by Amanda Quick
Chapter 7
Detective Brandon used one hand to tilt his fedora back on his head. He eyed Futuro with a mix of frustration and dismay.
“How the hell am I supposed to arrest a robot?” he said. “Dope that out for me, will ya?”
“I don’t think there’s much point in arresting Futuro,” Chester Ward said. “It’s got a bunch of motors and an impressive amount of electrical wiring stuffed inside, but when you get right down to it, Futuro is just a modern version of a clockwork toy, not Frankenstein’s monster. I know machines and I’m telling you, there’s no way this thing could have suddenly gone crazy and turned on Pickwell.”
“Try telling that to a jury,” Matthias said.
It was seven forty-five in the morning. After a few hours of sleep, the phone call from his mother, and a lot of coffee, he was once again backstage at the Palace. He was not alone. The small crowd gathered around Futuro included Luther, Oliver Ward, and Detective Brandon. They had watched as Oliver’s uncle, Chester Ward—an inventor with several patents to his name—had gingerly removed the robot’s aluminum back panel.
“No need to wait for a jury trial,” Oliver said. “Within forty-eight hours the robot will have been tried and convicted in the press.”
“You’re right,” Luther said. “The killer-robot story is going to be a sensation for at least a week or two.”
In addition to the motionless mechanical man, the space was cluttered with an assortment of theatrical equipment. Lights, cables, catwalks, and pulleys dangled from the ceiling. The large wooden crate that had housed Futuro stood near the small loading dock. The front was open, revealing the empty interior.
Matthias held up the morning edition of the Burning Cove Herald.
“Mrs. Ward’s riveting report of the murder is probably going national as we speak,” he said. “Every paper in the country will pick up the story. By the end of the day, most of the population will be convinced that the robot gunned down its inventor.”
“That would be a very safe bet,” Luther said.
Oliver smiled briefly. “My wife does have a way with words.”
“She certainly does,” Matthias said.
The report of the murder of Norman Pickwell had been written under Irene Ward’s byline. It was accompanied by a photo of Futuro that had been taken before the demonstration had begun. Matthias read it aloud.
ROBOT MURDERS INVENTOR ONSTAGE IN PACKED THEATER.
HUNDREDS WITNESS SHOCKING SCENE.
Last night your correspondent was in the audience when a robot invented by Dr. Norman Pickwell opened a suitcase, took out a gun, and calmly shot his creator. A doctor, seated in the tenth row, rushed onstage in what proved to be a hopeless effort to save Pickwell’s life. Sadly, the inventor died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.
Seymour Webster, one of the ambulance attendants, claimed that with his last breath, Dr. Pickwell exclaimed, “The creature turned on me. I should have known better than to play Frankenstein.”
“Frankenstein’s monster was fiction,” Chester grumbled.
“Sure,” Matthias said. “But everyone has seen the movie and the sequel.”
He tossed the paper aside, took Chester’s flashlight, and aimed it at the rat’s nest of wires that constituted the robot’s innards.
“You’re right, Chester,” he said. “This is sloppy work.” He switched the beam of the flashlight so that it shone on the robot’s dramatic face. “Something is definitely off here.”
“What do you mean?” Luther asked.
“The design of the head and body is quite striking.”
Luther took a closer look at the robot’s features. “Almost regal, isn’t it? Reminds me of the photos of the death mask of that ancient Egyptian king that Howard Carter discovered back in the twenties. King Tut or something.”
“King Tutankhamen,” Oliver said. He snapped his fingers. “You’re right. I’ve been trying to figure out why the robot looked vaguely familiar.”
Luther studied Matthias. “What were you saying about something being off?”
Matthias lowered the flashlight. “We’ve got an artistically designed aluminum housing stuffed with a lot of shoddy electrical wiring and cheap mechanical parts. It’s as if two different people were involved with the creation of Futuro—an artist and a mediocre inventor. Seems off, that’s all.”
Luther turned to Chester. “You just told us that this thing was, essentially, a kind of fancy clockwork toy.”
“Near as I can figure,” Chester said. “And that’s assuming all those motors and wires actually work. I’m not even sure about that. There’s no obvious way to activate the damned thing.”
“Clockwork toys have been around for a long time,” Luther pointed out. “They can be engineered to carry out some fairly complicated maneuvers.”
“That’s right,” Oliver said. “When I was a kid, I remember seeing clockwork figures that could row a small boat or pedal a miniature bicycle. There was one that shot a little arrow.”
“Any chance that this robot could have been designed to pull the trigger of a gun?” Luther asked.
“Sure,” Chester said. “But someone would have had to put the gun into the robot’s hand, aim it in the right direction, and then give the command to pull the trigger.”
“None of those things happened last night,” Oliver said.
“No,” Matthias agreed. “When the robot came back onstage, it was still carrying the suitcase. That wasn’t supposed to happen. You could see that Pickwell was surprised. The entire audience had heard him order the robot to leave the suitcase behind the curtain.”
Luther looked thoughtful. “Instead, the robot put the suitcase on the bench, took out the gun, and pulled the trigger not once but twice. What’s more, it had to adjust the aim, because after the first shot, Pickwell was in a different position.”
Chester shook his head. “I just don’t think this thing was capable of carrying out so many complex mechanical actions. But maybe I’m missing something. I need to get Futuro to my workshop, where I can do a proper job of examining it.”
Luther frowned. “What about Futuro’s response to voice commands? Pickwell asked him to predict the weather and the robot gave a forecast.”
Chester’s bushy brows rose. “Nothing fancy about the weather prediction. Come with me.”
He led the way to a record player sitting on a small bench. There was a record on the turntable.
“Well, damn,” Matthias said. “That explains a few things.”
Chester turned on the machine and gently lowered the needle onto the record. Futuro’s scratchy voice boomed out of the speaker.
“. . . There will be fog in the morning but by noon the day will turn warm and sunny. No rain is expected.”
Chester lifted the needle arm. “I found this right after I got here this morning. There are also some answers to other questions that Pickwell never had a chance to ask.”
“Magic,” Oliver said.
Matthias and the others looked at him.
“Stage magic,” Oliver explained. “But this record player didn’t activate itself. Every magician has an assistant.”
Detective Brandon grunted. “Charlie Hubbard. We’re still looking for him.”
Matthias looked at Brandon. “I’d like to talk to the theater manager.”
“Help yourself,” Brandon said. “He’s in his office.”
The theater manager’s name was Tillings. He was a small, anxious man in his mid-forties. He could not offer much in the way of helpful information.
“Pickwell told me he didn’t need any help backstage,” Tillings said. “In fact, he made it clear he didn’t want anyone except his assistant back there. Between you and me, I got the feeling he was afraid someone might figure out how Futuro really functioned.”
“Inventors
tend to be a little paranoid when it comes to protecting their work,” Matthias said. “With good reason. What can you tell me about Charlie Hubbard, the assistant?”
“Not much,” Tillings said. “He wasn’t here very long and while he was around, he kept to himself.”
“Did you see Hubbard backstage during the demonstration?” Matthias asked.
“No. I was out front watching from the last row. I told you, Pickwell didn’t want anyone to get too close to his precious robot.”
“When was the last time you noticed Charlie Hubbard?” Matthias asked.
Tillings pondered that briefly and then shook his head. “I’m not sure. To tell you the truth, what with everything that’s been going on, I forgot about him until now. I reckon the last time I laid eyes on him was right before the performance. I took a quick look backstage, just to make sure he didn’t need anything, y’know? I saw Hubbard putting a record on the record player. He got mad when he noticed me and told me to get lost.”
“I would appreciate it if you would give me a tour backstage,” Matthias said.
Tillings went blank. “You were just back there.”
“I’d like to take another look.”
“Okay.” Tillings got to his feet. “Any idea what you’re looking for?”
“Anything that looks different to you,” Matthias said.
Tillings went down a short hall and opened a door. Matthias followed him into the shadowy space behind the heavy red curtains.
“Take a good look around and tell me if there is anything here that looks different from the way it was when you checked on Hubbard just before the demonstration,” Matthias said.
Tillings shrugged. “Everything looks the same as it always does. Most of this stuff belongs to the theater. The shipping crate and the record player belong to Dr. Pickwell, of course, but I saw them just before the show. They haven’t been moved. Huh.”
“What?” Matthias asked.
Tillings took another look around. “The trunk is gone.”
“What trunk?” Matthias asked.
“I was here when Hubbard arrived with Pickwell’s stuff. I had to unlock the back door. In addition to the crate and the record player there was a large trunk. Looked like the kind theater people use for props and costumes. I assume it contained the things that the robot picked up and carried around onstage during the demonstration, like the flower vase.”
“You’re sure about the trunk?” Matthias asked.
“Yeah,” Tillings said. “I remember because I asked the assistant if he needed any help with it. He said no.”
Matthias looked at Luther. “And now it’s gone.”
“Think it’s important?” Luther asked.
“Maybe,” Matthias said. “Because it’s missing, and right now anything that’s missing is interesting.”
A short time later Detective Brandon left to see if there had been any progress locating Charlie Hubbard. Leaving Chester behind to deal with the logistics of moving Futuro to the workshop, Matthias, Luther, and Oliver walked out into the fog-shrouded morning.
“Let me know if there is anything else I can do to help,” Oliver said.
He got into his speedster and drove off in the direction of the Burning Cove Hotel.
Matthias watched the sleek vehicle disappear down the street.
“Nice car,” he said.
“They say it’s the fastest car in California,” Luther said. “It’s a replacement for the one that Oliver used to drive. Some days he would take the other one out to an empty stretch of highway and drive it very, very fast. He doesn’t do that anymore.”
“Why not?” Matthias asked.
“He got married,” Luther said. “His wife, Irene, won’t let him risk his neck these days. I hear they’re expecting a baby.”
“Ah,” Matthias said. “Kids change everything.”
“So I’m told.”
Matthias stopped beside his maroon Packard convertible. He and Luther stood, not speaking, for a long moment.
“Think the manager was in on it?” Luther asked after a while.
“No,” Matthias said. “He was telling the truth.”
Luther nodded, not questioning the verdict. He paused a beat. “What about Amalie Vaughn?”
“She’s not involved, either.”
“You’re sure?”
Matthias rested one hand on the Packard’s windshield frame. “Well, I haven’t asked her specifically if she is involved in the murder and the theft of a top secret device, if that’s what you mean. That would be somewhat awkward. But, yes, I’m sure she knows nothing about either the murder or the stolen machine. Why are you focusing on Amalie Vaughn?”
“I told you that she was a trapeze artist who was nearly murdered about six months back.”
“Right,” Matthias said. “She was saved because the killer fell from the trapeze platform. Why are you concerned?”
“Raina made a couple of phone calls this morning,” Luther said quietly. “There may be more to the Abbotsville story than what was in the press.”
Matthias did not move. “That’s not exactly the biggest surprise in the world. There is always more to a newspaper story, especially one that involves a trapeze artist and a killer.”
“True, but in this case the additional details might have some bearing on our situation.”
“Go on,” Matthias said.
“Evidently not long after the events in Abbotsville there were rumors that Amalie Vaughn wasn’t the intended victim. She may have been the killer.”
Matthias felt everything inside him start to chill. “What are you talking about?”
“A cop in Abbotsville told Raina that some people are convinced that Vaughn lured her lover up to the trapeze platform and pushed him to his death. Afterward she claimed that he had tried to kill her.”
Matthias was stone cold now. “Any proof?”
“None, which is why there was no arrest.”
“Motive?”
“The usual in such cases. Jealous rage. Hell hath no fury, et cetera, et cetera. I’m not saying Miss Vaughn killed her lover, but I find it interesting that, six months later, she is now linked to another murder. You’re the one who is always claiming that there is no such thing as coincidence.”
“There is such a thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And there is also such a thing as being a target of opportunity.”
Luther contemplated that for a long moment.
“How do you explain the fact that, out of all the options available in this town, Pickwell chose to check in to the Hidden Beach Inn, a B and B that had only recently opened its doors?”
“I doubt that Pickwell was the one who selected the Hidden Beach,” Matthias said, working through the logic. “Smith most likely chose it for him. What better way to isolate Pickwell than to install him in an almost empty hotel? It would have been easy to keep an eye on him from the moment he checked in until he went to the Palace.”
“Makes sense,” Luther admitted. “All of the legends about Smith emphasize that he likes to control the territory as much as possible. We also know that he always stays deep in the shadows. It’s possible that he manipulated Pickwell into booking a room at the Hidden Beach, but we can’t rule out other explanations, such as the possibility that Miss Vaughn is somehow involved in this thing.”
“No,” Matthias said.
“Why do I have the feeling that you don’t want to consider Miss Vaughn a suspect?”
“You must be psychic.”
Luther was silent for a moment.
“I thought I had the trap all set,” he said after a while. “Lure Pickwell to Burning Cove with the promise of the demonstration at the Palace. Arrange for the sale of the Ares to take place in the parking lot of the Paradise Club. Grab Smith when he arrived to take the machine.
But he somehow got out ahead of us. How the hell did he do it?”
“It was a deal arranged by a broker who handles underworld business transactions,” Matthias said. “If you’re right about Smith, he’s been in the weapons trade for years. That means he has mob connections, too.”
Chapter 8
Willa Platt was perched on a stool in a diner near the Redondo Beach pier, trying to make a cup of bad coffee last long enough for her to finish perusing the Help Wanted listings in the newspaper, when she got distracted by the story of the robot that had murdered its inventor.
She started reading out of curiosity but when she got to the last two paragraphs she could hardly believe her eyes.
. . . While in town, Dr. Pickwell was staying at the Hidden Beach Inn on Ocean View Lane. The establishment, now owned by Miss Amalie Vaughn, is well-known to residents of Burning Cove as the scene of a recent, mysterious tragedy.
Not long ago, Madam Zolanda, the celebrity known as the Psychic to the Stars, leaped to her death from the roof of the mansion. This event occurred hours after the psychic had predicted death onstage at the very same theater, the Palace, where Pickwell was giving the demonstration when he was murdered by the robot . . .
Willa folded the paper and got to her feet. The Abbotsville disaster had been the final straw for the Ramsey Circus. Already teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, the show had collapsed a few weeks later. It could not survive without its star attraction, the Flying Princess. In the wake of the mysterious death of the rigger, the rumors that had circulated through the circus world had crushed any hope that Amalie Vaughn could continue to perform. After Abbotsville, no aerialist would work with her.
By rights, Amalie Vaughn should have been living in some decrepit boardinghouse trying to eke out a living as a lunch-counter waitress. Like me, Willa thought. Instead, the Flying Princess was living in a posh seaside resort town and running her own business.
