by Eric Flint
When I found the Judge's room, I heard laughter. Peering through the pane by the door, I saw a middle-aged uptimer in front of the class. He looked vaguely Spanish. The students, mostly young men and a few women, laughed again as I watched them pack up their notes. It seemed that he'd ended his class with a bit of humor. He didn't look like my idea of a judge, but I knew I had to be careful about looks when I dealt with uptimers. Mike Stearns didn't look like the equal of a king, but it now seemed he was.
"Sir, are you Judge Tito?" I asked, after all the students had left.
"Yes, what can I do for you?" he asked.
"Sir, I'm told I need a search warrant," I said, making a small bow as I pulled out the papers. "Chief Frost said we need your approval."
The Chief's warning about Judge Tito proved to be right. For the next five minutes, he quizzed me. He had three basic questions. First, he wanted to be sure that my relationship with the Grantville police was legitimate. Then, he wanted me to explain the crime I was investigating. Finally, he wanted to know precisely why I was interested in any records the Red Cross might have on Eisfelder, Martel, and Kleinschmidt.
After I'd explained my case, he signed the typed copies of the warrant Vera had prepared. "I keep one," he said. "You return one to the police station and take the other to the Red Cross. They'll be closed by now, so you'll want to be there bright and early tomorrow. Good luck figuring out what's going on at the power plant."
On my way out, I decided to poke my nose into the steam engine shop. When I found it, I saw that it was in space that had once been one end of the auto shop. A group of men at one end of the room had an American car hoisted into the air so they could look at its undersides. At the other end, a small group of men was clustered around a pair of middle-sized steam engines.
An old man looked up as I walked over to the engines. "Can I help you?" he asked.
He introduced himself as Dick Shaver, the teacher for the evening steam class, and then invited me to join his students. I just watched and listened for ten minutes, saying nothing. The two steam engines were huge compared to the toy machine that Scott Hilton had shown me, yet tiny compared to the monsters at the power plant. One was turning lazily, making quiet put-put noises. The other was partially disassembled.
Only after the students had been set to work on their tasks did Dick turn back to me. "Any questions?"
I looked at the engine they'd opened up. "You've got the valves opened up, right?"
"You're a downtimer," Dick said, looking a bit surprised. "You know 'bout steam engines?"
"A little," I said. "Scott Hilton showed me round the power plant."
He brightened. "Lovely monsters they're buildin' out there!"
"So what are these machines for?"
"Teachin' and experimentin'. Gotta teach kids how they work, and gotta try new setups. The one we're workin' on was the second we made. Worked OK, but we know how to do better, so we're rebuildin' the valves. Good work for the kids."
I didn't see any kids in the room. His youngest students might have been eighteen, and two of them were near my age. "What kind of students do you get here?" I asked.
"All kinds," he said. "The worst, the best, an' everythin' between. Take Hans there," he gestured at a young man. "He's the son of a miller, grew up aroun' machines. He catches on right quick. The best we get are like that. Had a guy in here last spring, Manfred from Suhl, apprentice gunsmith 'for he come here."
"Manfred Kleinschmidt?" I asked.
"Yeah, that's right. He went to the power plant, didn't he. How's he doin'?"
"Mr. Hilton says he's one of the three best men he's got," I said, wondering how I could get more information out of him. "I didn't know he was from Suhl. Why'd he leave? I thought the gunsmiths there were doing really well."
Dick Shaver scratched his head. "Well, there's two answers to that. He said he was kicked out cause he was sweet on the boss's daughter. Might even be true, but the way I figure it, he probly come here as a spy. Pretty near every master gunsmith wants to learn the secret of our uptime guns y'know."
"You really think he might be a spy?"
Dick smiled. "There's people comin' here from all over to spy on how we do things. Seemed sorta funny at first, but what the heck, we got nothin' to hide. May as well show them the answers, even if they're a mite shy 'bout comin' out ans askin' straight questions." Suddenly, Dick Shaver turned to his students. "Stop! Halt!" he said, before turning back to me. "I gotta see to my students before they wreck that valve seat."
"My pardon," I said, turning to leave. "But before I go, I wonder. You're not teaching how to make guns, you're teaching how to make steam engines."
"How are steam engines like guns?" he asked, with a smile. "Well, for one, you bore a cylinder exactly the way you bore a cannon. Thanks for the visit."
I stopped at Tip's Tavern for supper on my way back into town. That's when it struck me. What Dick Shaver meant when he called Manfred Kleinschmidt a spy applied just as well to me. I was the Green Regiment's spy trying to understand Grantville's police department.
***
Claudette Green was in charge of the Red Cross office. She read my warrant closely before sending a young German girl into the back closet to find the papers I needed. While the girl was at work, Claudette looked me over. The look on her face wasn't approving.
"Good woman," I said, feeling awkward. "Is there a problem?"
"What do you know of the Red Cross?" she asked.
"'Tis a Christian charity," I said. "You help those wounded in battle, you help those seeking refuge," I drew breath to say more, but then realized that I'd said all I knew.
"Close enough," she said. "Do you understand that refugees might be less willing to seek our help if they know that our records might be turned over to the government?"
"No," I said, before I realized that admitting so might not have been wise.
"Think about it," she said. "If I could, I would demand an oath that you disclose nothing of what you learn here. Certainly nothing about any man who turns out to be innocent."
"On my honor," I said. "I will try to keep to your wish."
" Bitte? Die papieren," the girl said, from behind me.
" Danke. Let's see what we've got," Claudette said, sitting down to look at the papers. "Here," she said. "We have a folder for Thomas Eisfelder, nothing on the others."
In the next few minutes, I learned that Thomas Eisfelder had arrived in Grantville penniless a few weeks after the Imperial army and half of the king's army had swept south on the road to Coburg last fall. His home village somewhere not far from Eisfeld had been looted and burned by one army or the other.
Eisfeld has one foot in the Saxon Dutchies of Thurungia and the other in Franconia. A Franconian jager had shot at the power plant, so as far as I was concerned, anyone from the Werra valley was suspect. On the other hand, Thomas's story wasn't too different from those of half the Germans in Grantville.
"Ah," Claudette said, turning a page. "We helped him with job placement too. Look at the skills inventory."
I was mystified, but she translated the arcane paperwork for me. "It says he was the son of a millwright, apprenticed to his father. A good woodworker, some blacksmith skills, and good at machinery. We placed him as a carpenter with Ted Moritz first. When Mansaniello's steam engine company asked us to look for people who knew machinery, we told Eisfelder about the job."
"That's all you have?" I asked, after she started putting the papers back in order. "What about Kleinschmidt and Martel?"
She looked up at me with a serious look. "We're not the only refugee aid organization here in Grantville. Some of the churches help their own, and some people fend for themselves."
***
The mention of churches jogged my memory. Charles Martel was supposed to be a Huguenout. I knew that was some kind of French Protestant, but beyond that, I couldn't say much. I go to church when I can, but it's hard to keep track of all the different kinds of heretics o
n the fringe of the Protestant world. Some church in Grantville would probably accept the man, but which?
I set off across Grantville toward the Presbyterian Church. It's probably the poorest church in Grantville, but it's basically Calvinist, so that's where I've gone. Three men were standing outside, looking up at the building as I walked up.
"Wishing you a good morning," I said, as I recognized Pastor Wiley.
"Good morning indeed," he said. "I know your face from Sunday morning services, but I'm afraid I don't recall your name."
I introduced myself, and in turn, learned that the others were Deacon McIntire and Hans, a local stonemason. "The old building is a bit small and a bit run down," the pastor said. "We're talking about how to go about building a new church here, without closing the old one during construction."
He was modest. The old building was not merely a bit small and a bit run down. Since I'd first attended his church, the congregation had more than doubled. They talked about the new building for a few minutes, explaining that it would be made of brick and stone, and how they planned to build it around the old building. Finally, Pastor Wiley looked up at me, puzzled.
"So tell me, John, why is it you came?"
"I came to ask you a question. I've recently come across a man who is a Huguenout, and I wondered what you know about that church?"
He scratched his head. "I can't say I know much about Huguenouts, except that they're French Calvinists. I hardly knew that much when one of them showed up here back in June and asked for help. If I knew French, he could have explained more, but we had to make do with his bad English."
"So he comes to this church?"
"Yup, you've probably seen him yourself, dark hair, short, sort of a hooked nose, goes by the name of Charles. Usually sits in back. He looks like a man who could use a friend. I'll introduce you on Sunday."
"Were you able to help him?" I asked, wondering if he might be Charles Martel.
"I think so, at least, he thanked me. He said he was a locksmith, showed me a padlock, an uptime lock, mind you, and asked where he could learn how to make locks like that. I sent him to Reardon's Machine Shop, not that they make locks, but I bet they could if they wanted to."
"So Huguenouts are French Presbyterians," I said, trying to hide my recognition. A Huguenout locksmith named Charles could only be Charles Martel. I didn't want to leave the pastor thinking I was interested in him.
"Close enough," the Reverend said. "At least, more like us than Lutherans or Methodists. If your friend is ever in Grantville on a Sunday, tell him we're here and he's welcome."
"I will," I said, before I took my leave.
***
It was near noon, so I decided to stop at Cora's for something to eat before I went up to the police department to write up my report. All the Americans seemed to want their noon meals precisely at noon, and I'd learned that there was no point in trying to change their schedules to suit my habits.
Cora's coffee shop serves much more than just coffee. I've tried coffee made the Turkish way and made the American way, and I can't really stomach either. Cora has other drinks, though, and some really good pastries.
I was sitting at a corner table sipping mint tea and savoring a chunk of fruit cake when Cora walked over.
"Sergeant Leslie!" Cora said, smiling. Bernadette Adducci had introduced me to Cora just once, when I first started working with the Grantville police. It seems that she never forgets anyone.
"Good day, Cora," I said. "This fruit cake is excellent."
"It takes some inventing to make decent pastries when sugar is so hard to afford," she said. "I've got a German girl back in the kitchen who knows what she's doing, and between us, we've had fun."
A thought struck me. "Cora, you seem to know everything about everyone. I'm looking into three downtimers. I wonder if you've heard of any of 'em. Mind if I ask?"
"I can't guarantee results, but you're welcome to ask."
"Do you know anything of a man named Thomas Eisfelder?"
She shook her head. "Sorry, nothing."
"And how about Manfred Kleinschmidt?"
"I've had a Manfred in here," she said. "He stops in here sometimes on his way home from work. He sometimes works the night shift at the power plant, and he likes my breakfast menu."
"Sounds like the right man," I said. "What d'ye know about him?"
She grinned. "Not much, aside from the fact that he seems to be a nice guy and he's in love with a girl in Suhl. My German's not good enough yet to get the whole story. That's one hit and one miss. Who's your third man?"
"Charles Martel."
"The Frenchman?" she asked. "He works with Manfred, they've come in together a few times for breakfast, but he's also been here for dinner sometimes. He says our pastries are good, but not as good as the ones they make in Paris."
"He's from Paris?"
"That's what he says. I think something awful happened to his family there and he blames it on that Cardinal, what's his name from The Three Musketeers."
"Cardinal Richelieu?" I asked. I named the only cardinal I knew of in Paris while I wondered what he had to do with three gunmen. "Something awful? D'ye have any idea what?"
"Richelieu, right," she said, and then paused. "One morning, a pretty girl smiled at Charles, and I saw him begin to cry. He said the girl reminded him of his petite Marie, his daughter, I think. Lots of people around here have lost family, so I said she should rest in peace. He got mad at me then, swearing at the Cardinal, I think, but it was mostly in French. What I got was the word prison, that's the same in French, you know, and that it happened last May."
"My thanks to you," I said trying to string together what I'd learned.
"I got two out of three of your men. Not bad, is it?"
"Not bad at all," I said. "And a good story for one of them. I suppose now that I need to go try the pastries in Paris to see how yours compare."
She smiled at that and then turned to greet another customer while I sat there thinking. Something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
***
The pieces began to fall in place after lunch when I stopped into the police station to report on my morning's work. Much as I dreaded writing the reports the Grantville police demanded, that was what forced me to put all the facts I'd learned into order.
There were more facts on hand as well. Deloris Francisco had been on the evening shift the night before, and she'd phoned the landlords of our three suspects and written up a report on them. She'd learned that Thomas Eisfelder had come to Grantville simmering with anger at all soldiers for what they'd done to his home. The time he'd been arrested, it was for attacking a soldier. She'd learned that Manfred Kleinschmidt liked to carve wooden toys in his spare time, and she'd learned that Charles Martel had a great big Bible, all in French, that he read in his spare time.
Jill had a date for Martel's arrival in Grantville, the fifth day of June. That was in good agreement with what Pastor Wiley had told me, and it was as I was thinking about the dates that I realized what was wrong.
"Angela," I asked, looking up from my hastily scrawled notes. "How far is Paris from Grantville?"
"I don't know," she said. "Does it matter? I can phone the library and ask?"
"Please do that," I said.
A few minutes later, she had the answer. "It's about 500 miles by road."
"Call the power plant," I said. "I want to speak to Scott Hilton."
"What's it about?" she asked, dialing the phone.
"I think we need to arrest Charles Martel," I said, as she handed me the phone.
"Chief!" she called, while the phone was still ringing.
***
As things worked out, we didn't get out to the power plant until late afternoon, but Scott had told me that Martel was working the evening shift. I had ample time to explain everything to the chief and it gave the chief time to arrange backup. The Grantville police rule is to bring backup, as they call it, when you set out to arre
st someone.
So it was that I set out for the power plant with Jurgen Neubert and Rick McCabe. Rick would have been enough, but Chief Frost wanted Jurgen along for the experience. By the time the evening shift began to arrive, we were all hidden away. Scott and I were in an upper room he called the steam project office, a room cluttered with drawings and books, while I had Rick and Jurgen waiting behind a closed door across the hallway.
The guard at the gate phoned us when Martel checked in, and then Scott gave him ten minutes before phoning the machine shop and asking for Martel. Two minutes later, the Frenchman came into the office.
"Charles Martel?" I asked. He was a small man, dark haired and thin.
" Monsieur? " he asked, looking puzzled at the sight of me.
"You left Paris in May, and you arrived in Grantville on or before the fifth day in June. Why would a Paris locksmith be in such a hurry to come to Grantville?"
Charles gave a weak smile. "Ah, c'est comme sa. Un, a man in Paris give me un cadinas, a lock. Il a dit, he say it is from here. I am un maitre serrurier, quel est le mot, master locksmith? I never see such a lock before, so I come to here."
"How did a lock from Grantville come all the way to Paris and to you?"
" Je ne sais pas, " Charles said. "A man, he come and he give it for me. Il a dit, if you want learn this thing, go to Grantville."
"So you came five hundred miles in less than thirty days. I'll bet you didn't travel on the Lord's day, so you came at least twenty miles a day. You didn't carry that great big Bible of yours on your back, who paid for the horses? Surely a locksmith can't afford to abandon his family to run halfway across Europe."
The look on his face shifted from confidence to fear, but he said nothing. I glanced to the doorway, checking to see if Rick and Jurgen were in place.
"And your family, why did Cardinal Richelieu throw them in prison? Did he do it to force you into his service? Did he pay for the horses? What did he ask you to do when you got here?"