"Oh dear, oh dear," Snips said, tsking. "This will not do!
Three padlocks? Really, Mr. Eddington. How over-zealous." She squatted down and went to work on them; one by one, they rattled off beneath her quick fingertips and razor-sharp tools. Once the last one clattered to the floor, she opened the cabinet up with a serene smile and held the light stick low to see what she had found.
"Hm." She let her fingers dance across the files, searching for something with a provocative name. Her hand froze over a file with the title of 'HEMLOCK INITIATIVE'.
She bit down on one end of the light stick as she leaned against the far wall and glanced through the documents. She couldn't make out two thirds of it—as far as Snips was concerned, mathematics might as well be Swahili—but there were several things that popped out immediately.
She shoved the documents in the burlap sack along with the other goods. That's when she noticed the button.
It was small and delicate, stashed away beneath the desk in a spot few would know to look; designed to blend in with the wood grain, she only noticed it thanks to the shadows cast by her light-stick. She gave the beetles another violent shake to brighten the glow, then leaned forward to give it a closer look. Tilting her head to the side, she reached forward and pushed the button in with a click.
The bookcase on the other side of the room slid away with a low hiss, revealing a narrow passageway.
Snips' eyes were as wide as saucers by this point. She stifled her urge to whistle low and crept back out from behind the desk, counting slowly back from ten. Once she was satisfied no one was charging up the passageway to see what was going on, she crept up to it and stepped in.
The bookcase clicked back into place.
Dunnigan's disappearance into the office earlier had made her suspect a secret passage was stashed away somewhere in Mr. Eddington's office; this confirmed it. The hidden niche was filled with a set of cramped stairs that spiraled down into the heart of the Steamwork. Snips moved carefully, keeping her eye out for the telltale glow of a far off lamp. But by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, all thoughts of being discovered had disappeared.
The base of the stairway opened up into a stone lobby, which in turn lead to a large hall; as Snips stopped and stared at the sight before her, an unknown hand turned on the lights. They came on slowly, flickering near the back as machines roused from their slumber with a splutter of dust and a distinct electric hum. And then, like a curtain being drawn from the stage, row after row of bulbs shined down upon marvels and miracles.
Each well-oiled contraption cheerfully hummed as it set about its predetermined task with no more fanfare than ants going about their daily toil. Iron rods crackled as arcs of electricity leapt between them; relentless engines rumbled behind sets of spinning wheels and levers.
In a glass case was a wheel of iron as tall as Snips. Inside it was a seat attached to a plump looking steam-engine, suspended on a series of pipes and valves that attached to the wheel's inside curve by two metal sleeves at the bottom and the top.
In another case was a series of glass bulbs of every fashion, shape, and design; some flickered, some flashed, and others remained steady. The light they gave off was brilliant, and Snips had to keep her eyes averted lest she be blinded.
And yet in another case lay two machines which seemed to resemble the innards of several dozen clocks that had been regurgitated into a pair of boxes made from mahogany and glass. A small crank attached itself to each box's left side, with several dials each bearing a series of symbols from 0 to 9 on the top. Snips realized that they were miniature models of calculation engines; furthermore, the two engines had a wire connecting both of them, and seemed to be interacting with one another.
Next to each display was a framed and mounted set of blueprints, and beneath each set of blueprints was a patent signed and purchased by the Steamwork.
"What are you doing here?"
Snips whirled around. Behind her was Dunnigan, squinting and holding a mop up to her as if it were a gun. Snips sighed with relief and shook her head.
"Continuing my investigation," Snips said. "What is this place?"
"You shouldn't be here," Dunnigan said. "It ain't right."
"This place—these inventions. They're amazing," Snips said, walking between the tables. "But they look so old. Some of the cases are rusty, and..." Snips drew a finger across one table, lifting it up and peering at it. "There's dust everywhere."
"Aye, I'd like to clean the place out, but Mr. Eddington refuses to let anyone touch anything in here without himself being present," Dunnigan said. "’Cept for Mr. Copper, of course."
Dunnigan instantly threw his hand over his mouth.
Snips turned. "Copper. This was Copper’s laboratory? No,"
she said, frowning. "It couldn’t have been."
"Not, uh, exactly," Dunnigan said, squirming. "But Mr. Copper did most of his work here. Cataloguin’ and figurin’ out how it all works, and that sort of thing."
"Who’s laboratory is this?"
"Well," Dunnigan said, stepping back. "That’s a little complicated, see—"
"My God," she said, realization hitting her in a bolt. "I understand, now. How Mr. Eddington is trying to make money.
These devices—what do they have in common?"
"All of them could make history," a voice said.
"Revolutionize the industry." A low and threatening chuckle followed. "Annihilate the competition."
Snips turned; Mr. Eddington was approaching from the back of the room, dressed sharply in a suit and bow-tie. He held a pistol in his hand and wore a grin on his face; by the way his eyes gleamed, Snips could tell this was not a social call.
"Er, Mr. Eddington," Dunnigan began, stepping back.
"Sorry, sir, she popped in without me knowin' about it. I was just showin' her out—"
"Silence, Mr. McGee."
Dunnigan stiffened.
"I'm here on official business," Snips began.
"None of that, now," Mr. Eddington said, gesturing with the pistol. "Hands over your head. Nothing clever, Miss Snips. I've done a little research on you since our last meeting—I know all about the duck incident."
Snips grimaced. "I am never going to live that one down, am I?"
"Mr. Eddington, the gun ain't necessary," Dunnigan said.
"Come on, now."
"Mr. McGee, I told you to to be silent. If you value your occupation, you will take my advice." Mr. Eddington responded.
"Miss Snips is an intruder, and must be dealt with properly."
"In case you weren't paying attention, Dunnigan, that means murder," Snips said. She stepped back and lifted her arms.
"Let's all just calm down," Dunnigan said. "We can have a spot of tea, I've got a kettle brewing over there in the back. I'm sure if we all sit down and 'ave ourselves a bit of a talk, it'll all be a lot more clear."
"I have to admit," Snips said. "You've got quite the clever operation here. I never figured you for an extortionist, though."
"It pains me to be associated with a lowly crime. Extortion is such a common word." Mr. Eddington said, pistol aimed steadily at Snips' heart. "After all, I am no common thief."
Snips took yet another step back. "You inherit the Steamwork from Daffodil over a decade ago. Great, but just one problem—you can't keep the business floating on your own because no one's brilliant enough to continue his work. But then you come across this little treasure trove. An entire laboratory stuffed full of his brilliance."
"I admit, my first idea was to sell it all," Mr. Eddington said. "I could have made a small but tidy profit, then tossed the Steamwork aside like the empty shell it is."
"But you thought bigger," Snips said. "You realized that inventions aren't where the money is—it's in the patents."
"Precisely, Miss Snips," Mr. Eddington said, grinning. "My, you are clever for your sex. I patented all the technology around his inventions, then proceeded to call a meeting between several heads of
business. I showed them my little discovery, and made the new arrangement clear: They would either pay me a considerable yearly stipend, or I would sell the technology to their competitors."
"And Copper’s role? I assume he was the one who figured out how all the inventions worked," Snips said.
"Exactly."
"How do you stop other people from just inventing this stuff on their own, though?"
"Oh, they're free to invent it on their own," Mr. Eddington agreed. "And quite a few have. But in each case, I have used my patents to sue them into destitution."
"You've been trying to create a monopoly on ideas. You're suppressing scientific progress in the name of your profit margins,"
Snips said, eyes narrowing. She had nearly reached one of the display cases.
"But sadly, the well has started to go dry," Mr. Eddington said. "Many of the businesses I've been extorting have either diversified or found ways to deal with the competition on their own. For the past half decade, my profits have been going to the proverbial outhouse—which means I've been forced to find another source for my profits."
"The calculation engine. Let me guess: You're responsible for the attacks on the banks. You're Professor Hemlock," said.
"Not quite," Mr. Eddington laughed. "Although I suppose that's close enough. How fortunate it was that I came across the scion of the Daffodil legacy—and he proved to be as ingenius as his father!"
"And when Copper managed to figure out how to make calculation engines communicate with one another via electrical wiring—and proposed a bank model that threatened yours—"
"Eh?" A moment of confusion flickered over Mr. Eddington's face. "Copper had a new bank model?"
Snips seized the moment. She brought her elbow down hard against the glass of the display case, grimacing at the pain that bolted up through her arm as the pane shattered. In a moment, she had plucked up the weapon inside; it was an odd affair, being slender and elegant and yet bulging out at peculiar places; entirely encased in iron, it was far heavier than it had any right to be. The barrel looked as if it had been built from an elegant candlestick, with all manner of electric coils, wires, and glass bulbs protruding from the back half.
Snips ducked behind the case, hefted the gun up, and pulled the trigger. At once, it growled to life—and a gear-driven butter knife popped out, desperately trying to slather butter into the air.
Snips blinked and turned the gun about in her hand, staring at it in confusion. Mr. Eddington chuckled.
"What a ridiculous note to die on," he said, then lifted his gun to fire.
Dunnigan brought the kettle of scalding tea down like a hammer across the top of Mr. Eddington's head, throwing him forward. Mr. Eddington had precisely the amount of time it takes to say 'ungh' before he slammed face-first on the floor.
Dunnigan threw the kettle aside, disgusted. Snips peeked out from behind the case, shuffled to her feet, and walked over.
"Dunnigan—"
"Consider this my letter of resignation, you rat-faced scum-sucker," Dunnigan said, spitting down at Mr. Eddington.
"Dunnigan," Snips repeated. "Could you go fetch me a length of rope?"
~*~
"The umbrella in your lobby," William said, settling in the chair. "I have one just like it. I—" He suddenly realized that he had left it at Detective Watts’ house. "I don’t have it on me now, but I recognized it when I visited here prior."
"Yes," Nigel said. "It was your father’s, wasn’t it?"
William accepted the second cup of tea that Starkweather offered. "Yes. It’s all I have of him, really."
"A shame. Your father was a brilliant man."
"A terrible man," William added, then blushed. "I mean, that’s what I’ve been told."
"Of course. That is what most people have been led to believe."
"You would claim otherwise?"
"I would," Nigel said, as Starkweather laid out a cup of tea on the nightstand besides him. "A grievous one. Your parents’ story is not a tale of villainy, but one of tragedy."
"They nearly destroyed the city," William said. "I mean— didn’t they?"
"In a roundabout way, I suppose they did," Nigel admitted.
"But they were victims of circumstances beyond their control."
"Could you—could you possibly tell me more?" William asked.
"Yes, of course, of course. But first, answer me this: How have you come to know my daughter?"
"Your daughter? You mean—Miss Snips?" William blinked.
"She’s your daughter?"
"Yes, although she would likely be loath to admit it," Nigel said. "We have not always gotten along, her and I."
"Well, she seems quite sociable to me," William said.
Nigel’s lipless mouth twisted into a smile. "Oh, yes," he said, stifling his chuckle. "Very sociable."
~*~
Timothy Eddington awoke to the feel of cold iron and the glint of a silver tooth.
"Comfy, Timmy?" Snips asked, grinning. "Nothing chafing?"
Eddington jerked with a start; he was wrapped in great lengths of chain linked together by a sturdy padlock. The entire ensemble had been latched atop a pulley that kept him suspended upside down above the massive calculation engine he had helped design. The workers had all gone home for the night; there was only him and Snips.
The engine roared to life; gears ground and cogs growled.
Snips had a dreadful sort of look on her face—the sort of hungry stare that Eddington had seen on William when he was deeply immersed in some difficult equation. At that moment, Mr. Eddington knew precisely how a math problem felt when it was about to be completed
Mr. Eddington swallowed. "My nose itches."
Snips leaned forward, scratching the tip of his nose. "I bet you're wondering why you're hanging over the calculation engine," she said.
"The question might have occurred to me," he admitted.
"Are you familiar with the concept of Pi, Mr. Eddington?"
"Yes," Mr. Eddington said, speaking over the engine’s constant hum. "I believe I am."
"Well, just for fun, I’ve set the engine to figuring out Pi to it’s final digit."
"That’s, er, impossible."
"Is it? I must confess, I’ve never been very good with maths," Snips said. "But I’m curious to see whether or not adding you to the equation might help us find out if that’s true."
Snips tugged the chain that held him aloft in the air. Mr. Eddington inched towards the grinding gears. Swallowing, he stiffened. "I don’t suppose there’s any way I could dissuade your, ah, mathematical curiosity?"
"Maybe if you satisfy some other curiosities in exchange,"
Snips said. "Answer my other questions, and I won’t indulge.
Clear?"
"Crystal," he said.
"Copper. Why did you kill him?"
"I didn't."
Snips twisted the chain and let some of it spool between her fingers. The pulley rattled as he dropped an inch or two. "Oh, come on now, Mr. Eddington. Let's be friends here, hm? Go ahead and spill the beans. You can trust me. I'm great at keeping secrets."
"I didn't kill him!" Mr. Eddington shouted, his face growing red with fear and frustration.
"Then who? One of your minions? A business partner?"
"I don't know!"
Snips let the chain slip further. Mr. Eddington could feel the vibrations of the engine's calculations traveling up through the catwalk, down through the chain—all the way down to his teeth.
They chattered with stark terror.
"Please! Oh, God! I've killed men before, but not him! Not him!"
Snips gave the chain a harsh pull, reeling Mr. Eddington up.
"Wait, what?"
Gasping and wriggling, Eddington fought for words. "I'm telling you the truth! I've killed men in the past, but not Mr. Copper. I had no reason to! He analyzed the technology, figured it out, but even if he wanted to, he couldn’t do anything with it! He could never find the funding for
the inventions. Every business man in the city would refuse to provide funding for his work, and even if he did find one, we'd drive him out of business."
"Then who killed him?"
"I told you, I don't know! It must have been the fellow in the jackal mask!"
Snips released the chain.
Eddington screamed as he descended down a good six feet; the chain jerked hard as his head dangled only inches away from a furiously churning cog. He could smell the grease, even feel the heat of friction rising up in great swelling waves. "Oh, oh God—"
Snips’ voice had changed now; gone was the jovial charm and playfulness. Replacing it was nothing but frost and murder.
"Jackal," she said. "With a butterfly."
"Y-yes!" He stammered. "A butterfly pin made of paper!"
She hauled Mr. Eddington back up until the red-faced administrator was eye-level with her. "Tell me everything," she said. "Starting with the Hemlock Initiative."
Mr. Eddington gulped. "You—you must know that this is illegal! You are committing a crime!"
"Oh sweet mercies, am I?" Snips asked. "Do you think they'll lock me up in prison?"
Realizing the futility of his tactics, Mr. Eddington started to speak rapidly. "The fellow in the mask gave me equations to use against the banks—a list of formulae that, when inputted into a calculating engine, causes a chain reaction leading to a break down."
"So you’ve been posing as Professor Hemlock, attacking banks and generating a need for your new and improved calculating engines," Snips said. "But how do you get the banks to input your equations in their engines? It's not like you can just walk up and jam the numbers in. Banks guard those things like their private vaults."
Mr. Eddington panted. "The jackal-masked fellow devised a way to open accounts at different banks using very specific instructions that will, when those accounts are inputted into the engines, reproduce the circumstances that lead to an illegal operation."
"So you've been making a bunch of dummy accounts in these banks, creating ticking mathematical time bombs," Snips said. "You then throw out some bogus message about Hemlock doing it for whatever reason, throwing the police off your trail."
Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium Page 15