Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  “Kipsey, you coward, I’m ordering you to go to that window for us!”

  “I need a gun!” I hollered, disoriented by the odd warble of my own voice in my head. “Slide me Fitzpatrick’s gun.”

  He mumbled something about Montague.

  “Dammit, Hennemann, don’t be a fool! Give it to me or I’m not doing it. You can look out the window yourself.” My ribs hurt to yell. I shifted from my stomach to my side to ease the discomfort as I wondered what was taking him so long.

  The bottom edge of the bed lifted slightly, and he slid Fitzpatrick’s Colt revolver across the floor. Though not as big as Hennemann’s, the gun was up to the task. I stretched to snatch it.

  I swallowed hard, knowing it was time to honor my end of the bargain. Tucking the long, heavy pistol under my arm, I moved on my knees to the side of the open door. I was fairly certain there wasn’t any gunfire from the street now. Were they reloading, or had Hennemann gotten off a lucky shot?

  With the end of the pistol, I brought the edge of the door to me and then slammed it with my free hand. I waited a few seconds for the shooter to respond. Maybe they were waiting for me to make it to the window for a cleaner shot. I stood and tried to calm my breathing.

  “What do you see?” Hennemann asked impatiently. His voice was clearer to me now.

  “I’m not there yet. Give me a moment.”

  Extending the barrel of the gun before me, I followed it to the curtain’s edge.

  Odd. The window hadn’t been shot out yet. I surveyed the room. Not only was the window intact, but I could find no trace of damage inside the loft other than what Hennemann had caused.

  What was going on here?

  “How many are there?” Hennemann demanded.

  Instead of answering, I pushed back the curtain with the gun barrel and peered through the edge of the glass.

  I saw what I had suspected.

  Letting out a breath that I’d unconsciously been holding, I wiped my brow with my jacket sleeve.

  The weight of the gun became taxing. I let it dangle by my side.

  Another round of popping ignited from the street.

  “It’s just a couple of kids . . . boys with fireworks. They’re just playing. Listen, you can hear them laughing.”

  Hennemann slowly rose from behind the barricade he’d made of the bed. The unlit cigar was still in place as if it were as much a part of his face as his nose or the eye scope.

  He aimed at me. “I’m warning you, Kipsey.”

  I bent and grabbed his bowler. “Here, put this on and come see.”

  He cautiously emerged from the mattress and plowed through the debris on the floor.

  He glared out the window for a few seconds before turning to me. “You don’t tell anyone of this . . . not a soul, you understand? You tell, you die.”

  I nodded my acknowledgement and began searching the contents of the damaged wardrobe.

  “Don’t they know people are trying to sleep?” Hennemann fumed. “A good dewskitch would teach them some respect.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. Even funnier was how he seemed angry that there hadn’t been an actual gunfight.

  “You know what I mean, Kipsey? Those grunts should get a beating for that.”

  He was out the door before I could make it to my feet.

  “Hennemann, wait.”

  By the time I made it outside, Hennemann had the chavy’s head in the grip of his clockwork hand, dangling him a foot above the snow. I placed the plump-faced boy’s age as six or seven. I thought of myself at that age—myself before everything changed.

  Though he wasn’t in any apparent pain, the boy’s legs and arms flailed like pistons in some odd contraption.

  “Put me down!” he demanded in a squeaky but forceful voice. “My pa’s the super. You’d better leave me alone!”

  The other child had made a break for it, already running as far as where I’d first spotted the old woman and dog. I made a quick survey of the otherwise empty street and saw people sheepishly peeking out of windows. They seemed to know it was best to stay inside, for which I was grateful.

  “Hennemann, put him down. He’s just a kid.” I approached. “He’s got nothing to do with Olsen.”

  “Yeah, put me down!” the boy demanded as he struck at the metal forearm suspending him like a crane. “My pa’s Elmore Watkins, the super for this entire row.”

  This amused Hennemann in some twisted way. When he glanced over to me, I recognized the wolfish smirk from his encounter with the Densmore brothers. I felt a chill slither down my spine, knowing that I might have to draw on him. He lifted the boy up to eye level and examined him like a grocer eyeing an orange in his palm.

  “Your papa’s the super of this row of houses, huh, boy?”

  “Owww, you’re hurting my head.”

  “What if I told you that I was the super of the entire city? Cleaning up things that didn’t flow right?”

  “Too tight, you’re making it too tight!” the boy shouted.

  “Hennemann,” I said firmly, “people are watching us. They’re watching from their windows right now. Remember what I said about someone getting the police involved and slowing us down?”

  A metal click sounded from Hennemann’s hand, and the boy dropped to his knees in the wet snow. I let out a sigh of relief.

  “You shouldn’t do stuff like that, mister!” the boy yelled as he returned to his feet.

  “Certainly are a feisty pup, aren’t you, lad?” Hennemann asked with a touch of admiration.

  “I ain’t no dog, and I ain’t afraid of the two of you.”

  “Not afraid, huh?” Hennemann asked. “You could’ve made Charon when you grew up.” He took out the cigar that had become a permanent fixture of his mouth and examined it. “But things change, and soon there won’t be a need for ‘em. I suspect you’ll do fine just the same.”

  Before I could ask about what he meant about Charon patrols not being needed, the boy asked, “Are you two friends of Mr. Olsen?”

  I bent to his level before Hennemann could answer. “Do you know him? Do you know Garrett Jason Olsen?”

  “A little. I bought these with money Mr. Olsen gave me yesterday.” He pointed at the frayed bamboo remains of the fireworks still smoking at his feet. The large burnt shells reeked of nitrocellulose and saltpeter. It was a wonder the kid hadn’t blown himself and his friend clear over to another block.

  “What’s your name, kid?” Hennemann had returned the cigar to his lips and already had his burgundy notebook out.

  “I’m Doyle Watkins.” He massaged his temples where he’d been clamped like a vise. “Hey, mister, your arm . . . can I touch it?”

  Hennemann scribbled Doyle’s name, ignoring the request.

  “How’d you lose your real arm?” the boy asked.

  “Doyle,” I said sternly, trying to get back on track. “When did Mr. Olsen give you money? What time was it?”

  “I dunno, yesterday. A man was here, and he gave me money for . . .”

  His eyes shifted as he stopped short. We were on to something, and I felt a rush pour over me.

  Hennemann began to butt in. I raised a hand to silence him. He glowered at me but kept silent.

  “Doyle, you like fireworks, right?”

  His big, round hazel eyes returned to mine.

  “What would you say to us giving you some money too, money to buy more fireworks?”

  “I knew you were his friends. You came out of his apartment.”

  “Yes, we are.” I faced Hennemann. “Give me the coin.”

  “What?”

  “The one you took back at my office. The coin you tossed for the whiskey, I saw you take it back. We need it so Doyle here can buy more fireworks for us.”

  Hennemann protested, “That’s four bits.”

  I stood, extending my hand. “We need it so we can find our friend.”

  He fumbled through his pockets as if it’d been misplaced. When he realized that I wasn’t m
oving on until I had it, he found the silver and flipped it to me.

  “What does his eye thing do?” Doyle asked with fascination.

  “It tells me when little boys are lying to us,” Hennemann answered gruffly. “When they lie, it makes their brain start to cook and bubble until it’s mush like custard.”

  “You’re not helping,” I scolded.

  “It can’t do that,” Doyle said.

  “Maybe not, but you’d better tell the truth,” Hennemann said.

  “I am telling the truth,” the boy protested. “I don’t know what time it was, but I had enough time to take the money to Chinatown to buy these pops.”

  “All right,” I said, returning to his level. “We don’t have to know the exact time, we just want to know more about Mr. Olsen and the friend who was with him.”

  This elicited a sly smile from the boy. “He kisses boys. He paid me not to say, but if you’re his friend, you know that.”

  “Mr. Olsen?” I asked. “He kisses boys. You mean other men? What makes you think that?”

  He shook his head. “Saw them . . . right there on the doorstep, yesterday before he made me promise not to tell.”

  I concealed my shock at this new revelation with a fake smile. “That’s right, and then he gave you some money not to tell anyone but his friends?”

  “Yes, I told him I liked fireworks, and he told me to go buy some and gave me some matches.”

  “And to keep his secret?”

  “From my dad, you know.”

  “I understand. Now, Doyle, it’s important I find Mr. Olsen. Do you know where he went?”

  “He went back inside after the man left.”

  “The man he kissed?”

  “Yeah, he left, and Mr. Olsen went back inside.”

  I handed the coin to him. “Hold this. I have some more questions, but this can be yours when we’re through.”

  As I felt in my pocket, I heard Hennemann violently spitting on the ground behind us. Looking back, I saw him stomping the cigar into the snow. As distracting as it was, I maintained my focus on the boy.

  I produced the photograph of Nelson and held it up. “Doyle, is this the man who was with Mr. Olsen? Is this who you saw him kiss?”

  He tossed the coin from hand to hand. “No, he’s different. It was somebody else.”

  The response surprised me. “Then what did the man look like?”

  “I dunno, he just looked like a man. He had a hat and a thick moustache.”

  “That describes nearly half the men in Addleton Heights.” Hennemann spat again.

  “Did Mr. Olsen say his name as he was leaving? Or did the man call Mr. Olsen ‘Jason’?”

  “I dunno.” The coin continued to travel from small hand to small hand. “I was trying to build a snowman. I didn’t hear no names.”

  “But you’re sure it was here at Mr. Olsen’s? These doors all look the same. Could it have been further up the row?”

  The silver coin stopped long enough for Doyle to point. “Number twenty-eight, that’s Mr. Olsen’s. That’s where they were.”

  “And neither said the other’s name?”

  “Nope, Mr. Olsen just said ‘Whiplash.’”

  I shot a glance at Hennemann, who shrugged and scribbled in his notepad.

  “Doyle, was that what the man called him?”

  The coin started back up. I grabbed the boy’s hands and gently clamped them closed. “Is that what Mr. Olsen called the other man?”

  He tugged to get his hands free. “What? No, it’s not the name of a person. It’s a place or something. It says so on the matches.”

  Seeing my confusion, he presented the matchbox. The printed label read “Club Whiplash” with an address.

  “Start up the carriage,” I told Hennemann. “Doyle, I need to keep this. Take the money and buy more matches and firework pops.”

  As Hennemann walked by the kid, he said, “I hope you blow your fingers off ‘till they’re blackened nubs.”

  I hurried to the carriage but still managed to hear Doyle’s reply. “Oh yeah? Well, I know that Addleton Heights doesn’t really have a super, so that makes you a liar.”

  Hennemann, still walking, extended a single metal digit.

  Fifteen

  Hennemann estimated that we’d be at the location in less than ten minutes. Despite the cramped quarters of the steam carriage, I was quickly becoming accustomed to the convenience. My previous apprehensions about the boiler exploding and scalding the flesh from our bodies had waned. Hennemann had been right. I’d even grown accustomed to his slapdash driving, which was getting worse as he grew more fatigued.

  Initiating conversation mainly to keep him alert, I asked, “You said Olsen was the gardener, right?”

  He grunted in the affirmative as he blinked at the road before us.

  “Are the groundskeepers supplied uniforms?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does Mr. Montague provide worker clothing to those who tend the grounds? There was nothing in Olsen’s wardrobe that indicated he was a gardener—no overalls, work boots, tools, nothing.”

  Hennemann thought on this for a moment. “So, what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but it seems unlikely that he’d throw away his work clothes just because he’d moved on from Mr. Montague’s employ.”

  “Yeah, it’s kinda like a tink tossing out their tools just ‘cause he left a project.” He yawned. “The mansion has a conservatory. There’s a lot of plants in it. Maybe that’s what he did and not the outside and topiaries.”

  I’d forgotten about the dozen or so animal-shaped shrubs. “Could we send a telegraph to Reginald to confirm any of this? If nothing else, he could tell us why Olsen got sacked.”

  His head whipped toward me. “We don’t contact Reginald Bailey ever, for anything.”

  “All right, settle down.”

  “No telegraph!”

  Well, I’d succeeded in waking him up.

  “All right. So, what do you know of this Club Whiplash? Have you ever been there?” I asked.

  “Just what are you implying, Mr. Kipsey?” His grip tightened around the steering column.

  “No, I don’t mean that you would—”

  “Let’s be clear,” he snarled. “I have never heard of it.”

  “But you know what goes on there? I’d think, being Montague’s ground security, it would stand to reason—”

  The red glow from his eyepiece filled the cab. “I heard the boy the same as you. I know there used to be a den of sodomites off Whale Point, but that was shut down a year or more ago.”

  “Appears that it just relocated further out here.”

  With one hand on the wheel, Hennemann handed me the rope. “Take this. If he’s where we’re headed, draw Fitz’s gun on him and tie him up. Don’t get all friendly with questions. Just bind him and bring him out to me.”

  “You’re not going in with me?” I asked.

  He scoffed. “There was a better chance of me going into the church.”

  I relished twisting the screw on this lout. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

  “Watch it, Kipsey, I’m warning you. If you so much as joke about me being like one of those shirt-lifters, I will squeeze your head like a hardboiled egg.”

  The threat made me laugh.

  “I’m serious,” Hennemann said. “Don’t be coy. It’s obvious now that he and Nelson are . . . were mandrakes together. So just go into the club, get him, and we’ll tie him down to the straps back there that hold Mr. Montague’s chair in place.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that. Mr. Montague said he doesn’t come down from the compound much. Why does he even have this steam carriage?”

  “He comes down a couple of times a year,” he answered curtly. “Don’t try and change the subject. Another thing, when you go in there, don’t sit on any barstools or drink anything from the bar.”

  “Are you really that dense? Are you afraid of me ca
tching it?” I laughed again.

  “I swear that I’ll whack you across the bonse and strap you down next to him if you start showing signs of . . .”

  “You’re as stupid as a chest full of hammers.”

  “I’m telling you, that’s how you get it . . . the sodomite cravings.” He shook his head. “Those disgusting uphill gardeners.”

  “So, just to be clear, provided he’s even at the club, you intend to transport this ‘infected’ Mr. Olsen in Mr. Montague’s personal carriage? Aren’t you afraid of contaminating your boss?”

  He was silent, and I enjoyed watching him struggle with this ridiculous self-inflicted paradox.

  Finally, he offered a feeble solution. “Trudeau can clean it all up back there.”

  “You’re an idiot if you actually believe that.”

  “I’m not warning you again.”

  A few minutes later, we reached what should’ve been our destination. After circling the block for a second time, Hennemann asked, “What was that address again?”

  I offered him the matchbox. He refused to take it, acting like it was covered in sodomite poison. “Just read it to me.”

  I relayed the address and pointed. “According to this, it would be that flat, one-story brick building over there. I guess there’s no surprise there’s no sign or markings . . . you know, considering . . .”

  “Yeah, I get it,” he said, slowing the carriage to a crawl while peering through the cab’s glass. “No windows.”

  “‘The better part of valor is discretion,’” I mumbled, attempting to get a better look past Hennemann.

  “Huh? What does that mean?”

  “Shakespeare,” I explained. “Henry IV.”

  “Yeah, well, Shakespeare was probably a sodomite too.”

  Hennemann slowed the carriage to a stop, letting the engine purr. “Use your picks if it’s locked,” he said, pointing to the solid black-painted door. “I’ll pull the carriage around to the back in case anyone tries to leave through the service door. Remember, don’t drink or sit in there.” He reached in his pocket and produced a handkerchief. “Oh, and take this fogle for the doorknob.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  I felt the weight of Fitzpatrick’s pistol in my belt as I exited the cab. The fleeting idea of shooting Hennemann while he was pinned behind the steering wheel crossed my mind, but I shut the door instead.