The Chronological Man: The Monster in the Mist

by Andrew Mayne

  “Some of these ‘people’ would tell their friends before they moved on detective,” retorted Miss Shelly. “And maybe if you did some detecting instead of moralizing like a fat chaplain you’d have the time to notice something.” She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. “Iffin’ O’Bannon was in such a hurry to get his lot outta town, then why’d he leave this?” She opened her hand and slammed five dollar bills and a fistful of quarters on Robertson’s desk.

  Robertson stared at the money.

  “Have you eva’ known a pimp to run away when he had money due?” She pulled her frayed shawl around her shoulders, turned on her heels and walked toward the exit.

  “Miss Shelly, you forgot your money,” shouted Robertson after her.

  “Use it to buy a decent cop!” She made a rude gesture with her hand and walked out the front door.

  Smith looked over at April and nodded his head toward the door. April got up and hurried out after her.

  Smith decided to let the two women talk while he gathered up the folders. He walked back to Robertson’s desk and set them down.

  “That does sound kind of odd,” said Smith.

  “Yes, no, maybe so,” replied Robertson as he reached into his desk for an envelope to place the money. “O’Bannon’s a piece of work. Thug, pimp, anything for a buck. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was laying in a ditch with a gunshot or a knife in his belly.”

  Smith nodded to the door. “Miss Shelly seemed to be concerned.”

  “Concerned about the whooping she’d get if she didn’t pay him what was due.”

  “I see,” said Smith. He put a hand on the folders. “Just between you and me, how many more cases would we have if we accounted for ...,” he arched an eyebrow, “people who aren’t as quite accountable?”

  Robertson looked around the room. A half-dozen police officers were scattered around desks making reports and talking to witnesses and suspects. He leaned into Smith. “Lots more.”

  “Why isn’t it a bigger deal? I’d think the papers would be filled with stories.”

  Robertson pursed his lips. “Let’s just say that some people around here would rather not look what they see as a ‘gift horse’ in the mouth. Despite the fog, crime is down.”

  Smith slid the stack of folders in front of Robertson. “Is it, sergeant?” He pointed a finger at the pile. “I guess if we can conveniently ignore certain crimes, we can say the crime rate is as low as we want, can’t we? You’re a good man, Robertson. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “We’re not just sitting still Mr. Smith.”

  Smith cocked an eye at his chair.

  “Er, metaphorically, I mean,” said Robertson. “We are looking into it. Some of us are more concerned than others. I’ve volunteered to do night patrols after desk duty myself.” He reached under the desk and slapped his hand against his leg. It made a hollow metal sound. “Even with the leg, or without it, I should say.”

  “I apologize, Sgt. Robertson. I meant no offense to your dedication.”

  “It’s no matter.” Robertson pointed to the back of the station. An elegantly dressed older man was talking to the captain and two other men. “See that man? That’s Dr. Lindestrom from the psychiatric hospital,” he whispered. “He’s an alienist, an expert on maniacs and the like. He says that’s what we might be dealing with. But we don’t want to alarm anyone until we have better proof. He’s actually advising a special task force.”

  Smith tried to look at Lindestrom’s face but his back was turned. “How exciting. I think.” There was something about the name that nagged at him.

  April slipped back into the station and stood next to Smith. The two men looked toward her.

  “Did Miss Shelly have anything else to say?” asked Smith.

  “She gave me the time and location of the last time she saw O’Bannon, or rather heard him.”

  “Heard him?” asked Smith.

  “She said four days ago she went to meet him at 4th and Lark and heard him call out in the fog briefly. Then that was the end of it. She walked to where he had been standing and there was no one there.”

  Smith looked to Robertson. “Does that sound like some of the ‘unofficial’ accounts?”

  Robertson nodded.

  “There was one more thing,” said April. “She said there was a very foul stench in the air. More pungent then the fog. She said it smelled like death.”

  “You mean like something decaying?” asked Smith.

  “No. She said literally like death. I asked her to be more specific. She said like a funeral parlor.” April’s deep blue eyes looked up for a moment. “You don’t suppose she meant like a chemical they use to embalm people?”

  Smith turned to Robertson. “Any of that sound familiar?”

  Robertson thought for a moment. “We may have one or two people who mentioned a smell. Nothing quite so specific though.”

  Smith put a finger to his lip. “Well, this is good news.”

  “How so?” asked Robertson.

  “I can get my chemistry set and maybe get some of the witnesses to help identify the smell. That could help us connect everything, could be a clue.” He looked through the window at the thickening fog. “Or not. Could just be a peculiar smell, that’s all.”

  “Sounds like a very complicated play, Smith.”

  Smith’s face looked confused. “Right, the play.”

  “He’s more of a naturalistic dramatist,” interjected April. “Modernism, science instead of the fates. Secular.”

  Smith’s face lit up. “Indeed. Very much so. But you know my aunt. She’d have none of that.”

  “Your uncle,” corrected Robertson.

  “Very eccentric family,” said April as she gave Robertson a wink.

  “I look forward to it,” he replied. Robertson leaned over the desk and stole a glance over his shoulder. “Say, you have any idea when you might begin casting for the play?”

  “Sgt. Robertson,” whispered Smith. “Are you an aspiring actor?”

  Robertson blushed. “Me? No, no. I’m just asking for a friend.”

  Smith rapped his knuckles on the desk. “We’ll let you know first.” He nodded to the door. “I have to write the fool thing first. And I have no idea how it ends. Miss Malone?”

  April smiled to Robertson as Smith guided her out the door.

  “I’m one, too, you know,” she said as they walked down the steps.

  “I’d suspected as much. Lots of people are. Nothing to be ashamed of. I’d thought as much about Robertson, too, after you pointed out the goatee. That and that he didn’t have a wedding band. Made sense who the other person was. I suspect it’s a secret he’d have to keep to maintain his job. I don’t think they’d fancy a man who fancied, well, never mind.”

  April stopped walking. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

  Smith looked back at the station. “Um, I think so. Maybe? What are we talking about?”

  “I’m a thespian, Smith. At least I’ve been taking classes after work.”

  “Right. Same thing. No bother. Pretty girl like you. Lots of choices. Very natural, I’m quite sure. Classes? Intriguing. Could be useful.” He started back down the street and then stopped. “Wait, did you say ‘thespian’?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “An actor. Aspiring one that is.” She looked at her feet. “Just a hobby, really.”

  Smith let out a huge laugh. A man feeding a horse from a feedbag turned to look. “A female actor?” bellowed Smith. “Now that’s unnatural.”

  April gave him a stern look. “What cave have you been hiding in? Lots of the greatest actors are women today.”

  Smith crossed his arms. “Yes, I guess that’s so. I can’t see any reason why a woman couldn’t portray another woman, theoretically.” He looked up. “Come to think of it, I’m sure I’ve seen a play or two with actual women in them.” He tapped his temple. “Things get a bit foggy up here.” He stood back and assessed April. “I think you’d make a fine actor,
Miss Malone.”

  “Thank you, Smith.”

  He looked at a piece of notepaper in his hand. “This way to the last disappearance.”

  “So what were you implying about Sgt. Robertson?” asked April.

  “Right, that. I guess it was impolite of me to say that. I sometimes prattle on about things that are none of my business. Quite rude, I know. This way, Miss Malone.”

  Smith’s mouth seemed to race to catch up with his brain, a habit April’s mother had pointed out in her, as well. She couldn’t decided if he was a bit mad or if the world moved too slowly for him. Perhaps a little of both. Those were feelings April had often felt herself. She followed him down the street eager to see what was going to happen next. It was like one of those penny mysteries, where every street corner had a clue. Smith, like the lead characters, always seemed to know more than he was letting on.

  Chapter 6

  “According to Miss Mary O’Mallory, she last saw her beau right about here.” Smith pointed his umbrella toward the middle of the street.

  It was late afternoon and the fog was beginning to thicken. Horse-drawn carriages and wagons rolled back and forth through the street carrying goods from the various factories and warehouses that lined both sides of the avenue. Most of them already had lanterns lit to help guide the way. People bustled along in soot-covered leather aprons or cotton and wool that were a dull gray. The few women were dressed in work linens in the same bland colors as the men. Almost none of the women wore hats. Most had their hair tied up in buns. No one seemed to notice Smith, although a few men turned to appraise April.

  “What stands out to you?” asked Smith as he balanced on the edge of the sidewalk, twirling his umbrella.

  April looked at the street and buildings. There were a few alleyways. Besides the industrial look of the area and the miasmic fog that covered the entire city, nothing stood out as “sinister” to her. She looked at the different buildings that lined the street. There was an abattoir, a machine tool manufacturer and a few warehouses with no markings.

  “He’s either here or not here,” said Smith.

  “Yes, I’d say so,” replied April, agreeing to nothing.

  “Then that leaves four possibilities. Probabilities, I should say.”

  “Four?” asked April.

  “One — all of these assume the account is accurate of course — he left here of his own free will and is hiding elsewhere. Two, he’s hiding somewhere here of his own choice. Three, he was taken from here against his will by some other agency. Or four, he’s been hidden away here somewhere against his will,” said Smith. “What would you say to that, Miss Malone?”

  “If he left here or is hiding here, then it doesn’t seem like he’d be connected to all the other disappearances. If that’s the case, then we should move on. If he was taken, then it would seem he was moved on to somewhere else,” replied April, her blue eyes scanning the street and buildings.

  “Why do you say that?” Smith had an approving grin.

  “The missing persons vanished from different parts of the city. Assuming this location is just as random, I’d assume that whomever is doing this is taking them somewhere else instead of finding 17 different locations nearby each disappearance to hide the bodies.” April bit her lip and looked up and down the street. An ice wagon rolled by pulled by a team of horses. She brushed a lock of hair.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Smith as he nodded to the ice wagon.

  “They had to be taken away somehow. Maybe bodily for a few yards, but then I’d think they had to be carried away in a carriage or wagon.” She shook her head. “No one reported seeing or hearing a carriage, but I suppose they might not have noticed one half a block away. You could miss a dark-colored wagon a few feet in front of your face in this fog.”

  Smith began to walk along the gutter and poked his umbrella into puddles that lined one side of the street. “A black carriage, like a hearse?”

  “That’d be how I’d do it.”

  “Well, Miss Malone, I think your method is sound for your own nefarious purposes.” He pulled his umbrella out of a puddle and then looked to the opposite side of the street. “What’s this?”

  Smith walked to the gutter and stabbed his umbrella into a dark shape. He lifted it up to eye level. “It looks like a woolen cap. A bit soggy but definitely a cap.” He brought it over to April. “Miss Malone, my olfactory senses are still a bit diminished. Would you do me a kindness and have a smell of this cap?”

  April looked at the cap and then back at Smith. He smiled.

  “Oh dear,” she leaned in and opened her nostrils. “Ugh, a little foul, I’d say.”

  “Foul? Please describe, Miss Malone.”

  “You know, foul,” she said, wrinkling her small nose.

  “I can think of a thousand different kinds of foul smells. I can describe twelve different kinds of decaying flesh smells alone. Did you know decomposing carnivores smell totally different than herbivores? And reptiles are different altogether. I once had to spend several days in the presence of the scent of a decomposing dragon corpse in the Komodo Islands. Nasty creature in life and in death. For the life of me, I can’t recall the occasion for such bad company. I digress. Could you be a little more specific?”

  “I don’t know. It has an oily smell like burned grease,” she replied.

  “Ah,” Smith tucked the soggy hat into a pocket. “That would be the smell from a whaling vessel, I’d assume. I believe the absent Mr. Carnegie worked on such a ship.”

  Smith looked at the unmarked warehouses. “I think your assessment is correct. We can find out who owns these buildings if we come up dry. For now I think that Mr. Carnegie is nowhere to be found on any of these premises.”

  “So you think a black carriage hauled him off in the night?” asked April.

  Smith pursed his lips. “Or some other alternative means of transportation.” He looked down at his three watches on his wrist. “I think we can check one more location before we need to procure some lanterns.”

  Lanterns? thought April. She followed Smith as he walked down the street tapping the metal tip of his umbrella on paving stones and the sides of buildings.

  “It’d be fun to find a trap door or a hidden panel, wouldn’t it?”

  April nodded, unsure if he was serious. “If they’re not being kidnapped for ransom, then why take them away at all?”

  “Lots of reasons, I suppose. Maybe to sell their body parts to the medical schools.”

  “That’s rather gruesome,” said April as she wrinkled her nose. “Is there much call for that?”

  “Not now, that I know of. I’d have to go back to the office and check the going price. Thinking about a different occupation, Miss Malone?”

  “I’ve got a few relatives I would consider offers on.”

  Chapter 7

  The shadows of the buildings had reached the other side of the street by the time they heard the sound of a woman screaming. Smith turned to April. “Beg your pardon.” He broke out into a run toward the sound. April lifted the hem of her skirts and chased after him.

  Three blocks later, she came around the corner and saw Smith talking to an older man in a leather apron. Both of them were out of breath and looked up as April approached them.

  “You heard it, too?” said the man, turning to April.

  She pointed at Smith. “Yes, I came running after him.” April looked at the street. It was completely empty. “Who shouted?”

  “Devil if I know,” said the man. He gestured toward the open door of a carpentry shop. “I was over there planing when I heard the screaming. I come running out here and I run into you.” He nodded to Smith.

  “Well, this is disturbing.” Smith folded his arms and considered the street. “A missing person and not even a name to report.”

  “Did you by chance hear a carriage go by?” April asked the carpenter.

  “No, miss. Not that I would have noticed.” He jerked a thumb toward his shop. Mus
ic was coming through the doors. “I have my gramophone playing while I work. I don’t pay attention to much else.”

  Smith scrutinized the sidewalk and the buildings. He poked his umbrella into a puddle on one side of the street like he’d done at the last location. He looked up at the fading sun. “This one in daylight. This is most disconcerting.” He turned to the carpenter. “Do you know the constable who patrols this neighborhood? Could you tell him what you saw, or rather what you didn’t see, when he comes by?”

  The carpenter nodded. “I will, for what it’s worth.”

  Smith walked to the center of the street and took turns facing in every direction. He spent a considerable amount of time staring at the sky, which seemed odd to April. The carpenter returned to his shop. April went to stand beside Smith.

  “See anything?” she asked.

  “Not presently. It’s like the person who screamed just vanished. Could have just been a child or someone having a prank.”

  “It sounded like bloody murder,” said April.

  “Yes, it did. Can you smell anything?”

  April was beginning to realize that her nose was going to play as big of a part as her brain. She noticed a large chimney puffing out coal smoke. The wind was carrying it away swiftly. “There’s a bit of a breeze.” She pointed to the chimney. “I can definitely smell that. Nothing else stands out.”

  “Nothing?”

  April shook her head.

  “Too bad. I think we should head back to the office. I want to take a closer look at a map. Then maybe we go speak with Miss O’Mallory.”

  “Miss O’Mallory?” asked April. “But she’s in the sanitarium.”

  “And?” asked Smith.

  “Nothing.” April’s mind went back to the scream they had heard. To Smith, it just seemed like one more piece of information to add to the problem he was trying to solve. To her, it was the last sound someone had made. What if it had been her? She looked at the darkening streets and pulled her coat closer. Smith acted as if he was an observer to the events, not an actual participant. April thought of the number of times she’d walked home alone in the fading light. The last person had gone missing only a few blocks from where she stood. Strangely, she found Smith’s obliviousness comforting. She’d rather be standing near him trying to figure things out than home with her mother and sisters wondering what was going on in the night.