In truth, I did need to use the facilities. I finished said business and then reached in my pocket for Nelson’s note. Surprised to see the name of my old adversary, my eyes raced down the page.
Commissioner Davenport,
My name is Jim Nelson, and I have served as Mr. Montague’s Babbage administrator and accountant for nearly two decades. While you likely don’t know me by name, I supply the city’s quarterly data to the Commonwealth. By the time you receive this note, I will be far from Addleton Heights.
I’ve made several attempts to contact the other members of the council, but those efforts have been thwarted. My every action is being scrutinized to the degree that I’m forced to resort to these clandestine measures. Please understand this is not a stunt or game—much is at stake for the people of the city (above and beneath). Please give special attention to pages 1 & 2 of these six reports to understand my meaning.
May God forgive my cowardice and delinquency in getting this to you. Please take heed.
Trusting you to do the right thing,
Jim H. Nelson
New Haven, Connecticut was the destination listed on the two dirigible tickets I’d pulled from Nelson’s pocket. There was a boarding time of 11:00 a.m. but no departure date, meaning the tickets were “open passes” that could be used on any day in January.
I reread the line, “By the time you receive this note, I will be far from Addleton Heights.”
If Jason O. had intended to accompany Nelson off Addleton Heights, he was trapped here and I’d be able to find him. With Montague’s tightening of security at the depot, ticketing staff would be on high alert for forged papers in hopes of a reward.
I reread the letter, struggling to recall the information I’d seen in the ledgers. What had been on pages one and two?
There was a sharp rap at the door. “Come on, Kipsey,” Hennemann’s voice boomed. “Time for you to do your service.”
After folding the note and tickets into the secret compartment of my hat, I opened the door. “I need to go back.” I pushed past the big man. “I have to look at something again in the study.”
Hennemann clamped down on my shoulder with the clockwork hand. “No time to go back in there. We’re leaving.”
I wrangled out of his vice-like grip. “I need to look at those ledgers just for a moment.”
“Yeah, well . . . let’s establish something right up front, like you may be the detective and all that, but I’m the decision maker in this crusade of ours. Everything goes through me, and Mr. Sawyer here has some important work that requires his attention, and I definitely didn’t see any Jason O. in the study. So you two either start going down those stairs to the front door or I throw you down, understand?”
This was absurd.
Sawyer shuffled through the vestibule and out the door. I followed but at a much slower pace, with Hennemann a few strides behind me. I suspected he lagged enough to draw his gun on us if the need arose.
The math of it was that he had his weapon plus Fitzpatrick’s, while I had nothing.
We traipsed through the falling snow to the bassel. With each step, I felt more and more like cattle herded to the slaughterhouse. Montague had threatened to kill me if I didn’t cooperate. Hennemann had threatened to kill me once I had. Neither of them would give me the information I needed to solve the case. Even if I could get free at street level, then what? No one would dare hide me from Alton Montague.
Sawyer shivered and moved stiffly as he entered the sky ferry. His thin lab coat offered little protection from the elements.
I took pity on him as I stepped inside. “Do you want to wear my coat? Now that we’re in here, I won’t need it.”
I began removing it as Hennemann entered the bassel. “Don’t do that. He’s fine.” He shoved the man down into a seat and then positioned himself in the back of the cab to have a clear view of both of us. “Shut the door, Kipsey, and pull the lever.”
I turned the lamplight brighter, did as I’d been told, and took a seat across from the tink. “Sorry,” I said to Sawyer.
The cherub-faced man across from me alternated between blowing into his hands and feverishly rubbing them together. “That’s very kind of you, Detective Kipsey, but I’ll be fine. The Chinese say that compassion gives birth to all the other virtues just as cooling rain makes the crops grow.” He angled his head slightly to the left, squinting intently at me. “How well do you know Chinese history?”
“Not much at all, I’m afraid.”
“One can learn a lot from history, and sometimes it echoes itself, giving clues to our future.”
“You two stop gumming, especially you, Sawyer.”
“The Chinese historian, Sima Qian—read him.”
“I said to shut up!” Hennemann stood up, causing the carrier to wobble due to the drastic redistribution of weight.
Sawyer cowered, offering a feeble, “I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “We’re done.”
Hennemann glowered a few seconds at us before returning to his seat.
I studied Sawyer’s face in the flickering lamplight as the bassel descended into the compound’s center tunnel. What was he trying to tell me? I fidgeted with the scrap of paper in my pocket. What would I find at the address he’d marked through for me? Obviously something Chinese. Obviously, Jason wasn’t a Chinese name, so how was that involved—or was it?
A few minutes later, the bassel slowed as it lowered to the sublevel of the compound. Sawyer arose, then abruptly stumbled to the floor of the coach. I believed it to be a clumsy accident until I felt him lift the cuff of my trouser leg and force something cold into my boot.
He was taking a big chance slipping me whatever it was. Hennemann would have no problem severely beating both of us.
As he helped himself up by grabbing my shoulders, he whispered, “Help me stop him.”
I didn’t dare respond. Hennemann was already on his feet again, sliding the door open. “Out you go, you clumsy twit. Kipsey, stay here for a minute.”
“I wish you the best on solving the case,” Sawyer said as he exited the bassel. Walking backward, he peered around Hennemann’s massive frame. “The real case, that is . . . Chinese history, that is.”
“I’m warning you for the last time, Sawyer,” Hennemann said, following him.
I sat down, waited a few seconds, and then slid my hand into my boot. Suspecting that I only had a minute or so before Hennemann returned, I examined the object Sawyer had stuck in there.
It was typical tinkware, meaning that I didn’t recognize what the component was and couldn’t fathom a purpose for it. The cold brass cylinder gleamed in the cradle of my palm like a small roll of coins. A series of indentions and small alternating square holes riddled it like half a flute. I traced my finger around the corkscrew middle of it.
Through the bassel’s windows, I could see Hennemann guide Sawyer to the guard stand with his hand at the man’s back. I could easily hear Hennemann’s baritone as well. “Here he is, Reggie. Telegraph Trudeau and tell him to fill up the carriage and start the boil.”
Reggie—probably Reginald, the man I’d come to know as the redheaded lumberjack—took Sawyer by the arm and escorted him to the large gunmetal-grey door. A few feet to the left of the door was an entrance to a curved hallway with an assortment of coats on pegs. Reggie unlocked the door and shoved Sawyer inside.
“Oh, and Reggie,” Hennemann said, “also have Trudy transcribe tonight’s guest list for the detective.”
As Hennemann made his way back to the bassel, I tucked the small brass cylinder into my inside vest pocket. I was quickly amassing a collection of items for this case. Unfortunately, each of them led me deeper into a twisted maze.
Hennemann slid the bassel door closed and snuffed out the light. As we started descending again, I asked, “What was that about? Why is Montague’s tink locked away?”
“That’s not what you saw,” Hennemann said, adjusting his bowl
er.
“The guard, Reggie, locked him up.”
“That’s Sawyer’s lab. The Montague compound is hardly what I would call a prison.”
“Well, technically, he’s under the compound, and I know what I saw.”
“Maybe what you saw was everyone else being locked out, have you considered that? He’s doing some very important work in there . . . secret project work.”
“Is that where Montague’s Babbage machines are?”
“Not in Sawyer’s area, but down the corridor next to his entrance. The guard locked the door because we can’t very well have this Jason person going after him, now, can we?”
The bassel increased in speed.
“I already established that Jason was never up here tonight.”
“Ah, yes, that you did,” Hennemann answered with no attempt at masking his disdain.
He’d responded to gossip before, so I asked, “What was Mr. Montague talking about with Sawyer? Something about someone named Marjorie? It seemed to shake up Sawyer pretty badly.”
Hennemann responded with a “Pfftt,” and then added, “Sawyer’s a nutter. He’s a good tink—a great one, in fact—but I think only having his inventions to keep him company has unhinged the man. Many of his inventions involve harnessing the power of the mind. You can’t mess around with that stuff and not be affected in some way yourself. Take some advice. After all this is over, don’t get too cozy with that one if you know what’s good for you.”
Hennemann leaned forward and spoke in a genuine tone. “Let me ask you something . . . If someone saved your neck from the gallows, wouldn’t you show a little gratitude?”
I thought of how I’d been enticed to “work” for Montague but kept my mouth shut on that point for a change. “He was to be hanged. For what?”
He made the shape of a pistol with his hand and mock fired at me. “Shot a man dead in New York.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Why did he do that? You don’t think he had anything to do with Fitzpatrick and Nelson, do you?”
“Nah, Nelson would never have spoken with him. See, Sawyer doesn’t get out much.”
I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or not.
“Who’d he kill in New York?”
“Well, that’s the thing of it. He claims some rival inventor in New Jersey set him up so he could take credit for his work and steal his designs.”
“Who?”
He rubbed his forehead with his real hand. “I don’t remember now.”
“Is there any truth to it?”
“Could be. Even though he’s crazier than an outhouse cat, his ideas are revolutionary.”
“Then how come no one’s ever heard of him?”
“He’s in hiding, you squab—under Mr. Montague’s protection,” he said.
“Well, what are some of his brainwave inventions?”
“You’ll see in time, if you’re lucky.”
“Who’s Marjorie?” I asked.
“I can assure you, she’s not involved. She’s never even been to Addleton Heights.”
“Why, then, did Mr. Montague—”
“Let it go, Kipsey. It has nothing to do with the case.”
Hennemann stood and pulled the bassel lever, causing the transport to slow to a soft stop. We dangled a little less than halfway between the underside of the compound and street level.
He pointed out the window at the city far below us. It appeared tiny, as if the entire populace could be folded up into two hands. “What do you see out there, Mr. Kipsey?”
I stood in an effort to appease him, hoping to resume our descent and my getaway. “Flickering lights, buildings, homes—the municipal sector?”
“You know what I see? I see a city that has a vast potential but is reliant on other entities to keep it going.”
“Do you mean the scrapes in the Under?”
“They’re just a small part of it. They shovel the coal to power the city, but we’re dependent upon those from mainland states to supply the coal to the Under. We aren’t self-sufficient. Doesn’t that bother you?”
I couldn’t have been less interested, but I humored him. At least he was talking. “What about wind power? We have plenty of wind, and it’s free.”
Hennemann nodded like a teacher to a pupil who’d gotten an equation partially correct. “Mr. Montague says wind power can only offer so much. But wouldn’t it be better to have more schools or hospitals or bigger greenhouses for food instead of forfeiting space for large windmills and their bases? In case you hadn’t noticed, we only have so much space on the platform of Addleton Heights.”
He spoke softly, as if there was someone else in the sky ferry with us and he only wanted me to hear. “But what if there was something as free as the wind . . . something that could be boxed up, used and reused, and even sold to the countries down below? That would really be something.”
I stared at him, uncertain how much of this drivel was his and how many of these sentiments he’d simply regurgitated from Montague.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I answered, “nor am I sure I want to.”
By the red glow of his Charon eye scope, I saw his mouth form into a snarl. “Look, I get it. You’re young . . . full of piss and vinegar and all that. You make your snide comments, dodge your duty, but you’ve got to change, got to smarten up to survive. Mr. Montague is offering you the opportunity to right your name, to restore yourself to a place of honor. The question is if you’ll allow him to help you transform into the man you can become or if you are captive to your own ingrained behaviors.”
“Transform into the man I can become, huh?” I parroted back at him.
He scowled as he pointed his finger at me. “I had me a dog once. I did my best to housetrain the little beast for a long time. I beat that mongrel every time he’d shit inside. He could never get it, he never changed his behavior. No matter how many times I struck him, he’d just look at me with sad, stupid eyes and do it again. You remind me of him.”
I took my seat. “Great story, Hennemann. What kind of dog?”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”
He reengaged the bassel and sat down in the seat farthest from mine. “When you were first brought in, Mr. Montague had hoped you’d be able to fill the vacancy left by Fitz.”
Whoa, this was new.
“He wants me to watch you work to determine if you’d be a good match within the organization.” He shook his head in disgust. “But I don’t think you have what it takes.”
I remembered Montague’s statement, how they “needed me.” “Are you sure that was it and not how he wanted someone to locate Jason O. for him without filing a police report? It’s remarkably convenient for Montague that I can’t really say anything to Davenport, given my history with him. The commissioner would as soon lock me away as visit with me.”
Remembering Nelson’s note, I tried a play. “You know, because a police report might make it to Commissioner Davenport’s office.”
He didn’t take the bait. In fact, he didn’t flinch at all.
“You’re certainly a cynical man for your age, Mr. Kipsey.”
“Maybe I am, maybe not. Anyway, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About me filling Fitzpatrick’s position.” Maybe he’d be more forthcoming if he saw me as a true partner—as a bonafide member of the team, if I played it right. I could exploit that.
“Like I said, you remind me of that dog I put down, and I think you deserve a death sentence for roughing up an old man in a wheelchair.”
I decided to let it go.
Ten
Trudeau rushed up to greet us even before the bassel came to a complete stop. As we emerged from the carrier, he handed me two sheets of folded vellum.
As bright as the moonlight was, it was still too dark to read any of it. “Are these tonight’s guests?”
“Yes, Detective, and what time they arrived and left.”
“Did
you notice anyone named Jason on the list?”
“No . . .” His voice wavered. “Was I supposed to be looking for someone?”
“Do you yourself know anyone named Jason or Jay?”
Hennemann waved him off. “It’s all right, Trudy. Do me a favor and forget that Detective Kipsey ever mentioned that name.”
“Of course, sir, but I don’t know no Jasons.”
As we walked, Trudeau added, “I filled the water tank like you asked. Pressure should be built up and ready to go.”
“Good man, good man,” Hennemann said.
Descending the slab of the landing platform, I noticed that only four of the twelve crates remained. Knowing that Hennemann would undoubtedly give me a pat answer as before, I let the observation go.
I waved the papers at Trudeau as we made our way to the carriage. “Thanks for this.”
“Of course, sir. Happy to oblige. “
Trudeau trotted ahead and opened the doors of the vehicle for us. I took my seat next to Hennemann as the guard secured my door and nodded before scampering back to his post.
As Hennemann went through the carriage’s startup sequence, I said, “We should go by Fitzpatrick’s place first, since it’s closer.”
“No, we go to Nelson’s. There’s nothing to see at Fitz’s place.”
“Really? And how are you so certain? Is that why you didn’t get the keys from his body?”
“I know it because I’ve been there. Tony knew nothing about any Jason.”
“Did you go by there before you came to get me? Is that how you already knew the address?”
Hennemann didn’t answer.
“So you did go by there. What did you find?”
Even over the gurgling sputters of the steam carriage, I heard his exasperated sigh. “He was my flat mate, all right? I lived with him. We were assigned the same quarters about four or five months ago. That’s how I know there’s no connection between him and Jason. He would’ve told me if there was. I was his boss.”
“Wait, what?” I scoffed and shook my head in disbelief. “You were his boss, and you lived with him?” I paused and reclassified all I knew about the case thus far.
Addleton Heights Page 8