Greaves sighed and looked at one of her lackeys, who shrugged. “Regardless, we will need to take you to the Upper City for further questioning. I want to make sure that —”
“That you can make me disappear and replace me with someone more complacent?” Shen glared. “I am proud of my heritage. I don’t care what this country thinks of us. I thought, as a nation, we were above such petty oppression and profiling.”
“This is business, not profiling.”
“If so, why aren’t you at the 5th asking Robins what happened at that crime scene? Or at the 7th, pulling Viessman’s teeth?”
Greaves huffed again, grabbing a cigarette from her pack and waiting for one of her lackeys to light it. She turned, finally eyeing Allen.
“Erzly, I believe? The 5th’s boy, working with Roche.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Allen responded.
“You had some lip on you last time. Will I be getting that again?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Where’s your little handler?”
“Detective Roche is investigating the murder of Desmond Hartley and his subordinates. He has yet to inform me of any developments. But in regard to this argument, I concur with Commissioner Shen.”
“Is that so?”
Shen shook his head subtly, but Allen knew what he was doing. Shen was innocent, and if Greaves was going to be suspicious of anyone, it should be him and Roche. They were the kind of people who could handle stress and find a way out of dire situations. They had done it once; surely, they could do it a second time.
“You should be questioning someone else, not Shen, nor any of the other commissioners. The only person who fully investigated the crime scene by 72nd and 3rd was Elias Roche. If you want details, you should contact him directly.”
Greaves coughed, her eyebrows rising and lowering as she took in a drag. “And do you have any knowledge of that crime scene? You seem attached to his hip.”
“Perhaps.”
“You said you wouldn’t give me any lip.”
“I did. And you took an oath to uphold the law to the standards set by this country, not to be influenced by a personal agenda or social stigma. It seems both of us were fibbing.”
Greaves’s face went red. “You’d better watch your mouth, capek. Did you or did you not see the crime scene?”
“I did, but not so thoroughly that I could answer questions about it. Your best bet is to speak to Roche.”
“I’ll be speaking to both of you soon enough.” Greaves extinguished the cigarette under her shoe before moving her men out of the office. She walked over to Allen, standing well within his personal space, making him cower. “Do not take that tone with me again, or I will feed you to the shredder myself.”
“This is a country built of freedoms: freedom of religion, of speech, of the pursuit of happiness. Every man and woman is entitled to that.”
“That’s true. There’s just one problem.” She leaned in close enough that he could smell her smoke-ridden breath and feel the heat of her anger. “You’re neither.”
After she left, Allen turned to Shen, who was slumped in his chair, exasperated and already pouring himself something strong to drink. Allen pointed to the bottle, and the commissioner poured a second glass.
“You’ve got balls, standing up to Director Greaves like that. That’s the easiest way to get a target on your head.”
“We can handle it.” Allen sipped the drink. Much more bitter than the kind Robins drank, but it was quick to calm his nerves. “Roche will be angry when he hears about this.”
“Roche will be livid,” Tony laughed.
“He has the utmost respect for you, Commissioner. When I tell him why I did it, he’ll understand.”
“That’s true.” Shen nodded, cradling his drink. “As much as I warn my officers not to turn into Roche, he does have some good qualities. Lying to the director of the FBI to save me? Allen, I feel like I owe you.”
“It’s no trouble, Commissioner. Though if I am in a bind in the future, perhaps I could cash it in then?”
“I’ll drink to that!” Shen smacked his glass against Allen’s, downing the alcohol before leaning back in his chair. “Why is it still like this? My cousin has been working construction for years, and he’s about to be booted out and replaced by a Blue-eye. I can’t get my brother here from the Republic without causing a bureaucratic incident. I can’t even catch a break from some of my snarkier recruits. I thought with you things around, the world might be different. I mean, I’ve done my time taking lip and kissing ass to get where I am … I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you a pariah, but that’s how the world works.”
“It is.” Allen nodded, still nursing his drink as Shen poured another.
“You should have seen China before the Great War. Utter chaos since the turn of the century,” Shen began, lowering his voice. “Things have only just started settling down there, but I don’t know if the country will ever recover from the Boxer Rebellion debts. They are putting a dent in them with the Automatics business, though. God … I never get to speak about this to anyone. I just always have it sitting on my chest. It’s good you’re here, Allen. I doubt you’ll run off and rat on me to Greaves, huh?”
“I won’t,” Allen responded. “I’m sorry you have to deal with all this animosity.”
“It is what it is. At least I haven’t been disappeared yet.”
“Is the hostility that intense? Someone should do something.”
“Like who? Greaves?” Allen shrugged. “It’s bad, but it’s nothing like it used to be. Maybe I should be thankful people treat me as well as they do, all things considered. I mean, used to be when America hated something … well, you can ask Robins about what America did to him. His people got the worst of it. Enslaved, beaten, murdered in cold blood, not to mention the systemic discrimination after all that.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” Allen said, struggling to conceive of people’s capacity for hate.
“They don’t teach you that shit where you come from, huh? Yeah, America has always been one big poster for equality held up by its most oppressed people.”
“Do all Americans possess this particular brand of hate?”
“No, not all of them, though it feels that way at times. And it isn’t just here. Go anywhere else in the world and there will be a long, shameful history of people enslaving, killing, beating, torturing, and marginalizing others. People are shitty, it’s human nature for us to be. We’re animals, there’s no two ways about it. I hesitate to call you things better, but maybe you are, since you’re made in our image, but without some of the crucial human components.”
Allen looked at the glass in his hands, not sure whether to keep drinking or not. “Like?”
“Well, you’re quite tight as a collective. I don’t see you or that coppertop from the 5th discriminating against other model types. You all just generally dislike people, and people generally dislike all of you. The perfect duality. The perfect storm to get us all to co-operate and coexist.”
“It doesn’t feel like it’s working.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. Anyone here will tell you I’m probably the biggest prick of a commissioner in the city. Look at Robins and how irritable he is. And Greaves is, well, Greaves. The only bigwig in the Lower City who isn’t on edge all the time is that French bastard cruising with the 3rd Precinct. And you want to know why? Because we don’t believe in this charade, not for a second. How easily people like me went from unequal to equal as soon as the machines showed up. We know that if anything happens to change that, it’s straight back to the Dark Ages. Even now, it seems we’ll find any excuse to regress.”
Allen nodded as Shen finished. The commissioner downed his glass and refilled it once more, apparently trying to staunch his rage with alcohol.
“Commissioner,” Allen began hesitantly, “surely things aren’t all that bleak.”
“No, maybe not. Some people are better than others. Benevolence is a
rare trait in a human, something you might learn the hard way. But some people are good. People like Roche. He treats me like everyone else. He treats you like everyone else, too.”
“Roche, yes, but Robins is also good, as is Patrick Sinclair. The reporter at RCA was kind to me, as well …” Allen’s thoughts drifted, thinking about her again. “Not so much Elise Schafer. She hates me.”
“I’m glad I’ve never had to deal with her. She’s almost at the level of director for GE, and their word is law in this town. That company gives us more orders than the FBI does, and if she ever gets to the top, I can’t imagine what she might do to all of you.” Shen checked his watch and downed his glass, his face flushed red.
“Are you … okay, Commissioner?”
“I’m fine, Allen. Get out of here. Lord knows Greaves won’t be barking up my tree again anytime soon, thanks to you.”
“Please keep safe, sir.”
“I’ll be fine, Constable. Sorry you had to witness all that.”
Allen nodded and took his leave from the empty station. The bulbs on the Plate southward had shut off, the streetlights were coming on, and the setting sun peeked over the western horizon, shimmering against the skyscraper windows. He called a cab and rode it southbound to the library again. Thankfully, Toby would have found his dealer by now, meaning there was one less distraction to worry about once he got there.
Resting his head against the window, Allen looked up at the behemoth above. It was easy to see and feel its oppression. Part of him did feel noble, giving humanity an excuse to coexist. Humans might be destructive and impulsive, but he wouldn’t be. He would be better. Or, at the very least, he would try to be.
CHAPTER 15
I’D ALWAYS BEEN A FAN OF Dickens’s work. It reminded me of days at home when my mother used to read to me. The first book I remember was A Christmas Carol. It had given me comfort to see the snow fall outside my bedroom window when my mother read to me and the world was quiet, peaceful. The smell of soup and of my father’s suits, crisp from dry cleaning. Before the Plate, before the chaos of this new world had taken over. The book brought me back to a different time, a better time.
Allen let itself in around nine at night, its blazer covered in a thin layer of snow, which it shook off moments later. I peered over the top of my book and noticed it had a folder under its arm.
“Enjoy your time at the local library?” I asked.
“I did. It was a fascinating place. I wish I could spend all my days there. I’ve copied everything I found relevant to our search and organized it for you, since you have a short attention span.”
I frowned.
“I also contacted Commissioner Shen,” it continued.
“Shen?” I propped myself up on the couch, putting the book down. “He okay?”
“Yes. Sinclair just wanted me to check up on him, is all.”
“Ah, good. So, what do you have for me?”
The table was soon covered with everything Allen had found relevant at the library: maps, shipment orders, and names for the exchange of something. Goods? Money? Maybe both. There were also a bunch of reports from the 5th, definitely new files, given the kind of paper used. One of the most prominent items on the table was a reproduction of a black-and-white photo of a Frenchman in a workshop.
“I also dug into the police records from a few months ago, and you were correct: there seems to have been a string of four-person hits perpetrated against the Maranzano Mob. No one paid much attention because they thought it was business as usual.”
“Figures, with ’Zano. He’s picky with who he cares about in his organization,” I said. “Any connection other than the number of bodies?”
“They thought these were Mob hits, so no one felt it prudent to gather any evidence. A terrible nearsighted mistake, no doubt, but I’d bet money all the bullets were Lebels.”
I turned my attention to the picture. The man’s hair was slicked back, and he wore wide glasses. He had a smile on his face, a thick moustache, and a patch on his chin.
“Who’s the Frenchie?”
“That’s André Mercier, the designer of one of the most coveted firearm lines in the world, the Mercier Vierling. More importantly, the designer of the only three Mercier Vierlings in existence. Recognize this?”
Another black-and-white photo of the same workshop showed three identical rifles, each with three barrels on top and one at the bottom. The ornate metalwork on the barrels and stocks seemed to glimmer even in the crude reproduction.
“Beautiful work. This is it. It has to be.”
“I concur, this is the weapon our assailant was using. The recorded measurements of the weapon match the dimensions of the briefcase’s foam filling.”
“Briefcase?” I asked.
“The container our killer used to transport their weapon discreetly. They left it at the scene when I gave chase during our encounter in the Upper East Side.”
“Right.”
“The top barrels are capable of firing breech-loaded Lebel cartridges, while the lower barrel is capable of firing a variety of 12-gauge shotgun shells.”
“I don’t remember the French using shotguns in the war.”
“Well, the Americans did bring over shotguns in 1915, when the first Manuals arrived. It seems Mercier was infatuated with them.”
“Regardless, he couldn’t fire a Von Whisper cartridge from this … not unless he had something to fill and rifle the breech so it could fire Von Whisper shells.”
“Precisely,” Allen agreed.
“Jesus, that’s still impressive. That ain’t a long barrel. He’d have to be a crack shot.” I sat back on the couch, putting my hand on Allen’s shoulder. “Nice work, really. This is amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“So, where are they? There are only three of them, so that narrows down our possible suspects to people who have access to one of these.”
“Agreed. I’ve tracked the sale of the Vierlings between hands, even overseas. The first one made, called Richardet, is at the French War Museum. The other two are in the United States. The first of these two, Allard, is at the Metropolitan Museum. The second, Guichard, is owned by a private collector here in New York.”
“How did you get records of private sales?” I asked.
“Don’t ask.” It winked.
Looked like it had some tricks up its sleeves.
Allen handed me the form detailing the history of the weapons’ movements. The list was extensive, reaching all the way to San Francisco and back to the East Coast. The dollar values went up with each entry, and the numbers made my wallet and heart hurt equally. The final listing was dated September 1932 — the weapon had been sold for $125,000 to one Elise Schafer of the General Electrics Corporation of America.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
“There are rumours that a fourth Vierling was in development but Mercier died before he could finish it. It was to have been his masterpiece, named Renaud, completing the set of four all named after the Four Sons of Aymon, a medieval tale.”
“And where might this fourth one be?”
Allen handed me a crude photo of a shelled field from France, dated 1917. The skeleton of a house remained, smoke billowing, with soot-covered soldiers nearby, raiding the area for food or supplies, one such soldier carting a barely intact ammunition crate from the smouldering ruins.
“The Mercier home … and workshop,” Allen explained. “Supposedly it was hit by several stray shells that overshot their target. The fourth Vierling was inside, and it was presumed destroyed, never having been finished.”
“I see.” I handed back the photo and focused back on our current troubles. “If Schafer has one of the three surviving weapons, and she’s in with the Iron Hands, there’s a proverbial smoking gun right there.”
“Roche, we need to think rationally. We can’t go storming into her house without some solid evidence on that latter point.”
Yeah, that would be the fastest way to get a bull
et in the face. “Fair.”
“Now, think: we have something to go off as to who this Vierling Killer might be. At the scene with McIntyre, the killer was wounded. Where, specifically, I’m not sure, but maybe the arm. Definitely upper body. There wasn’t enough blood to indicate anything vital was hit, so a limb is likely. Our suspect will have severe bruising on their left shoulder, as well as a knife wound that probably hasn’t healed yet.”
This narrowed down our suspects, but not as much as I’d hoped. “So, who are our possible Vierling Killers?”
“Elise Schafer — or someone working for her — or perhaps someone working for the Iron Hands. Not that Rabbit fellow, but someone else. Maybe that fellow you keep seeing.”
“Yeah, I need to find out who the hell that is …”
Allen nodded. “And perhaps Simone Morane.”
I chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t put all our eggs in one basket, there …”
It raised an eyebrow, its suspicion now shifting to me. “Is there a reason you might want to exonerate her?”
“Well, I went to lunch with her, talked about life and days gone by. I don’t see much in the way of a connection between her and this killer.”
“She is quite snoopy, and seeing her appear wherever we go has been making me nervous,” Allen explained. “Was there anything from your luncheon that you believe noteworthy?”
“Her mother was from Verdun.”
“André Mercier lived in the city of Reims, several kilometres west of Verdun. Perhaps there was some connection?” It looked at me, hopeful, wanting to believe it could convince me.
“No clue. But probably not, seeing as her mother never came back after returning there in 1914.”
Allen thought about this for a moment. “Did you check whether she had any wounds on her body when you met her?”
“No.”
“As in there weren’t any, or you didn’t check?”
“The latter.”
Allen’s eyebrow popped up. I couldn’t tell whether I preferred when it was more expressive, or less. “Well, we should find some way to do so. And we could pry into what happened to her mother during the War, in case there is a connection.”
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