Unwin read the names on tombstones they passed: Two-Toe Charlie, Theda Verdigris, Father Jack, Ricky Shortchange. Saints’ Hill had always been the place where criminals went to bury their own, and these were the outlaws, thieves, and grifters of an earlier era. It ended with the rise of Enoch Hoffmann and was familiar to Unwin only through the oldest of the Agency’s files.
“Caligari took Hoffmann in when he was a boy,” Unwin said. “It couldn’t have been easy for him to plot the old man’s murder.”
“They always disagreed on how the carnival should be used,” Miss Greenwood said. “I think Caligari saw it as a tool for stirring up trouble—but only for those he felt deserved it. He would go ahead to each town we visited, get a room somewhere, and ‘scout things out,’ as he used to say. He was delving into the dreams of the people there.”
“Looking for what?”
“He never really explained, and there wasn’t always a logic to it. But most of time he found people who had something to hide. Caligari could be ruthless once he’d chosen his subject. Sometimes, though . . .” She paused and rested with one hand against a tombstone, catching her breath.
Unwin waited, and for the first time since he had met her, Miss Greenwood smiled. “Sometimes the carnival was just a carnival,” she said.
She led him through the door of one of the mausoleums. Together they strained against the lid and moved it aside, revealing a set of tiled stairs where a cadaver should have been. There were lights on down there. Miss Greenwood climbed in first, and Unwin followed after her, sliding the lid back into place behind them.
At the bottom of the stairs was a dank subway platform. Roots grew through the cracked and dripping ceiling. The eight train was already in the station, its doors open. Unwin and Miss Greenwood were its only passengers. Once the train was moving, he said, “What about Hoffmann? He saw the carnival as a means for profit?”
“That’s what he saw when he met Arthur: the potential for profit, for control. What Enoch’s doing now resembles a plan he used to talk about sometimes. A way to seize the city entirely if his deal with the Agency ever went sour. The understanding he’d had with Arthur fell apart on November twelfth. Then, when Sivart bumbled into his head, he must have assumed the worst.”
“Which is what your daughter expected,” Unwin said. “That’s why she gave Sivart the stolen copy of the Manual.”
“I understand now what she’s doing. She always considered Caligari her true father and wanted to follow in his footsteps. There was a saying of his she liked to repeat, about those who belong to the carnival. ‘We’re just some people who lost their house keys, and everyone who loses their house keys are neighbors.’
“You see, Mr. Unwin, she intends to give the carnival back to the remnants. To steal it from the man who bent it from its true purpose.”
The train squealed on its tracks and swayed as it rounded a corner, and they both held tightly to the straps.
If Penelope succeeded, Unwin thought, then part of Miss Palsgrave’s changing of the guard would be complete.
“Well,” Miss Greenwood said after a while, “don’t you think it’s time you told me your plan?”
Unwin was figuring parts of it out as he described it to her, but Miss Greenwood listened patiently. When he was finished, they were both quiet a moment.
“It’s not a very good plan,” she said.
THEY GOT OFF at Central Terminal and went up the stairs to the concourse. Some of the trains from Central Terminal were still running on time. The one they boarded moved into the tunnels a few minutes after ten o’clock: less than eight hours, now, before the alarm at Hoffmann’s side would ring. When the conductor reached their booth, Miss Greenwood paid for her ticket and Unwin handed him the one he purchased nine days before, on the morning he first saw the woman in the plaid coat. The conductor punched it without looking and moved on.
It was dark, but Unwin did his best to memorize everything he saw outside the windows: the city thinning and then giving way to trees, the bridges spanning the river, the rise and fall of the mountains on the far side. He tried to imagine what it would look like in the daytime.
Miss Greenwood read magazines to stay awake. Whenever Unwin caught her drifting off, he reached under the sleeve of her red raincoat and pinched her. She swore at him, though they both knew that even a momentary slip could cost them everything.
They reached the end of the line with less than five hours left. No one met them at the station. The town was just as Unwin had imagined, and seeing it was like remembering. Maybe he was remembering. Maybe this was where he had come once, as a boy, to play that game with the other children. Seek-and-find? Call-and-hide?
They walked north along the town’s only street, and Unwin counted his steps, noting everything: the gray cat moving between the slats of a picket fence, the colors of the mailboxes, the breeze coming off the river. They followed a dirt path into the woods. It was cooler here, and Unwin paused to button his jacket. He smelled the pond before he saw it.
“I cut all mention of this place from Sivart’s reports,” he said. “I’d always assumed he made it up.”
“You overestimate his imagination,” Miss Greenwood said.
The water, patched with oak leaves, was dark and cold-looking in the moonlight. A tire swing hung from a tree at its edge. Anyone kicking hard enough could swing far over the water. He could let go if he wanted; he could let himself fall right in.
Beyond the swing a slope covered with blackberry briars and, at the top of the slope, the cottage where Miss Greenwood and her daughter had lived for the seven years of her exile. A rubberized electrical cord snaked down from one of the windows. They followed it east into the woods, away from the water. Unwin recalled his dream of footprints in the mud, of the meeting with the boy who had been Enoch Hoffmann, and shivered.
The clearing was just as Sivart had described it. But there at its center a narrow brass bed instead of a pile of leaves, and on a table beside it a green-shaded lamp and a typewriter. The lamp was plugged in, and the bulb glowed yellow. Sivart was asleep under a yellow cotton blanket, on top of which was spread a second blanket of leaves. He snored with his hat down over his eyes, and his face was stubbled.
A dozen open umbrellas were hung in the tree above the bed, forming a makeshift canopy. He must have used to stepladder to get them arranged that way.
“I told him he could use the place but that I didn’t want him sleeping in my room,” Miss Greenwood said. “I thought he’d understood I meant for him to use the couch, or the spare room in the back. Instead he drags my bed all the way out here.”
Unwin recalled what Sivart had written about this spot: A nice place to take a nap. He removed Sivart’s hat from his head and peered at the man’s eyelids. They were purple and bruised-looking. “Wake up,” he said quietly. “Wake up.”
Miss Greenwood already had hold of the detective’s ankles. “You get his wrists,” she said.
They lifted Sivart off the bed and carried him across the clearing, where they leaned him against the trunk of an oak tree. Unwin put the detective’s hat back on his head, then returned to the bed. The sheets were still warm from Sivart’s body. He settled into the pillow and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the rain on the umbrellas above.
“Four hours and a half,” Miss Greenwood said. “You’ll be able to keep track of the time?”
“I’m more worried about falling asleep,” he said. “I should be tired, but I’m not.”
Miss Greenwood leaned close and whispered something into Unwin’s ear. The words fit like a key into a lock he had not known was there, and he fell asleep so quickly he had forgotten what the words were by the time he started dreaming.
EIGHTEEN
On Dream Detection
Among the many dangers associated with this technique—
if it may be so characterized—is the possibility that its
practitioner, upon waking, may wonder whether
e
verything he has seen was real or simply a construct
of his own fancy. Indeed, the author of this manual
cannot claim with certainty that the technique
described in these pages actually exists.
Unwin dreamed that he woke in his own bed, that he got up and put on his robe. He dreamed himself a nice hot shower (no time for a bath), and because he was a meticulous dreamer, he took care to tie the right tie this morning and to turn off the stove before his oatmeal burned. He did not want to be late. He carried his shoes to the door and put them on in the hall, just as he always did. He almost picked up his umbrella, then remembered that he had dreamed the sun out and the clouds gone.
Outside, the streetlights were still on, and the only vehicles moving were delivery trucks bringing bottles of milk and soda water. The bakery across the street had its door open, and he could smell the bread on the cool air.
Everything was pretty much the way it was supposed to be, but his bicycle was still at the Cat & Tonic, so he walked. At the corner he felt for a moment that someone was watching him. Had he glimpsed a figure standing in the bakery door? He tried to recall what advice The Manual of Detection had for those who suspected they were being tailed. Something, he thought, about being friendly to your shadow. Well, it hardly mattered—he was going only a few blocks.
At Central Terminal there was no line at the breakfast cart, but he did not need a cup of coffee. If someone asked him why he came to Central Terminal, he would tell the truth—that he was taking the first train out of town, all the way to the end of the line.
The old schedule was still in his pocket. He checked it against the four-faced clock above the information booth. His train would board in just a few minutes.
He dreamed he still had the ticket he purchased the morning he first saw the woman in the plaid coat, then dreamed he sat at the front of the train. As the conductor punched his ticket, he turned in his seat, fighting the feeling that someone was watching him. He was one of only a few passengers in the car, and everyone else was either reading a newspaper or napping.
The train began to move. Unwin settled back in his seat as it emerged from the tunnels into a brightening morning. The city rose up on either side of the tracks, then gradually thinned. They passed under a bridge and veered north along the river. In the valley the leaves on all the trees had turned red and yellow. The colors reflected on the surface of the water made him dizzy. He closed his eyes against them and dozed.
He took the train as far into the country as it would go. The terminal at the other end of the line was small and made of red brick, with a door painted green. Seeing it all reminded him again of that game he had played with the other children.
Hide-and-seek: that is what the game was called. It had been somebody’s birthday, he thought.
He walked north on the town’s one road. A gray cat moved between the slats of a picket fence, following him without looking like it was following him. Beyond the last mailbox, he found the dirt path leading into the woods. It was cool in the shade there, and he buttoned his jacket. The ground was soft but not too damp.
Again the feeling that made him turn, expecting a pair of eyes in the shadow. There was no one there, just a small animal darting into the ferns. Two days as a detective and already he was suspicious of everything.
He came to the pond, to the tire swing. Unwin followed the electric cord into the woods, to the clearing where Sivart had moved the narrow brass bed. The lamp was on, and some leaves had fallen onto the typewriter. Sivart was under the covers, his hat down over his eyes.
Unwin stood at the foot of the bed and shook it. Sivart did not stir, not even a little. Back at the Cat & Tonic, the magician was still asleep, still keeping him prisoner. Unwin checked his watch. He had just a few minutes before the alarm would ring.
“Move away, Mr. Unwin.”
Arthur, still in his gray coveralls, appeared at the end of the path. He had a pistol in his hand. “I knew I’d have to take care of this myself eventually.”
Unwin stepped aside. “You knew I’d come here.”
“I didn’t know where ‘here’ was, but I knew you had nowhere left to go. And I understood the same thing Lamech did, when he promoted you. That if anyone knew where Sivart had gone, it was you.”
The overseer walked up to the foot of the bed. A breeze stirred the leaves on the blanket and brought a few more down out of the trees. Unwin could just hear the creaking of the tire swing over the pond.
Arthur said, “I was trying to tell you something yesterday morning, when I saw you on the eight train. I was trying to tell you that I got your memo. The one you sent to Lamech, knowing it would reach someone in charge. Your request is granted, Mr. Unwin. You’re not a detective anymore. Which means you don’t have to watch this.”
“I’ll stay,” Unwin said.
“Suit yourself.” Arthur raised the pistol and closed one eye to aim.
“You’re going to miss,” Unwin said. “Are you sure it’s even loaded?”
Arthur’s arm shook a little. He opened the cylinder to check and gave Unwin a weary look. Then he snapped it closed and readied himself.
“You’re going to miss,” Unwin said again. “You aren’t even pointing the gun at Sivart. You’re pointing it at me.”
“You’re an odd one, Mr. Unwin.” He let out his breath and dropped his arm. “Why is this gun so damn heavy?”
“I don’t think it’s a gun,” Unwin said. “I think it’s your accordion. You must have grabbed the wrong thing on your way out of your office.”
Arthur whistled through his teeth. “A total loon.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Unwin said. “It would be easy to mix them up while you were sleepwalking.”
“I didn’t sleepwalk,” Arthur said. “I waited for you outside your apartment building. I was hiding in the bakery across the street. I followed you those few blocks to Central Terminal. I bought a ticket and rode one car behind you, all the way to the last stop. I’ve been awake the entire time.”
“But I’m still asleep, sir, so you are, too. That’s the way it works, isn’t it? Door’s locked. You don’t wake up until I do.”
Arthur leveled the gun. “You’re talking nonsense.”
“Actually, I got the idea from something Lamech said, in his last dream. The one he was having when you killed him.”
Arthur moved his jaw while he thought about that. “Oh, yeah? What did he say that gave you this idea of yours?”
“He said that once, during an investigation, his subject dreamed she woke up, and Lamech thought she really had. He went about his day for a long time before he figured out he was still asleep, still in the dream he had infiltrated.”
“What makes you think I’d fall for a thing like that?”
“I’m a meticulous dreamer, sir. Always have been. I took a train out of town last night, and Miss Greenwood came with me. I made note of everything I saw on the way. I knew I’d have to dream it later, make it perfect. I came out here and found Sivart asleep in this bed, in the moonlight with that lamp on. I dragged him out and took his place.
“Miss Greenwood helped me sleep. I dreamed that I was home, that I woke up there. I dreamed that I went down to the street and smelled the bread baking, and that’s when you started following me. I went to Central Terminal and took the first train into the country. I dreamed it well enough for you to follow me. You’ve been asleep for so long, I think you don’t remember what it feels like to be awake. I’m still asleep. You’re asleep, too. And I’m pretty sure that’s just your accordion in your hand. With your eyes closed, you must have taken the wrong thing off the wall. Still, I wish you’d stop pointing it at me.”
Arthur had grown more agitated while he listened, and his whole body was shaking now. “I don’t believe any of this,” he said.
“I saw you murder Lamech,” Unwin said. “Miss Palsgrave recorded the dream—she knows you killed him, too. Do you think she’ll stay loyal to yo
u after this? Do you think any of your watchers will?”
With a growl Arthur pulled the trigger, and the gun leapt in his hand. The shot shook the bed, shook more leaves out of the trees. It was so loud it woke Unwin and Arthur both.
Unwin sat up and felt his chest—no wound, only wet leaves. He brushed them away and checked his watch: it was just after six o’clock. Back at the Cat & Tonic, the alarm clock he left had woken Enoch Hoffmann.
Woken Sivart, too. The detective was standing beside the bed, hat low over his brow, his gun aimed at the overseer. Arthur looked down at his accordion. He was holding it by the bass strap with the bellows unlatched and dangling, so that the other end nearly touched the ground.
“I don’t know any songs for this,” Arthur said.
Sivart rubbed the back of his neck. “I am so tender. Charlie, couldn’t you at least have given me a pillow?”
The Manual of Detection Page 27