damn it all to tarnation,” he said and turned to Mallinger again, “Didn’t I tell you? That’s the name I read about. Both of these hombres are here screwing things up.”

  “Calm yourself, Drummond. All their meddling will come to nothing.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s been foretold.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Your very own journals… don’t they describe how Mr Jardel and Fynn meet their end?”

  “Well yeah, but that doesn’t look likely to happen anymore.”

  “Trust me.”

  ***

  “Please, we must examine the stomach contents,” Fynn said.

  “Trouble is, Valenti was our acting coroner. I guess I’ll have to get someone from Fairhaven to fill in…” Durbin replied.

  “What about you, Professor Mallinger?” Fynn asked.

  “I only deal with psychiatric patients.”

  “I see… And you, Doctor Burtan? What can a cardiologist tell us?”

  “Well, the cause of death is indeterminate… Of course, I see bleeding around the mouth… A terrible ulcer, some kind of pneumonia, a hemorrhagic fever? There could be any number of causes.” Burtan paused. “I’d be happy to examine the body.”

  “Perhaps not,” Fynn muttered. “Is there anyone else at the hospital who could attend?”

  “I’ll call somebody in from Fairhaven,” Durbin said and ended the discussion.

  Fynn took the sheriff aside and called me over as well. “Doctor Burtan is our killer, I’m quite sure,” he said quietly.

  “What makes you say it’s him?”

  “The process of elimination… and one of the rings he is wearing.”

  “What ring?”

  “A pillbox ring. You’ll likely find traces of digitalis.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A heart medicine and a very potent poison.”

  ***

  Fynn and Durbin were on the other side of the living room, discussing how best to proceed. I sat at the piano and tapped a few keys. This wasn’t my instrument but I saw a page of open sheet music: Die Moritat von Mackie Messer. I struggled to play the melody the best I could and soon figured out it was Mack the Knife, however one note refused to play correctly. The key was completely stuck. I finally got it to work, but every time I hit the B-flat it thudded with an odd muffled sound. This didn’t seem right. Why would Doctor Valenti have such a beautiful piano with one note that didn’t sound?

  I called Fynn over and asked to help me lift the heavy cover. Durbin came over as well. We looked inside. Fastened to one of the hammers, there was a piece of folded paper wrapped around a brass key.

  Durbin inspected the latter carefully. “It’s to a post office box. Probably here in town.”

  “I wonder what you’ll find?” I asked.

  “I think I know,” Fynn said and handed Durbin the paper:

  I, Doctor Julius T Valenti, MD, hereby attest to the following as true and undeniable.

  I was approached by a colleague of some years, Dr Gregory Burtan for a seemingly innocent favor. That was, to receive a package at my post office box. It arrived from overseas with a German return address. I thought little of it at the time, but later discovered its contents quite by accident: Engraved printing plates for making twenty dollar bills. I had been duped badly, though I was also fearful about bringing this matter to the authorities, considering my own inadvertent involvement.

  Currently, the plates are in the safe and capable hands of Carter Woods, who has some expertise regarding the printing process. I attest it is Doctor Burtan behind this endeavor, along with his associate, Hans Von Buelow, sometimes using the alias Hank Bigelow.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Counterfeit money with Burtan’s fingerprints all over it,” Durbin summarized.

  “It seems clear that Valenti invited Burtan here to have him arrested by the Sheriff.”

  “Hmm… he never said anything about that,” Durbin protested. “But yeah... I do feel bad about showing up late.”

  “It seems however, the tables were turned,” Fynn said grimly. “Burtan came prepared with his ground glass, poison, and a cohort. He tainted only one bowl, knowing, that as the most senior doctor, it would be easy for him to pronounce the cause of death as he saw fit. Agent Bigelow was probably a contingency plan, should things go awry. Their aim, it seems to me, was to find these printing plates.”

  Durbin quickly looked around the room and spotted Burtan, fairly drunk and still sitting in a chair. A big grin crossed the sheriff’s face.

  * * *

  chapter thirty-eight

  planetarium

  The next morning Sheriff Durbin appeared in the middle of the Lovely’s rooming house. I was just having breakfast. I could see his car parked outside, sputtering, and noticed Inspector Fynn sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Patrick, good morning. Doc Valenti sent me here looking. He wants to meet with Fynn and you. Promised I’d drive you fellas over.”

  “What?”

  “Doc Valenti…”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The dinner party, the gazpacho soup?”

  Durbin tipped his hat back. “I’ll tell you, Patrick, you worry me sometimes.” He laughed. “Guess prohibition won’t end a day too early for some people.”

  At the car, Fynn looked on helplessly. There was no malicious intent on Durbin’s part; he seemed to be doing a harmless errand when he dropped us at the entrance of Saint
Albans and went on with his day. In the lobby, Greta the gatekeeper let us pass. I dimly thought she should have been Gretchen. We were escorted up the grand staircase by twin orderlies, Ray and Roy, I presumed.

  They led us to a large, dark office. A single window overlooked the hospital entrance. Behind a desk sat Professor Mallinger, Mortimer by any other name. He did not have an eyepatch this morning, rather he gazed at us with a sightless glass eye. “Wait, you’re Doctor Valenti now?” I asked.

  The old man laughed. “Yes. A substitution has been made. And I rather prefer being a doctor… I have no wish to be called professor any longer. I profess nothing, nor do I have anything to teach anyone.”

  We were roughly searched but had little of consequence except for Fynn’s astrolabe, a knife, and my pocket watch. Mortimer examined the first item for a moment before discarding it to his desk. “This is little more than a crude toy, Tractus.”

  Fynn said nothing.

  “A knife… I will keep it safe for you. And what’s this? A rather curious pocket watch…” Mortimer looked at it more closely. “Somehow I feel that Edmund can tell me more about it.”

  We were forcibly seated in front of his desk. “Well then, congratulations, Fynn— and what’s your name— Patrick. I must say you both had me fooled for a time.” He looked me over again. “I’ve been told about you, Jardel the meddler… I won’t say it’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “We’ve met before.”

  “I rather doubt it. Certainly, I’d remember?” He looked at me again, then barked to the orderlies, “Take this one down to the basement, in shackles, if you please…” Mortimer turned to the inspector. “No offense, Tractus, but I can’t have you jumping off somewhere. Not just yet.”

  “You will offer no explanations?” Fynn asked.

  “Explanations? Oh, how tiresome of you. I always forget you have a policeman’s mind.”

  “It’s only a small courtesy,” Fynn replied.

  “Give us the room,” Mallinger said as if he had a thousand times before. Roy and Ray disappeared and closed the door. “I went through some considerable effort to relive these past few years, you understand,” Mortimer began. “I went back and appropriated Doctor Valenti’s identity.”

  “What?”

  “As you see him now… Oh, it’s been a terrible bother… to arrange things so that I become Valenti.” Mortimer paused. “When was that for you?” He checked a ledger on his desk, “Oh yes, how apropos, it was just last night you had dinner with us all, eh?”

  “You mean…”

  “Yes, timing is everything, is it not? And absolving me of the crime rather worked in my favor… though it’s a moot point as of today.”

  “Where’s Professor Mallinger then?”

  “You’ll find absolutely no record of a Professor Mallinger. Nor does anyone remember him at all.”

  “Why become Doctor Valenti?”

  “Everything is in the good Doctor’s name of course... especially the finances… a terrible nuisance… That said, I’ve left as much intact as possible, so the present is rather similar.”

  “In what way?”

  “Ha, in a way contrary to Mr Drummond’s single-minded desires…” Mortimer grimaced. “Yet, similar enough to draw the both of you here. For example, Mr Hill and the Brigadier are still my guests…” He laughed. “I had hoped to find his sister as well, but she seems to have vanished somewhere.”

  “Why Murray?” I asked.

  “Murray? Like the others of his kind, he’s rather useful to Drummond… I don’t give him much heed.”

  “And Edmund?”

  “Yes. He works for me now. I’ve made certain promises to him.”

  “Which you don’t intend to keep,” Fynn muttered.

  “That remains to be seen. I may have need of his good friend Pavel at some point.”

  “And us?” I asked. “Why are we here?”

  “Well, I saw Fynn nosing around last year… and in the Flatlands as well. That was enough to tell me I had to guard my plans rather more carefully.” Mortimer put both hands on his desk and pushed himself into a standing position. “This present is very similar, but don’t take me for a fool. You have no allies here… Don’t expect Sheriff Durbin to burst through the door and effect your rescue.”

  “Durbin works for you?”

  “Not at all. He merely sees things the way they are.” Mortimer stared at me. “Very much the opposite of you, Mr Jardel, the man who remembers things that have never occurred.”

  “And the rest of the hospital staff?”

  “They do as they are told.” Mortimer paced to the window and looked outside for a moment. “But gentlemen, there is no need for us to be so adversarial this morning. And my dear Tractus, there was a time when we were great friends, yes?” Mortimer smiled. “The fun we had… Paris, Istanbul…”

  “And today?” Fynn asked.

  “Today, here at this time, my aims are simple: I mean to find my nexus self, and get the cane to function properly.”

  “What about the books?” Fynn asked.

  Mortimer was surprised by this question. “Ah, yes, the manuscripts. Of course you have found out about these.” He walked slowly back to his desk. “A minor consideration for now. I have my man on it.”

  “Drummond?”

  “No, no… Mr Mears.” He eyed us for a reaction. “His name is not unfamiliar to you, eh?” Mortimer sat again. “He’s quite useless, really. And so very literal. Once he’s gone careening off into the future, it takes me ages to find him again.”

  “And what errand does he do?” Fynn asked.

  “He searches for these old books. I’d like to read them,” Mortimer replied. “Nothing that would interest you, my dear Fynn.”

  “But you trust Mr Mears with the task?”

  “I have no worries that he can decipher them.”

  “You mean to say the Dux Viaticum.”

  “Very good, Tractus. I am impressed. Yet, these books are written in a language even you don’t understand.”

  “Why employ Mr Mears?”

  “Quite simply, he has no awareness of his other lives. Just the one he’s currently experiencing. He remembers nothing else.” Mortimer laughed. “The man is of limited use… I can send him to and fro but he never remembers where he is. I usually have to pin a note to his chest.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Ah, there he is now. Thank you for joining us, Mr Mears. This is Tractus Fynn and his friend Mr Jardel…”

  He greeted us pleasantly but with no sign of recognition.

  “I see you’ve met before?” Mortimer said to me.

  “No.”

  “Of course, Mears won’t remember… and Tractus has a face of stone. But you, Mr Jardel, you betray yourself. I see a flicker of recognition in your eyes. Perhaps you’ve met Mr Mears at some future date— not just at dinner, eh? He does travel quite often.”

  “I’ve seen him at the hotel.”

  “The hotel?” Mortimer laughed. “There, and speaking with Miss Everest, I wonder?”

  “Who?”

  “I refer to Nurse Elsie… I find her most interesting,” Mortimer said. “You two are quite friendly, I believe… and Mr Mears has determined some family connection between her and these books.” He stared at me with his one good eye. “But most troubling is her ability to remember… She should not, yet she does. It’s rather odd.”

  “Where is Elsie?”

  “She too is my guest. Call her a bit of leverage.”

  “Leverage against who?”

  “Why, against you, Mr Jardel…”

  “Where is she?” I repeated.

  “Locked up downstairs by Mr Lothar.”

  I looked at Mortimer’s expression. Surely he was a consummate liar with centuries of experience, but I did not believe him. I knew Elsie, I knew Lothar, and I knew Mortimer had no idea where the manuscripts were. She was fine, at least for the moment.

  “A simple proposition, Mr Jardel: give me the
books and I will spare Miss Everest’s miserable existence.”

  “What books?”

  “Oh, this is a great shame… I had hoped things would have gone more smoothly. There’s no need for anyone to fall injured.” Mortimer sighed and sat quietly for a moment. “Well, thank you, Mr Mears. I’ll see you after lunch— till then,” he dismissed him pleasantly.

  We had the room to ourselves again. Mortimer continued, “You can thank Mears for all of this, this exact present. Inadvertently you would claim, a fluke you would say wrongly, Tractus.”

  “I’m sure it’s all been determined,” Fynn muttered.

  “Yes, well, he traced the manuscripts to a bookstore in New York City— from just a few years ago… a wild goose chase though. The previous owner died, and Mears seems to have lost track of them. But all that led to here…”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of the place.”

  “I have, I’ll admit. It has a certain charm.” Mortimer laughed. “Oh, that Mr Mears though… So damn literal. Ready to bring the place down. Can you imagine, I told him if he couldn’t find the manuscripts, then burn all the books. I was speaking out of frustration. I didn’t mean it at all.”

  “You’re talking about the fire here… at the local library,” I said.

  “Yes, most unfortunate.”

  “What about the other library?” Fynn asked. “I take it you are responsible for that?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “The fire…” Fynn persisted.

  “The Cliffs, do you mean to say?” Mortimer laughed. “Too much knowledge in one place, my dear Fynn. Ignorance is bliss, after all.”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “No. But when was this?”

  “February tenth,” I blurted, not meaning to.

  “Well, it is an excellent idea, I must say. Just as soon as the cane is ready that will be on top of my agenda.” He laughed again. “We certainly do not want a place where people can hide from proper time…”

  There was a sharp knock on the door. One of the twins entered and spoke to Mortimer in a quiet tone, then departed.