Aetheric Elements: The Rise of a Steampunk Reality
Page 20
Croaker and Phoebus met in the gaming parlor the younger man preferred, to discuss what they had found. It was an upscale establishment and had fine quartz tulip shades around the silver gas chandeliers above each table. Mirrors made the room appear larger than it actually was. The green velvet of the table tops matched the thick carpet and drapes, the dark wood of the wainscot and tables offsetting the white pillars. Music tinkled from Professor Nightingale’s Magical Musical Mechanical Clavichord. Similar to the player pianos, this musical monstrosity also simulated a string quartet and percussion, creating a small symphony in a box.
It was early and the evening business had not yet arrived. Four other tables had clientele, playing dominos, cards, and drinking from fine crystal snifters and wine glasses. Smoke wafted on the evening breeze as the waiters with their ankle length aprons, bow ties, and greased hair served appetizers to the upper crust of society.
Phoebus set down his gin and drew a cigar from the monogrammed case he kept inside his jacket. He was dressed in the height of fashion. Dove grey gloves matched his top hat. His coat and vest was balanced by straight cut white slacks and shirt. He sniffed as Croaker took a shot of whiskey and chased it with his beer.
The older man wore the same clothes he had worn that morning, but had added a leather vest. He had removed his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair to the chagrin of his companion. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and tucked them under arm garters. He leaned back and packed a pipe from a leather pouch, wiping the spilled tobacco from his trousers onto the floor.
“Sewers,” Croaker said.
“Why must you be so common?” Phoebus asked.
“Because I speak plainly and it is where we needed to go. You already made it clear your trip was a waste of time, as I thought it would be.”
“It was not a waste of time. The young man is paying us well to search for his intended. And before you object again, there is nothing wrong more than one person paying us to complete a job.”
“You would go to the Mayor, Honorable J. V. Guillotte himself, to get more money if you thought the city would pay us for finding the cause of this rash of disappearances.”
Phoebus’s face lit up with amusement at the suggestion and he turned his eyes to the ceiling as he gestured towards the older man. “Now you are beginning to think! I knew there was hope for you.”
Croaker sighed and continued. “This thing came from the sewers and it brought the women, or at least Miss Remington, to the Fair grounds. We need to search there.”
“The World’s Fair? I went there and saw the Eighth Dasism Calvary Band. They played a beautiful rendition of Tagler’s overture and grand march from Thredbeir. There must have been more than ten thousand people there.” Phoebus leaned back, smiled and drew on his cigar, blowing the smoke out in rings. “The fair is almost two-hundred acres.”
“Two hundred and forty-nine acres from the St. Charles Street to the Whiting River, to be precise. The main building is three-three acres by itself and is the largest roofed structure in the world.”
“Where would we even start?”
Croaker smiled back and he puffed a cloud of blue smoke from his pipe. Raising his glass, he toasted his friend. “I have a hunch. How do you feel about horticulture and electric elevators?”