A reasonably restful night, a hearty breakfast, and strong coffee might have put some distance between the Englishmen and Benjamin Morris’ murder—had the waiter in the dining room not seated them at the table where they’d spoken with him at supper. Dr. Walton kept looking around as if expecting the attorney to walk in again. Barring an unanticipated Judgment Trump, that seemed unlikely.
“How do you suppose we could reach the Preacher now?” Walton asked. “He surely won’t be at that House any more.”
“I’ll inquire at the closest House of Universal Devotion,” Helms answered. “Whether unofficially and informally or not, the preacher there should be able to reach him.”
Before the detective and his companion could leave the hotel, a policeman handed Helms an envelope. “The post-mortem on Mr. Morris, sir,” he said.
“I thank you.” Athelstan Helms broke the seal on the envelope. “Let’s see. . . . Two jacketed slugs through the heart, and another through the right lung. Death by rapid exsanguination.”
“Rapid? Upon my word, yes! I should say so!” Dr. Walton shook his head. “With wounds like those, he’d go down like Bob’s your uncle. With two in the heart and one in the lung, an elephant would.”
“Jacketed bullets . . .” Helms turned as if to ask something of the policeman who’d brought the report, but that worthy had already departed.
“Even so, Helms,” Walton said. “Granted, they don’t mushroom like your ordinary slug of soft lead, but they’ll do the job more than well enough, especially in vital spots like that. And they foul the bore much less than a soft slug would.”
“I am not ignorant of the advantages,” Helms said with a touch of asperity. “I merely wished to enquire . . . Well, never mind.” He gathered himself and set his cap on his head. “To the House of Universal Devotion.”
The preacher looked at Helms and Walton in something approaching astonishment. “How extraordinary!” he said. “In the past half hour, I’ve heard from the Preacher, the police, and now you gentlemen.”
“What did the Preacher want?” Helms asked.
“Why, I didn’t see him. But I have a message from him to you if you came to call.”
“And the police?” Walton inquired.
“They wanted to know if I’d heard from the Preacher.” The young man in charge of the local House sniffed. “I denied it, of course. None of their business.”
“They might have roughed you up a bit,” Walton said. They might have done a good deal worse than that. Whatever one thought of the House of Universal Devotion’s theology, the loyalty it evoked could not be ignored.
This particular preacher was thin and pale, certainly none too prepossessing. Nevertheless, when he gathered himself and said, “The tree of faith is nourished by the blood of martyrs, which is its natural manure,” he made the good doctor believe him.
“And the message from the Preacher was. . . ?” Athelstan Helms prompted.
“That he is innocent in every particular of this latest horrific crime. That it is but another example of the sort of thing of which he spoke to you in person—you will know what that means, no doubt. That an investigation is bound to establish the facts. That those facts, once established, will rock not only Atlantis but the world.”
“He doesn’t think small!” Walton exclaimed. “Not half, he doesn’t.”
“If he thought small, he would not have achieved the success that has already been his,” Helms said, and then, to the preacher, “Do you know his current whereabouts?”
“No, sir. What I don’t know, they can’t interrogate out of me, like. And I never saw the fellow who gave me the message before, either. But it’s a true message, isn’t it?”
“I believe so, yes,” Helms replied.
“I believe the Preacher would make a first-rate spymaster had he chosen to try his hand at that instead of founding a religion,” Dr. Walton said. “He has the principles down pat.”
“Do you believe him?” the young preacher asked anxiously.
“Well, that remains to be seen,” Helms said. “Such assertions as he has made are all the better for proof, but I can see how he is in a poor position to offer any. My investigations continue, and in the end, I trust, they will be crowned with success.”
“They commonly are,” Walton added with more than a hint of smugness.
Athelstan Helms allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. “Those who fail are seldom chronicled—the mobile vulgus clamors after success, and nothing less will do. A pity, that, when failure so often proves more instructive.”
“My failure to publish accounts of your failures has been more instructive than I wish it were,” Walton said feelingly.
“Let us hope that will not be the case here, then,” Helms said. “Onward!—the plot thickens.”
Dr. Walton was not particularly surprised to discover Sergeant Karpinski standing on the sidewalk outside the House of Universal Devotion. “We went in there, too,” Karpinski said. “We didn’t find anything worth knowing. You?”
“Our investigation continues.” Helms’ voice was bland. “When we have conclusions to impart, you may rest assured that you will be among the first to hear them.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” the sergeant asked.
“What it says,” the detective replied. “Not a word more; not a word less.”
“If you think you can go poking your nose into our affairs, sir, without so much as a by-your-leave—”
“If Mr. Helms believes that, Sergeant, he’s bloody well right,” Dr. Walton broke in. “He—and I—are in your hole of a town, in your hole of a country, at the express invitation of Inspector La Strada. Without it, believe me, we should never have come. But we will thank you not to interfere with our performing our duties in the manner we see fit. Good day.”
Sergeant Karpinski’s countenance was eloquent of discontent. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then, shaking his head, walked off with whatever answer he might have given still suppressed.
“Pigheaded Polack,” Walton muttered.
“You did not endear yourself to him,” Helms said. “The unvarnished truth is seldom palatable—though I doubt whether any varnish would have made your comments appetizing.”
“Too bad,” the good doctor said, and, if an intensifying participle found its way into his diction, it need not be recorded here.
“I wonder what La Strada will say when word of this gets back to him, as it surely will,” Helms remarked.
“The worst he can do is expel us, in which case I shall say, ‘Thank you,’” Dr. Watson answered.
“I hope that is the worst he can do to us,” Helms said.
“He cannot claim we shot Benjamin Morris—we have witnesses to the contrary,” Walton said. “Neither can he claim we shot any of the others whom he alleges the House of Universal Devotion slew—we were safely back in England then. And the sooner we are safely back in England once more, the happier I shall be. Of that you may rest assured.”
“I begin to feel the same way,” Helms replied. “Nevertheless, we are here, and we must persevere. Onward, I say!”
Their course intersected with that of the police on several more occasions. Thetford’s self-declared finest eyed them as if they were vultures at a feast. “I do believe we shall be hard-pressed to come by any further information from official sources,” Helms said.
“Brilliant deduction!” Dr. Walton said. One of Athelstan Helms’ elegant eyebrows rose. Surely the good doctor could not be displaying an ironical side? Surely not. . . .
Gun shops flourished in Thetford. They sold all manner of shotguns and rifles for hunting. That made a certain amount of sense to Walton; the countryside surrounding the city was far wilder than any English woods. Despite the almost certain extinction of honkers, other native birds still thrived there, as did turkeys imported from Terranova and deer and wild boar and foxes brought across the sea from the British Isles and Europe.
The gun shops a
lso sold an even greater profusion of pistols: everything from a derringer small enough to be concealed in a fancy belt buckle to pistols that Dr. Walton, a large, solidly made man, would not have cared to fire two-handed, let alone with only one. “Something like that,” he said, pointing to one in the window, “you’re better off clouting the other bloke in the head with it. That’d put the quietus on him, by Jove!”
“I daresay,” Helms replied, and then surprised his friend by going into the shop.
“Help you with something?” asked the proprietor, a wizened little man in a green eyeshade who looked more like a pawnbroker than the bluff, hearty sort one might expect to run such an establishment.
“If you would be so kind,” Helms said. “I’d like to see a police pistol, if you please.”
“A .465 Manstopper?” the proprietor said. Walton thought the pistol had an alarmingly forthright name. The man produced one: a sturdy revolver, if not quite so gargantuan as some of the weapons civilians here seemed to carry.
Athelstan Helms broke it down and reassembled it with a practiced ease that made the proprietor eye him with more respect than he’d shown hitherto. “A well-made weapon, sure enough,” Helms said. “The action seems a bit stiff, but only a bit. And the ammunition?”
“How keen on getting rid of fouling are you?” the gunshop owner asked.
“When necessary, of course,” Helms replied. “I am not averse to reducing the necessity as much as possible.”
“Sensible fellow.” The proprietor produced a gaudily printed cardboard box holding twenty-five rounds. “These are the cartridges the police use. Sell you this and the pistol for thirteen eagles twenty-five cents.”
Dr. Walton expected Helms to decline, perhaps with scorn. Instead, the detective took from his pocket a medium-sized gold coin, three large silver ones, and one medium-sized silver one. “Here you are, and I thank you very much.”
“Thank you.” The proprietor stowed the money in a cash box. “You’ll get good use from that pistol, if you ever need it.”
“Oh, I expect I shall,” Athelstan Helms replied. “Yes, I expect I shall.”
“I say, Helms—this is extraordinary. Most extraordinary. Not your usual way of doing business at all,” Dr. Walton said, more than a little disapproval in his voice.
“Really?” Helms said. “How is it different?”
Walton opened his mouth for a blistering reply, then shut it again. When he did speak, it was in accusing tones: “You’re having me on.”
“Am I?” Helms might have been innocence personified but for the hint of a twinkle in his eye and but for the setting: a large lecture hall at Bronvard University, the oldest in Atlantis, a few miles outside of Hanover. The hall was packed with reporters from the capital and from other Atlantean towns with newspapers that maintained bureaus there. Rain poured down outside. The air smelled of wool from the reporters’ suits and of the cheap tobacco they smoked in extravagant quantities.
In the middle of the mob of newspapermen sat Inspector La Strada. He stared ruefully at the remains of his bumbershoot, which had blown inside out. Water dripped from the end of his nose; he resembled nothing so much as a drowned ferret.
“Shall we get on with it?” Walton inquired. At Helms’ nod, the good doctor took his place behind the lectern more commonly used for disquisitions on chemistry, perhaps, or on the uses of the ablative absolute in Latin. “Gentlemen of the press, I have the high honor and distinct privilege of presenting to you the greatest detective of the modern age, my colleague and, I am lucky enough to say, my particular friend, Mr. Athelstan Helms. He will discuss with you the results of his investigations into the murders of certain opponents of the House of Universal Devotion and of Mr. Samuel Jones, otherwise known as the Preacher, and especially of his investigation into the untimely demise of Mr. Benjamin Morris in Thetford not long ago. Helms?”
“Thank you, Dr. Walton.” Helms replaced his fellow Englishman behind the lectern. “I should like to make some prefatory remarks before explicating the solution I believe to be true. First and foremost, I should like to state for the record that I am not now a member of the House of Universal Devotion, nor have I ever been. I consider the House’s theology to be erroneous, improbable, and misguided in every particular. Only in a land where democracy flourishes to the point of making every man’s judgment as good as another’s, wisdom, knowledge, and experience notwithstanding, could such an abortion of a cult come into being and, worse, thrive.”
The reporters scribbled furiously. Some of them seemed to gather that he had cast aspersions on the United States of Atlantis. Despite any aspersions, Inspector La Strada sat there smiling as he dripped. Several hands flew into the air. Other reporters neglected even that minimal politeness, bawling out Helms’ name and their questions.
“Gentlemen, please,” Helms said several times. When that failed, he shouted, “Enough!” in a voice of startling volume. By chance or by design, the acoustics of the hall favored him over the reporters. Having won something resembling silence except for being rather louder, he went on, “I shall respond to your queries in due course, I promise. For now, please let me proceed. Perhaps more questions will occur to you as I do.”
Dr. Walton knew he would have been ruder than that. To the good doctor, the reporters were nothing but a yapping pack of provincial pests. To Athelstan Helms, almost all of mankind fell into that category, Atlanteans hardly more than Englishmen.
“It seemed obvious from the beginning that the House of Universal Devotion was behind the recent campaign of extermination against its critics,” Helms said. “There can be no doubt that the House has responded strongly in the past to any and all efforts to call it to account for its doctrinal and social peculiarities. Thus a simple, obvious solution presented itself—one obvious enough to draw the notice of police officials in Hanover and other Atlantean cities.”
He got a small laugh from the assembled gentlemen of the press. Inspector La Strada laughed, too. Why not? Despite sarcasm, Helms had declared the solution the police favored to be the simple and obvious one. Was that not the same as saying it was true?
It was not, as Helms proceeded to make clear: “Almost every puzzle has a solution that is simple and obvious—simple and obvious and, unfortunately, altogether wrong. Such appears to me to be the case here. As best I have been able to determine, there is no large-scale conspiracy on the part of the House of Universal Devotion to rid the world of its critics—and a good thing, too, or the world would soon become an empty and echoing place.”
“Well, how come those bastards are dead, then?” a reporter shouted, careless of anything resembling rules of procedure. Inspector La Strada, Dr. Walton noted, was no longer smiling or laughing.
“Please note that I did not say there was no conspiracy,” Athelstan Helms replied. “I merely said there was none on the part of the House of Universal Devotion. Whether there was one against the said House is, I regret to report, an altogether different question, with an altogether different answer.”
Walton saw that keeping the proceedings orderly would be anything but easy. Some of the reporters still seemed eager and attentive, but others looked angry, even hostile. As for La Strada, his countenance would have had to lighten considerably for either of those adjectives to apply. As a medical man, Dr. Walton feared the police official was on the point of suffering an apoplexy.
Impassive as if he were being greeted with enthusiasm and applause, Athelstan Helms continued, “To take the particular case of Mr. Benjamin Morris, his killer was in fact not an outraged member of the House of Universal Devotion, but rather one Sergeant Casimir Karpinski of the Thetford Police Department.”
Pandemonium. Chaos. Shouted questions and raised hands. A fistfight in the back rows. One question came often enough to stay clear through the din: “How the devil d’you know that?”
“My suspicions were kindled,” Helms said—several times, each louder than the last, until his voice finally prevailed—“My sus
picions were kindled, I say, when Karpinski repaired to the scene of the crime with astounding celerity, and also smelling strongly of black-powder smoke, such being the propellant with which the caliber .465 Manstopper is charged. The Manstopper is the Thetford Police Department’s preferred arm, and the late Mr. Morris was slain with copper-jacketed bullets, which the police department also uses. But the odor of powder was what truly made me begin to contemplate this unfortunate possibility. The nose is sadly underestimated in detection.” He tapped his own bladelike proboscis.
“Sounds pretty goddamn thin to me!” a reporter called. Others shouted agreement. “You have any real evidence besides the big nose you’re sticking into our affairs?” The gentlemen of the press and Inspector La Strada nodded vigorously.
“I do,” Helms said, calmly still. “Dr. Walton, if you would be so kind . . . ?”
“Certainly.” Walton hurried over to the door through which he and his colleague had entered the hall and said, “Bring him in now, if you please.”
In came Sergeant Karpinski, a glum expression on his unshaven face, his hands chained together behind him. His escorts were two men even larger and burlier than he was himself: not police officers, but men who styled themselves detectives, though what they did for a living was considerably different from Athelstan Helms’ definition of the art.
“Here is Casimir Karpinski,” Helms said. “He will tell you for himself whether my deductions have merit.”
“I killed Benjamin Morris,” Karpinski said. “I’m damned if I’d tell you so unless this bastard had the goods on me, but he does, worse luck. I did it, and I’m not real sorry, either. The House of Universal Devotion needs taking down, and this was a way to do it. Or it would have been, if he hadn’t started poking around.”
A hush settled over the lecture hall as the reporters slowly realized this was no humbug. They scribbled furiously. “Why do you think the House needs taking down?” Helms asked.
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