by David Luchuk
Even so, the simplicity of the answer left me feeling that Mr. Pinkerton was probably right. This case is about more than a bank teller being killed. It cannot just be a matter of emptying a vault to erase a debt. Not this time.
I am trying to piece it together but, since I arrived, I have felt more tired than I can ever remember. I can barely keep my eyes open but cannot sleep. When I sleep, my dreams are unspeakable apparitions. I would rather stay awake.
My thinking has become so scattered. I try to focus. The only topic that holds my attention is the grisly murder itself. A grim notion has settled on my mind: if I do not solve the murder, I will die here.
I am glad to have Robert’s sound recorder. In this state, I cannot keep track of written notes. This will serve as a case record.
To that end, it should be noted that I have decided to accept a rather unusual suggestion from my clients. I feel such an urgency to bring this investigation to a close that I am prepared to try anything.
Gordon and Bannan believe I ought to prey on the fragile psyche of our suspect, Nate Drysdale. They tell me that he suffers from chronic instability of the mind. Drysdale claims not to recognize his own wife, for example. They live under the same roof but he treats her like a stranger. That is one of his quirks. Gordon and Bannan claim he is one step from the sanatorium.
I will taunt him, therefore, with the specter of his victim. I will drive the suspect to expose himself in some way. How could he not? Nate Drysdale was George Gordon’s best friend. Tonight, I will haunt the Drysdale home wearing the same clothes in which poor George Gordon was killed.
Before leaving, there is one more item of note. Someone broke into this apartment last night. It was late, the very middle of the night, but I heard her. When I sat up in bed, I heard the voice. It was the same one whispering at me after the nightmares. Someone was in here with me. I could not see them but I was certainly not alone.
I have decided to hide Robert’s audio device and let it record while I am away tonight. If she comes back, it will capture the sound. Maybe if I learn who has been hissing at me in the dark, I will finally be able to get some sleep.
* * *
Robert Pinkerton
November, 1861
I do not give my father enough credit. He is a stodgy old muskrat from another age but, now and again, he does something to remind me; Papa is no easy mark.
He is an immigrant, like so many. Uprooted while practically a boy, he invented himself here in America out of nothing. For a man like that, the opportunity to advise a President during wartime must have seemed like a validation of his whole life.
Not for Papa. He is too much himself, always expecting things to flip sideways and upside down, always wary of a knife at his back. President Lincoln asked him to join a committee of his closest advisors. What did my father do? He lied to them all.
He told Lincoln we were done with Kate Warne. Papa washed his hands of her, handed her over to the mercy of jackals like Lafayette Baker, and in doing so turned us into Union spies. Little did Lincoln, or anyone else in that room, know that our Agency’s only actual resource in the south was Kate Warne herself.
I happened to know that Ernie Stark was down there as well, but it was a bit optimistic to call him a resource. Stark was on the trail of a freed slave named Ray who was kidnapped by William Hunt. Good for Stark.
I sent him some equipment and a bit of money. I also included a note, asking him to follow up with Kate once his search for Ray had run its course. There is no telling what Stark will do. He may not even read the note. As I said, it is an exaggeration to call him a resource.
I chose not to tell Papa that Stark was in the south. It seemed better, in so many ways, to keep that bit of information to myself. Maybe I have learned something from the old man after all.
While my father was meeting with President Lincoln at the White House, I had the rather unusual privilege of eavesdropping on the exchange. I accompanied Papa to Washington because the only man I believed could fix my broken body was Dr. Lowe.
After Kate lifted me out of the fight at Bull Run, my body was a shambles. Luckily, no hospital in the world offered the kind of treatment Dr. Lowe practiced aboard the Protocol.
His business is inventions. Many of his devices found their way into my case work for the Agency, such as the audio recorder I used in the Schulte case. Dr. Lowe was intrigued by a black market version of the recorder. His engineers made fast work improving the clumsy design. Their updated model is smaller. Wax discs are sealed in a container that resembles a box of cigars. The discs are thin. Stacked, one on top of the next, they are engraved with a thin jet of steam. The assembly allows for sound to be etched on several discs at once. Distinct segments can be transferred from one to another.
These new devices are perfect for us now that we are spies. On my suggestion, prototypes were forwarded to Kate and Papa as well as to Stark in secret. It seems a good time to test them in the field.
Despite these innovations, the Protocol is more than just an engineering workshop. Many types of scientists work for Dr. Lowe. Families with children live on board. The need for medical treatment is an everyday matter.
My injuries were severe. Doctors in Chicago thought I would never walk without crutches. The hand that deflected Kennedy’s pistol ball was to lose its dexterity. Cracked bones under my eye, where the pistol shot hit, would leave me mildly disfigured. Those were their words: mildly disfigured. I was eager for a second opinion. The professor jumped at the chance to tinker with a willing patient.
As it turned out, surrendering to Dr. Lowe was the best decision I ever made. Anyone who believes a human being is something more than a complicated machine needs to be strapped to his operating table.
In a hospital, doctors stand very close to their patients. They lean down to bring squinting eyes and quivering instruments near a failing body. It is intimate and imperfect. The situation is just the opposite aboard the Protocol.
Scientists are far away, high above the patient on a platform near the ceiling of the surgical module. Similar to a viewport on a dirigible, doctors manipulate overlapping sets of lenses to bring images of a patient’s body into clear focus. Aligned in different sizes and shapes, they achieve astonishing feats of amplification.
Surgical tools occupy even more space than the lenses. They harness enormous power yet deliver it on a tiny scale. Dr. Lowe believes the function of any large machine can be replicated in smaller devices so long as scaling is done in increments.
A piston engine is mounted near the ceiling. It is connected to a control panel on the platform with a sight line angled down through the imaging lenses. Racks of cogs and pinions are overlaid with smaller combinations of pulleys and crank rods. These tie to blades and needle points that fold and combine in different shapes close to the patient’s body. Finally, they end in pinpoint tools barely visible to the naked eye.
From the operating table, I watched a set of pincers no larger than the legs of a fly descended toward my broken face. Tendrils slipped under my skin. I felt no pain. The pincers took hold to steady my skull. I felt that part. Larger implements then crawled down the metalwork cone like insects.
“Hold still,” Dr. Lowe said from above, perhaps making a joke.
The procedures took several hours. To pass the time, we listened in on my father’s meeting with President Lincoln.
After redesigning my audio recorder, Dr. Lowe advanced the science of sound transmission several steps just by tinkering with the equipment. What interested him was the fact that air made such a poor conduit. He scoffed at the effort required to create a vacuum inside the tubes and became convinced that
water would be more efficient. So long as constant pressure was maintained, sound could travel great distances.
Dr. Lowe thought such a tool would be useful for soldiers in battle. He built a device and arranged through Harry Vinton to demonstrate it. President Lincoln refused to deploy a steam arsenal against the Confederacy. Even so, using better technology to coordinate the military effort was of keen interest to him, especially after Bull Run.
What Dr. Lowe did not tell the President was that he designed the equipment to transmit sound in both directions. I was pinned to the operating table. The Protocol hovered over the White House. From those positions, we listened to President Lincoln confer with his wartime advisors.
The White House event was vintage Harry Vinton in its pomp if not its guest list. Every rung on the social ladder was present. Rich men squeezing lawmakers for favours brushed with machinists dragging crude inventions in tow. As was the custom, guests stole keepsakes from the White House. It was the sort of thing that makes my father furious.
Papa believes America’s government is the most important innovation in the history of politics. Yet Americans as a people manage to be unworthy of their own creation. The White House is being carried away in the pockets of its people.
Entering the building for the first time, my father said he was struck by its poor condition. Carpets were mangled. Floorboards groaned. Mrs. Lincoln did her best but the overall impression remained: an unloved home.
Only the East Room was true to its high function. Walls were papered in rich red and bronze. Cornices above the doorways accented stencils on the ceiling. These connected to sculpted plaster medallions holding a row of chandeliers in place.
Papa met Lincoln and his advisors in an office connected to the East Room. Transmitters from the Protocol snaked through an open window. The men expected to hear from Dr. Lowe in the course of their meeting. They did not know we were listening.
Dr. Lowe retained this excerpt as part of his test of the two-way broadcast. Along with Papa there was Lincoln, newly appointed army commander General McClellan, and security chief Lafayette Baker. Papa was the first to speak:
“We are finished with Kate Warne.”
“Fine.”
That was our President. He would not say two words if one would suffice. Lafayette Baker was more forthcoming.
“Warne has left Chicago. She is moving south. The fugitive will not get far.”
Baker was already tracking Kate. There was no telling what other things he knew.
General McClellan cut in. He took charge of the military after the defeat at Bull Run. McClellan was young. He won a minor skirmish near the western frontier but not much else. The press loved him.
“You chase that girl, Baker, if it makes you happy. Stringing her up won’t change a thing. We all want the same, Mr. President: to march the army into Richmond and beat the southerners brains in. I got bad news. Our boys ain’t ready. They need training. The troops need to drill until they hold their lines in a flack storm without thinking twice.”
“How long, General?”
“We have to get them into formation and see what they can do.”
Lincoln was not happy. For a moment, it seemed McClellan might be the shortest serving General in U.S. history. Lafayette Baker broke the silence.
“Training them in Washington would be a good start. It might give them something to do, at least.”
“How so?”
“Your naval blockade snared a flotilla of slave ships that cannot find safe harbor in the south, Mr. President. More boats arrive every day. We either bring them north or let the slaves drown when the ship captains cut and run.”
“We will not allow them to drown.”
“Of course not. They must come north. It will be easiest to take them off the open water and move them using the canals. General McClellan’s forces can secure the route.”
“My soldiers are not security guards!”
“They are not your soldiers, General.”
Everyone started talking at once. One of them knocked Dr. Lowe’s audio device off the table. It was confusion. My father did not say a word, was likely trying to size up Lafayette Baker. Lincoln brought the men to order.
“Enough. Train the army, General. See to it the slaves are received in Washington then prepare to march south. Baker: take Kate Warne into custody. Pinkerton: see to it there is no rebel mischief on the canal route.”
Orders were given. The President did not have to say another word. So he didn’t. Dr. Lowe chose this moment to transmit his message:
Mr. President. I trust you are in position. It is my pleasure to send the first voice transmission ever broadcast from an airborne station. I am indebted to you for this opportunity to demonstrate what science can achieve in the service of our great nation.
The room was stunned to silence. Lincoln was impressed. He invited Dr. Lowe to explore how the equipment could be used on the battlefield. The President also asked a favour. He wanted the Protocol to fly over the canal route to Washington and report any activity that seemed unusual.
Lincoln was determined to bring the flotilla of slave ships north. To him, it was precious evidence that his naval blockade was disrupting the southern way of life. He took every precaution to make sure the passage was safe.
Dr. Lowe agreed. He thanked President Lincoln for trusting him with the task.
The Protocol drifted away from Washington. I was recovering from the operation, feeling about as bad as I did when Kate dragged me off the turf at Bull Run. I certainly did not relish the idea of skirmishing with Confederate forces in this state.
“Never fear, Robert. There will be no soldiers on the canal.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because the south wants to separate, not invade. If there is any danger in bringing those slaves north, it will not come from the Confederate army.”
“Why fly over the canals at all then? We should have a look at that flotilla.”
Dr. Lowe clapped his hands together.
“We will. But first, this is an opportunity to fly into no-man’s land between the warring armies. It is the perfect time to test one of our new weapon systems.”
“Test it on what?”
“A railway company’s dirigible malfunctioned somewhere out there. It has been circling in aimless flight without a pilot since the battle at Bull Run. The company can’t seem to bring it in so we’re going to bring it down.”
“What? Over Bull Run, you say? Is it a PWB dirigible?”
I tried to sit up in my gurney. It had not even occurred to me that the dirigible I flew to the battle might still be in the air.
“Yes, my boy. Settle down. You will undo all our fine work.”
I put my head back down. The outburst clearly got the professor’s attention.
“How in the blazes did you know the dirigible belonged to PWB?”
* * *
Ernie Stark
November, 1861
Hello, Robert. So you found me. Out here in the wilds, where only madmen roam, it is as deep as it gets. Yet as soon as I arrived in Shreveport, there was a parcel waiting at the station. From you.
I’m glad to have the money. Not sure what to do about the rest. This idiotic sound box is of little use. I am only using it now so that I can tell you one thing.
We both know that you are no detective. Yet you reached into the middle of nowhere and tapped me on the shoulder. How can that be?
I will tell you how. You read my sealed case files, Robert. That is what I want to tell you. I caught you. I am going to make you pay for it.
If I make it back alive.
Whoof.
I need a break.
Digging graves was easier when Ray was with me. He did most of the work. The Appalachian corridor is as rough as I remember. I promised Webster the day Ray and I buried him out here, the day William Hunt crushed his chest, that I would not leave him in this wild terrain.
A man keeps his promises. So here I am. While I dig this body out of ground, and decide what to do with it, I suppose it won’t do any harm for us to have a chat.
I read your note, Robert. You damned idiot. That bank owner in Wilmington did not call on the Agency to solve a murder. Your father should have left the case alone. Did it not seem odd that the letter arrived in the middle of so much trouble? Clients were abandoning the Agency. Your father was at his weakest yet this plum assignment falls out of the sky. None of that caught your eye?
No. You were too busy trying to keep Kate Warne from facing those treason charges, trying to keep her safe. She is a blind spot for both you and your father. Well, you both failed. She is not safe.
I wish you were here right now. You could pick up a shovel and do some of this digging, for one thing. You could also tell me what I am supposed to do with a pocket full of loose bills, an audio recorder and your stupid idea. Travel to Wilmington and pose as Kate Warne’s husband? Ridiculous.
Who ever heard of a man sending his wife alone to strange city to buy property? Did you expect that story to fool anyone? Did you think it would save her? No. I am not running to Wilmington.
You left Ray to his own devices. Kate Warne deserves no better. I am going to finish digging Webster up and then ...
I have an idea, Robert. How about this? Once I’ve got old Webster up here, I'll ask him what I should do. He was a good detective. He will see the truth of things.
There was no murder in Wilmington, Robert. George Gordon was killed but it was not murder. It was a sacrifice. You would see this if you understood the south. To you, the south always boils down to slaves instead of machines. Well, it is not as tidy as you think.