by Kage Baker
“Done,” he murmured, closing the case and slipping it back into his pocket. He wiped his hands and they went back down the stairs, as slowly as they had entered. Ludbridge took back the lamp at the door, shut it off and thrust it into the depths of his coat, and they crept out.
As they climbed the hotel stairs to their room they spotted Hobson, climbing slowly and deliberately ahead of them.
“Hello,” said Ludbridge, with a scowl. “Lingered over your sandwich, did you?”
“Took forever to wake the foreign bugger up,” said Hobson. “Sorry.”
Nothing more was said until they were well inside their room, when Ludbridge went to the table where his sketch was still laid out. Grabbing up his pencil, he jotted something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Hobson.
“There. Tune to that frequency tomorrow, and listen closely. Make a note of every blessed thing you hear and write it down.”
“But I don’t speak Russian,” said Hobson.
“You won’t be listening for Russian. You’ll be listening for signs of life. Footsteps, yawns, snores, anything. Note them all, with the times you hear them and whether they sound close or distant, and whether it sounds as though one or two persons are there. And if you do overhear voices, whether they’re speaking Russian or Greek, switch over to London and tell them immediately.”
“How long am I to listen?”
“All day.”
“That’ll be a bit of a bore, won’t it? What, just sit there doing nothing else all day?”
“You’d damned well better,” said Ludbridge, without raising his voice. “That’s an order, in case I hadn’t made myself sufficiently clear.”
“It is a bit hard on old Johnny, you know,” said Pengrove the next day, as he propped the talbotype camera on its teetering legs and removed the lens cap. He backed up a pace or two to be sure it was actually pointed at Hagia Sophia—they had mended the camera as best they could, but the brass lens tube was still canted at a slightly eccentric angle—and, turning, took an unobtrusive shot with his hat-camera. “I mean, here we are, seeing the sights, enjoying ourselves, wine and roses, olive-skinned charmers and whatnot, gorgeous vistas of Mount Olympus, et cetera, and he has to sit in a room and listen to a machine buzzing.”
“He’s got it dead easy,” said Ludbridge. “There are a number of less pleasant things he might be obliged to do.”
“That’s probably true,” said Pengrove, turning to get a few inconspicuous shots of the ships in the harbor. “But so far he’s been out for a walk once, and sat in a bar and behaved like an imbecile. Whereas Bell-Fairfax and I have behaved like imbeciles in all sorts of wonderfully scenic places. Haven’t we, Bell-Fairfax?”
“We have,” said Bell-Fairfax, who was busy setting up the developing tent.
“Such as places where there are dancing girls. And it really might cheer Hobson up a great deal if we could take him for a jolly night out. There was this girl who could flip over an entire row of half-crowns using only the muscles of her—”
“A man ought to be able to do his job whether or not he’s bored,” said Ludbridge, with an air of finality. Bell-Fairfax caught Pengrove’s eye and, just perceptibly, shook his head. Pengrove sighed. He checked his watch and, slipping it back in its pocket, replaced the lens cap. Wrestling the camera into the tent, he set to work developing the plate, and presently the sounds of splashes and coughing drifted forth.
Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax lounged outside the tent, passing a flask between them and pretending to drink. As they loitered there, Ludbridge lowered the flask suddenly and stared at a group of tourists approaching.
“Hallo! Pengrove, here’s your Americans again.”
The four men were walking backward to get a better view of Hagia Sophia, and the older one in the shovel hat was pointing and talking.
“. . . disgrace and a reproach to the Christian world. I’ll grant you the Byzantines were a lot of decadent Greeks, but that’s no excuse for the rest of us. The Russians at least . . .”
“I shouldn’t wonder if that is the Reverend Amasa Breedlove,” said Ludbridge under his breath. “And his Bible students, I expect.”
“Odd sort of Americans,” said Bell-Fairfax, watching them sidelong.
“What’d you expect them to look like?”
Bell-Fairfax shrugged. “We put in at New York once. There were all sorts, just as you might see in London. Rather more slipshod and rough, I suppose. Their accent was different.”
“Well, perhaps Tennesseans and New Yorkeans speak in different accents,” said Ludbridge. “And you couldn’t call these fellows slipshod. Something military in their bearing, don’t you think?”
Bell-Fairfax nodded. The Americans kept backing toward them.
“. . . the duty of the white race to see to it that this sort of thing doesn’t happen again. Now, I’ll tell you what: a nation that wasn’t being run by a lot of fools and cowards could come in here with a fleet of warships and set things to rights in two minutes flat,” announced the reverend in the shovel hat.
“Ah,” said Ludbridge. Pengrove emerged from the tent, waving his negative print of Hagia Sophia, staggering from the fumes.
“Look here, chaps, this one turned out rather well—,” he croaked, holding out the negative just as one of the Americans collided with him. The man turned sharply.
“Watch yourself, sir!” he said. He swept Pengrove with a glance and contempt came into his gray eyes.
“Oh, watch your own dashed self,” cried Pengrove. “Look at that, look, you’ve made me drop my Hagia Sophia, what? I mean, really!”
“You should have watched where you were going,” said the American.
“Well, you oughtn’t to have been walking backward,” said Pengrove, catching his monocle as it fell out of his eye. Unhappily inspired by the Muse of Comedy, he went on: “But then I’ve always heard you Americans are a backward lot, eh? In fact.” He jabbed the American in the ribs. “In fact, you’re a nation of ‘backwardsmen’! D’y’get it? Like Natty Bumppo, what?”
The American stiffened. “You force me to call you to account for this, sir.”
Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax stepped forward at once.
“Now, now, let’s not be hasty—,” said Ludbridge, waving his flask. He took a mouthful of brandy and exhaled on the American. “Young friend just having a bit of fun. Can’t hold his liquor.”
“You insulted the great nation of the United States,” said the American, glaring at Pengrove. “I demand satisfaction.”
“Fight a duel?” squeaked Pengrove, appalled. “I say, you must be joking! Haven’t got a pistol, and anyhow—” The American threw open his black coat to reveal a pistol in a holster.
“Here’s mine. Gentlemen, may we borrow the loan of one of yours?” His countrymen opened their coats as well, all but the clergyman. He stepped forward and laid his hand on the shoulder of the offended one.
“Jackson, I must ask you to let it be,” he said. “These men are clearly drunkards. Him that draws on creatures like these stains his honor.”
Bell-Fairfax started forward, but Ludbridge put out an arm and elbowed him in the chest. “That’s so, Vicar, that’s so, we’re a little the worse for drink. Charley will apologize to the chap, won’t you, Charley?”
“I’m most frightfully sorry!” said Pengrove, holding out his hand. “No intention of giving offense, old man!”
The American drew back his arm. “Dr. Breedlove, sir, I cannot let this pass.”
“You will,” said the clergyman, in a low and urgent voice. “He is not worth your time.”
“No, I certainly ain’t,” said Pengrove, hurriedly stepping behind Ludbridge. The American sneered at him.
“So you’re a coward? Well, Doctor, I guess you’re right. Honor’s satisfied.”
He turned his back on Ludbridge. As they walked away, Dr. Breedlove could be heard declaring: “. . . lesson to you why the degenerate and effete races of Europe have let things get into the state
they’re in.”
“At least we’re not as bad as the French,” called Pengrove. They ignored him. He bent down and picked up his talbotype negative, which had gotten stepped on. “Oh, look at that! They trampled Holy Wisdom underfoot.”
“They almost trampled you underfoot,” said Ludbridge in exasperation. He rounded on Bell-Fairfax. “And if you haven’t better sense than to respond to a bully’s provocation, what bleeding use are you in this work?”
“There is such a thing as honor, however,” said Bell-Fairfax, watching the Americans go.
“Not for a man in our line of work,” said Ludbridge. “Too great a luxury. You’d have done better to wonder why a class of Bible students went so heavily armed.”
“Well, but they’re Americans,” said Pengrove.
“Indeed they are.” Ludbridge turned and watched them striding onward. “Armed Americans with the decided intent to change the world to suit themselves. Worrisome . . .”
Hobson was sitting upright and clear-eyed when they returned, though he had closed up the Aetheric Transmitter.
“You’re not at your post for a reason, I suppose?” said Ludbridge, scowling at him, but Hobson stood and offered three sheets of foolscap closely covered in writing.
“I’ve found out a great deal, sir. Your fellow is alone there, only heard one set of footsteps tramping about for the longest time. But then, company called on him! Must have been four or five other chaps. They brought him things—food and liquor and such.”
“Russians?”
“No, sir, Greeks. And then they all sat and jabbered away in Greek together for a good long time, and I alerted London just as you said, and they listened in too. It’s rather awful. The Sultan has a trick of slipping out the side entrance of mosques, after he’s been in to pray; leaves his guards and his marching bands and his pashas outside. Your Arvanitis chap thinks if they observe the Sultan’s movements often enough, they’ll be able to predict which mosque he’ll visit on a given day, and station someone with a pistol where they can get off a shot at him. The translator sent a report for you.” Hobson waved the foolscap up and down.
“Well done.” Ludbridge took the report and, sinking onto the edge of his bed, started to read through it. He looked up again. “You’ve earned yourself a good dinner. Bell-Fairfax, Pengrove, take him down and see that he eats.”
“Might we go sightseeing afterward?” Bell-Fairfax inquired casually.
“If you like,” said Ludbridge, immersed once more in the report.
“Thank you, sir.” Bell-Fairfax smiled, and Pengrove winked broadly at Hobson and turned both thumbs up.
They returned at a late hour, quite pleased with themselves, and met Mr. Polemis coming down the stairs from their room. He looked grave, but bowed slightly to them as they passed.
Ludbridge was sitting on his bed fully clothed, smoking a cigar. He glanced up at them as they entered.
“All accounted for, I see. No duels fought, eh?”
“No, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax.
“Which is not to say we did not strive mightily,” said Pengrove, striking an objectionable pose. Hobson, grinning, flung himself down on his bed.
Ludbridge stubbed out his cigar in a saucer. “Full marks on the report, Hobson. Certain persons are profoundly grateful for the timely warning. Bell-Fairfax, we’ll be obliged to go for a walk tomorrow evening. I’d turn in and get a decent night’s sleep, were I you.”
It was past nine the next evening when they set out, walking once again along the Cadde-i Kebir. They stopped in briefly at a bar and had a brandy each. In contrast to the Corsican across the way, the publican who ran this place barely noticed them, so quiet they were and seated so far back in the shadows. They had dressed in dark nondescript clothing and Bell-Fairfax carried Ludbridge’s satchel, which was if anything heavier than it had been when they had gone out in the boat.
Braced, they walked on again. Bell-Fairfax looked nervously at the policeman standing sentry at the corner, for the street had been deserted on the previous occasion. Ludbridge, however, nodded to the man in silence, and received a silent nod in reply.
The side street was empty of any other waking soul. When they reached the door next to the blue one, Ludbridge put out his hand for the satchel. Opening it, he drew out the goggles and handed one pair to Bell-Fairfax. With an uneasy glance up the street at the policeman, who seemed to be paying them no attention, Bell-Fairfax donned the goggles. Ludbridge took out his case of lock picks and a moment later they were inside.
The empty room to the right now seemed lit with green phosphorescence, with red blobs along the baseboard where bold rats watched the intruders. Ludbridge pointed up the stairs and held his finger before his lips.
They climbed slowly, carefully, to the landing, and paused there to briefly inspect the planted transmitter. It was still in place. Ludbridge pointed upward again. They climbed on, up to the second landing, and rats scrambled out of their way like running coals. Walk as cautiously as they might, they could not walk in perfect silence; the upper steps groaned and creaked under their combined weight. “Damn,” whispered Ludbridge.
Onward, upward, and when they gained the third landing Ludbridge looked around. He spotted the ladder that led to a trap door in the ceiling.
“Out this way, I expect.” He gave an experimental tug on one of the rungs and then climbed to the trap door. After a moment’s brief inspection, he held out his hand.
“Oil, please.”
Bell-Fairfax rummaged in the satchel and brought out the penetrating oil. Ludbridge applied it to the trap’s hinges and, handing the vial back, pushed upward. Rather than opening smoothly, the whole affair tore loose from its hinges and broke into three or four rusted fragments, which Ludbridge pushed out of the way as well as he was able. Above him, stars glowed in a green sky, and cold air flowed down against his face, astonishingly fresh and sweet after the acrid musk of the abandoned house.
He pulled himself up and through, and reached down for the satchel. Bell-Fairfax passed it up and followed him up the ladder, inhaling in a long gasp when he emerged into the night. Ludbridge got cautiously to his feet. He walked to the low edge of wall that marked where the roof of the house next door began. Stepping over, he surveyed the premises. No trap door here; only a chimney.
As quietly as he might, he went to it and peered down into its black depths, which appeared as a green well with a flare of scarlet far down. A gust of warm air rose upward from it. The chimney was not a comfortingly solid brick one in the English fashion, but a circular thing of stuccoed stone, too narrow for a man of his girth; he doubted whether even Bell-Fairfax would fit.
Sighing, Ludbridge turned and lowered himself to lie flat, in order to peer over the edge of the roof at the rear wall of the house. Far below was the green gloom of an alley, fortunately deserted. There were three sets of windows going down the wall, two to a floor, and all of them shuttered.
Ludbridge sat up, nodding to himself. He turned to Bell-Fairfax, who was just sitting down beside him.
“Bit awkward, but it can be managed. How’s your head for heights?” he whispered.
“They don’t frighten me, sir.”
“Good. We’ll go down and in. Have to see how the shutters fasten. Where’s the bag?”
Bell-Fairfax offered it. Ludbridge withdrew a coil of mountaineering rope and, rising and walking to the chimney, fastened the rope around its base. He gave it a good tug to test it; then backed away a few paces. “Watch,” he told Bell-Fairfax, and fastened the other end of the rope around himself. “Like this.” Bell-Fairfax nodded.
Ludbridge rummaged in the satchel until he found what he wanted. It resembled a pistol with a leather strap-loop at one end. He slid the loop around his wrist and, taking hold of the rope, sat down on the roof’s edge. “You’ll lower the satchel after me. Then you’ll come down yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ludbridge turned and lowered himself, dangling a moment in the air befo
re letting himself down as far as the nearest window. He braced his feet against the windowsill. Bell-Fairfax peered over the edge to watch.
Ludbridge rotated the object on the leather strap into his hand, and turned a dial on its side. Then he pressed the part corresponding to a barrel along the inner frame of the shutter, and drew it back and forth slowly. He heard the faint rattle of a catch. A moment’s experimentation with the device—it was an old field tool called a Variable Magnet—and Ludbridge worked out where the catch must be. Turning the knob to increase the magnetic pull, he heard the click that meant the magnet had taken firm hold of the catch through the wood of the frame. Ludbridge worked it upward and suddenly the right-hand shutter swung open an inch.
Stepping from side to side, Ludbridge opened the shutters. There was no glass beyond them; instead Ludbridge saw a wooden lattice. A cursory examination revealed that it was only held in place with four glazier’s pins. He turned the dial once more, increasing the magnet’s pull to the maximum setting, and easily drew the four pins from the old wood. Before the lattice could go crashing inward he caught it on a crooked finger. Lowering it, he peered inside and saw an apparently empty room.
The next bit was tricky, for Ludbridge had to crouch on the windowsill as he leaned inward and set the lattice on the floor. Then he eased himself in over the sill and set the Variable Magnet on the floor beside the lattice. He was sweating as he straightened up and untied the rope. I’m getting past this, he thought to himself, as he tossed the end of the rope out the window. I hope the boy’s a quick study.
The rope was swiftly drawn up and a moment later lowered again, with the satchel tied to its end. Ludbridge caught it, untied it and sent the rope back up. Bell-Fairfax descended awkwardly. The frame of the window creaked with his weight. Ludbridge, meanwhile, had pulled a Collier’s revolver from the satchel.