Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  Marion was silent.

  “That doesn’t worry you at all?”

  “Of course it worries me, Bill. We’ve had this conversation already. I wish there was another way. I wish I didn’t have to be involved in any of this. But I can’t just sit around and do nothing. You realize what will happen to Frank if he’s convicted of the murder?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t want to linger on the thought. “I need to find that tunnel beneath the break room and see where it goes. If I can find out what Gillroth and Nancy are hiding down there, maybe I’ll understand what it has to do with White’s murder.”

  To the truth.

  Bill ran his fingers through his hair. He was conflicted, that much was obvious. He cared about Frank and the investigation, and of course he cared about Marion. But she suspected Nicholas’s threats made him fear for his own future at the agency, and what might become of him should he involve himself in the matter any further.

  At last, he seemed to come to a decision. He gathered himself and straightened up. “If we’re going to continue with all this, we can’t be reckless about it. You’re no good to Frank if you’re fired, and God knows if you get the sack, so will I.”

  Despite the terror ripping through her, the exhaustion and guilt, Marion was relieved. Of course she’d have understood if Bill chose to turn away now, but without him and his calm logic, she’d soon fall apart. As always, she needed him more than he realized. She hugged him. “Okay, yes. I agree.”

  Bill opened his backpack with an air of impatience. “Good. Because you’re due in the Filing Department in half an hour.” He handed her a roster, her own. “I took the liberty of collecting it for you from the noticeboard this morning. If we’re going beneath the break room, now’s definitely not the time.”

  They entered into a lengthy debate. They knew that if they had any chance of entering the break room—a place apprentices were not permitted—without being seen or causing suspicion, they were going to have to do it during a time they could be certain no Inquirers would be there.

  Bill pulled out his own work roster. “You can’t miss any more shifts today but there’s no point doing this during lunch, the break room will be crawling with Inquirers.”

  “Tonight, then?”

  Bill grunted. “No. The break room is like our common room, the Inquirers hang around there whenever they’re off duty.”

  “So when, then?” Marion rubbed her temples. A headache was brewing, making it hard to think.

  Bill consulted his and Marion’s rosters side by side, then looked up to the ceiling in thought. “The Inquirers’ weekly Intelligence briefing in the auditorium. Thursday morning.”

  “Thursday morning? But we’re due at the field office then. Both of us.”

  Every second Thursday from eight to ten, the apprentices were expected at the field office for two hours of training with Frank—a session designed to test their skills with gadgets, their stealth and agility. Marion wasn’t sure who’d be supervising the sessions now that Frank was being held, but she was certain it wouldn’t be canceled.

  “Yeah,” Bill said thoughtfully, “unless we can be two places at once.”

  * * *

  Early the following morning, Marion and Bill spoke of their newly developed plan over breakfast in the cafeteria.

  “You’re going to have one hour at the most,” Bill said, handing Marion a coffee. “Whoever’s taking us for the sessions will get suspicious after that.”

  “Right, okay. And what about Nicholas? He won’t be at the Inquirers’ briefing and since he’s on my tail...”

  “No, you’re right.” Bill thought for a moment. “But I have an idea for that. Just trust me,” he added as Marion opened her mouth to protest. “I’ve a knack for deceiving Nicholas, if you remember?”

  Marion smiled and squeezed his hand. “Couldn’t forget it.”

  The field office—despite the banality of its name—was an elaborate emporium of trickery, a two-story construction that resembled the frame of a large house. Beyond the “house’s” foyer was a line of ten doors and beyond them a series of rooms, corridors and hallways fitted with an arrangement of traps—shifting floorboards, invisible trip wires, cameras, microphones—all put in place to hinder the apprentices as they attempted to move through their designated door and inter-leading corridor, hallway or passage and out the other side of the building.

  Field office training had always been more enjoyable than challenging for Marion. She was light-footed and observant with an eye for detecting snares and hidden cameras. Today, however, things would be a little more complicated. Already her nerves were firing.

  Bill checked his watch as he and Marion paused outside the foyer. “We’re ten minutes late, that should do it.”

  Marion nodded. She probably looked more certain than she felt. “Good luck.”

  Bill smiled. “It’ll work. Trust me.”

  They crossed the foyer and up to a line of doors where Aida Rakes and the other first-year apprentices (barring David, who was yet to return from the hospital) had already gathered.

  Bill grunted. “Rakes is taking us, couldn’t be worse...”

  Marion felt a surge of unease. Rakes had been a fiercely brilliant apprentice in her day, and apart from being revered for her strong will and sharp tongue, she had gained a reputation as a keen observer, too—a skill Marion assumed had only improved with age and experience. There wasn’t much they’d be able to get past her. But Marion was nervous for another reason, as well. “You think that means she’s going to miss the briefing, or that it’s been rescheduled?” Since Rakes was head of the Intelligence Department, it seemed odd that she should be the one to take the field training in place of the Inquirers’ briefing.

  Bill didn’t have time to answer.

  “Lane, Hobb,” Rakes said, eyeing them contemptuously, “good of you to join us at last.” She consulted her watch and then the clipboard in her hand. “I suppose you two will have to be paired together, since I’ve already paired the others.”

  Marion and Bill passed each other a glance, an essential part of their plan was to make sure this happened—thus the reasoning behind their late arrival.

  Rakes addressed the group at large. “Right. Let’s get on with things. Each of you will be sent through a different door,” she pointed to the line of doors behind her. “As you know, the point of this exercise is to get yourselves through to the other side without setting off any alarms, or as few as possible. And without requiring a trip to the infirmary.”

  At this, Jessica’s breathing became audible—field training was not her forte. “Will there be any poison darts this time?” she asked, reminding Marion of an incident three weeks ago where she and Jessica had been paired together for a session, and which resulted in Jessica receiving several darts to the leg when she set off a trip wire.

  Rakes grinned but didn’t answer.

  “So yes, then,” Jessica said. She looked at Preston—her partner for the session. “God help me.”

  Rakes opened a black box on the bench next to her. “Everyone will be allowed to choose one gadget from this box for the session. Pick carefully.” She called the apprentices forward.

  Marion selected the Skeleton Key, Bill a light orb, and the apprentices took their places in front of their assigned doors while Rakes disappeared around the back of the emporium and out of sight.

  “You’ve got the map?” Bill asked under his breath. “You might need it.”

  Marion patted her breast pocket.

  “Okay. And just remember,” he added, looking down at the Skeleton Key in her hand, “it’s not going to be as simple as lock-picking a door. If there really is something beneath the break room and you find the entrance, it’ll be snared.”

  Snared. Of course it would be. She was reminded of Gillroth’s office and the latch he’d had to pull down before
entering. And of Frank’s office, the lever on which she’d had to step to open the door.

  “Trip wires, trapdoors, I don’t know,” he went on. “It’s pretty easy for anyone to get their hands on a Skeleton Key around here. I doubt a locked door will be your only obstacle. You ready?”

  A loud bell rang from the ceiling. The lights in the foyer dimmed and three doors creaked open. The teams stepped over their respective thresholds; Bill and Marion waited behind. “Okay,” he said. “Remember, an hour at most.”

  Marion nodded. Her legs were heavy, unwilling to move.

  “I’ll clear everything for you as best I can,” he went on, “and wait for you before I exit.”

  Marion hesitated. Suddenly, the whole the thing didn’t seem like such a great idea.

  “Mari! Hurry up!” Bill panted, already halfway through disarming the trip wire one foot beyond the door.

  She sped from the field office, down the corridor that led toward the western wing of the agency.

  She dived right and into a storage room as she heard a racket of voices coming down the passage toward her.

  “...don’t be absurd, how could it be on fire? That’s impossible,” said Nancy, out of breath as she marched past.

  “Saw it with my own eyes, I’m afraid,” said Nicholas as he followed in her wake.

  Marion waited until they were out of earshot, catching just the last thread of the conversation: something about a Time Lighter having gone off in the common room.

  She reached the end of the Grand Corridor, then took a right into one of its smallest tributaries. She came to a halt outside a plain wooden door—the entrance to the break room. She paused. Listening for movement, for anyone who might not be at the briefing.

  When satisfied, she turned the handle. It was unlocked.

  The break room was larger than the apprentices’ common room and more lavishly furnished. Chairs and couches were scattered around a fireplace, three large oak desks and a small kitchenette. It was empty and quiet. She made her way around the room, examining each floorboard, each part of the wall, but nowhere could she see any hint of something that might be a door.

  She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes had already passed.

  She walked the perimeter of the room again, gliding her hand along the wall as she went, feeling for joints, disturbances, notches. She realized that if a concealed door was hidden here, it would be very difficult to find. This was the place the Inquirers spent most of their off-time, and if none of them—detectives trained to see what others missed—had noticed anything untoward, it must be exceptionally well-disguised.

  Unless you knew where to look.

  She pulled the map from her coat pocket, unfurled it on her knee and traced the course of the indistinct arrow written in normal ink. Then, marking the origin of the arrow with her finger, she applied the monocle to her eye and examined the break room perimeter under the lens. The arrow seemed to start somewhere near the southeastern wall. She removed the monocle and surveyed the room once more.

  She paused for a moment, trying to orientate herself.

  Southeast.

  She muttered to herself, “The Grand Corridor is northwest from here so...” She turned to her right, to the fireplace. And there it was, something odd about the carpeting. Where the rest of the carpet fit perfectly against the skirting board, this particular section appeared to be cut back, as if making space for something.

  She scrutinized the wall more closely, noticing that one of the bricks near the skirting board was shaped somewhat differently from its neighbors—its edges less sharp, not quite flush with the rest of the wall. She touched it with her fingertip, feeling the subtle giveaway of a joint. She applied a gentle pressure and although it felt as though the brick might soon give way, it didn’t move.

  She tried again. Still nothing.

  She got up and ran over to the kitchenette, retrieved a sturdy butter knife and repositioned herself at the wall. She slipped the knife’s blade into what she assumed was a concealed joint. There was a scratching, turning sound as she shimmied the blade farther into the space.

  At last she felt it, a catch deep within the crease. She jabbed it with the blade, feeling it release almost instantly.

  There was a round of soft clicks, like the turning of a wheel. Marion took a step back. Slowly, the wall split in two, parting to reveal a man-size hole and a ladder that led down into the floor. She got on her knees and peered into the blackness. A musty smell wafted up from unseen depths.

  She got up and scoured the room until she found something suitable—a pile of books sitting on one of the side tables. She grabbed the top three books and ran back over to the hole in the floor. Moving quickly, she positioned herself just to the side and, choosing the heaviest of the three books, dropped it into the hole.

  The book landed with a thump. Nothing. She waited another ten seconds and then she heard it—a chorus of whistles beneath her. She did not need to peer into the hole to know what they were—darts, a lot of them, whistling through the air below. Eventually the noise stopped and she dropped the second book into the hole. She waited again; this time, however, nothing came.

  Half satisfied with her efforts, but with no more time to waste, she climbed down the ladder and into the secret lair.

  The ladder was much shorter than she’d expected. She came to land on the two-book pile directly below the last rung, then, careful not to step anywhere else, reached to the wall behind her where she found the light switch. The space around her illuminated—a small and cramped basement. It was cold, damp, lined with cobwebs and dust.

  A chill settled in the air.

  She shuddered and moved toward the farthest, darkest corner of the room. Here the walls were bare and formed of grimy, jagged stone. As she’d expected, part of the wall had split apart to expose a winding passageway, a gaping throat of black that snaked its way into the shadows, into the depths—a slipway across the Border.

  She tried several light switches, eventually finding the one that turned on a series of low-glowing lamps dotted along the tunnel walls. She stood for a moment at the mouth of the passageway, imagining the many miles of rock that lay ahead. She took a step forward. A soft breeze touched her face, a foul smell, as if from something long dead and forgotten.

  A chill rippled down her spine, but she entered the tunnel, anyway.

  She felt the walls press in around her. Despite the lamps, the way forward was barely visible. She moved quickly, assured by the decision that if she didn’t discover something soon, she’d have to turn back and try again another time.

  But several yards farther on, she saw it. The tunnel petered out at a fork. One way leading onward into the dark, the other to a rusted metal gate, standing ajar, and beyond, a large rectangular room. She stepped inside. Lining the walls were shelf upon shelf of jars and vials and containers of every shape and size. Some were empty, most were filled with swirling gases and unusually shaped stones, some that looked like glass orbs, others like precious metals. In one corner of the basement was a workbench on which sat a row of Bunsen burners, pots, trays and an assortment of unfamiliar instruments.

  On another workbench, perched just on the edge, was a glittering gray eagle. It wasn’t moving, though Marion guessed from the tiny hairline joints on its legs, wings, neck and beak that it could. She touched its wing—cold and solid. Then its beak—sharp and delicate. While the bird’s solid white and pupil-less eyes stared fixedly across the room, it still gave the unnerving impression it was watching her.

  On second inspection of the workbenches, Marion found a glass box filled with hundreds of tiny crystal vials. Next to the box were a stack of old papers, some so weathered their script could not be made out. But among the ancient and illegible papers she found something that turned her blood cold.

  It was a hand-drawn diagram depicting the several constituents of
what could only have been a bomb. The diagram and script below was dated December 1943—Operation Gray Eagle.

  Marion’s breath quickened as she attempted to make sense of the diagram: a shell casing, a timepiece, a chamber, a detonator. Some of it she was able to decipher, most was far too complex. Below the diagram were a few paragraphs. She scanned through them with haste, picking out what she could.

  Operation Gray Eagle...production and testing commenced in underground bunkers, location classified...clockwork bomb...top-secret chemical weaponry project...privately funded enterprise...in preparation for German invasion...effects of concealment gas (known as Gray Eagle) similar to mustard gas with additional components to act on neurological system including disorientation, confusion, lethargy, diffuse neuromuscular symptoms, ocular irritation...alchemic explosive fifteen times more powerful than dynamite.

  She paused, breathed, then read the final line of the document.

  Experiment failed due to numerous casualties during testing phase.

  She turned back to the diagram of the clockwork bomb, her brain firing, trying to understand. Her hands started to shake. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She picked up one of the tiny crystal vials and studied its contents in relation to the diagram—it held a type of translucent mist, scattered with specks of silvery light. It was labeled Gray Eagle and, according to the diagram, was to be inserted into the bomb upon deployment.

  She uncorked the vial and tipped just a drop of the strange substance onto the workbench. It smelled like sulfur and a whitish near-translucent mist rose, cooling the space around it. In less than the time it took for her brain to take in what she was seeing, the mist had caused her eyes to water and sting, her head to spin. The longer she stood there, transfixed, the more her eyes burned and the colder and more disoriented she became.

  Her mind was fogged. Sluggish. She knew that what she was looking at and experiencing was significant and yet she couldn’t piece together why. She’d lost track of time and purpose. Her muscles twitched but failed to move.