by Jerry
“ ‘Titting?’ ” Kendrick interjected, sour-faced.
Wilde turned to him in irritation. “Yes. It’s . . . Well, it means you’re playing a joke on someone. Pulling their leg, but obnoxiously.”
“Being a tit,” Manny added, helpfully.
Kendrick’s unpleasant expression darkened further. “A ‘tit?’ ”
“Yes,” Wilde answered. “It’s a tatter who—”
“I know what a ‘tit’ is, Max, though the tooters sound a bit confused. Probably never seen a real one in their lives.”
Manny made the mistake of trying to be helpful again. “Actually, it’s ‘tatters’—”
Kendrick growled and almost launched himself across the table at the young man.
“Down, Kendrick,” Wilde ordered, mimicking the sharp tone of voice Cerys often used when dealing with Special Peacekeepers.
“Uh . . . eheh . . .” Kendrick caught himself leaning across the table and gave an awkward smile. “Right, right . . . Sorry. Got, uh, carried away.”
“Yes, well, save that for someone who deserves it.” Wilde drained his cup and set it down. “Look, Manny, I need to find Salad Monday, and I need to find him by this morning’s edition, read me?”
Manny was hiding behind his cup again. “Sharp and fresh, Max, sharp and fresh. But cite the facts: Salad Monday’s been tatting since tatting first hit paper, and no one’s cracked him yet. Eye-moth, cracking Salad Monday’s potsy.”
Kendrick’s eye twitched as he tried to follow the conversation. “What was that?”
“In his opinion, finding Salad Monday’s true identity is like putting one over on the censor. That is to say, impossible.” Wilde turned back to Manny. “But someone out there has to know. Look at it this way: Salad Monday comments on all the big tatting papers. That means he reads all the big tatting papers. We both know you can’t just pick up a broadsheet on the street corner . . . not yet, at least.”
“Glass,” Manny agreed. “You get the sheets posted special.”
“That means someone’s delivering them to him, and if no one’s cracked him yet, it’s because there’s a reliable middleman. So, Manny, I want you to tell me who that middleman is.”
Manny hesitated for a moment. “What’s in it for me?” Across the table, Kendrick snarled, but Manny pushed on. “Max, you know I can’t go posting you people’s private letters. What kind of a tag would I buy myself with that? Giving out private numbs to coppers, Max . . . I’d be for the furnace if I did that.”
Wilde sighed. “Manny, you know me. You know I wouldn’t tell anyone where I got my info. And I’ll tell you what, you point me in the right direction and I’ll take you with me to the Martyrs next week. August Mars is playing, and I think I can get you backstage.”
Manny gave Wilde a wide-eyed stare over the top of his coffee cup. “You’d do that?”
“Of course, Manny. We’re friends.” Wilde smiled sincerely, and then turned the screws. “But if we’re going to go, I need to be done with this case, and I can’t finish the case without your help.”
Manny made a face. “You’re turning the cop on me, Max.”
“Manny, you know I’d never do that. But I have a job to do, and I need your help doing it. Just point me the right way. I swear I won’t so much as think your name for the rest of the investigation.”
There was a long silence as Manny stared into his cup. Once or twice he glanced toward the other students, clearly expecting the worst; but as was often the case with young university types, Manny’s friends were too busy talking amongst themselves to realize that he was having another conversation nearby, let alone with whom.
“OK. If you want Salad Monday’s house, you’ll be looking at the tops. Big type printers who won’t be buttered into selling his number, else he’d be cracked already. I only know three: Maynard and Sons; Edgewood, Franklin, and Co.; and Belle Street Printers, Ltd. If they’re not posting for him, I don’t know who is. Read me?”
“Sharp and fresh, Manny,” Wilde answered. “Which one’s the biggest?”
“Belle Street, but I wouldn’t start there.”
“No?”
Manny shook his head and looked around cautiously. “Edgewood’s the only one of the three that printed tit-tat when it first came out. If Salad Monday’s tatting for one of the other two, then he jumped ship from another house a few years back. And when you change houses in tit-tat—”
“The old printers have no incentive to keep your real name a secret,” Wilde finished. “They’d have sold Salad Monday’s identity to the highest bidder by now. Manny, you’re the best. For this, I’ll get you that backstage meeting with Mars.”
“Thanks, Max, you’re OK. Now, uh . . .” Manny glanced over at the cluster of other students.
Wilde waved him away. “Off you go, Manny.”
Manny grinned awkwardly, still eyeing Kendrick as if the latter were some sort of rabid animal. Then he drained his cooling coffee in one gulp and wandered off to join his fellow students, who greeted Manny with cheers and handshakes as if he had only just arrived. The realization that he had been engaged in conversation only a few tables away was completely lost on them.
“Right,” Wilde said, throwing down some money and rising from his chair. “Off we go, Kendrick. Time to put the fear of Heaven into some people.”
“Now you’re using words I understand,” Kendrick replied with a terrible smile.
The printing house of Edgewood, Franklin, and Co. was perhaps the noisiest place Wilde had ever been. From the vantage point of a second-story balcony, he watched two rows of automated printing presses rapidly turning cylinders of pulp paper into piles of broadsheets. In between, engineers in oily clothes scurried back and forth, anticipating breakdowns and lubricating the countless moving parts. Junior clerks rushed from machine to machine, retrieving armloads of printed papers and resetting type codes. Off in rooms to either side, typists could be seen at their desks, using complicated keyboards to set the type codes for the next batch of issues.
Of course, Wilde recalled, his second-story position was an illusion. In fact, he was six floors above the street, since the room he was in rested on two identical chambers filled with printing presses and typesetters. Like many of the businesses in the City of Salmagundi, Edgewood, Franklin, and Co. had maximized their efficiency by capitalizing on vertical space. Indeed, the printing house tower continued further upward with several floors of offices above the printing halls.
“Now then, gentlemen,” said the upright and stern-faced Mr. Edgewood, “I expect we shall enjoy a little more privacy here than in my office. What is this ‘delicate matter’ you feel you must discuss with me? At the outset, I should like to remind you that we take no responsibility for the content of articles printed by our company. If you’ve been offended by something, you must take it up with the author.”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Wilde assured him, “but we are interested in contacting one of your authors.”
“Oh, yes?” Edgewood said, his tone not altogether pleasant.
“I understand you’re the printing house that works with the commentator known as Mr. Salad Monday. Is that correct?” It was a bluff, of course, but worth a try.
Edgewood studied the two men before him in silence. At length, he answered, “Very well. I don’t know how you found out, but yes, he is one of our clients.”
“Then I assume that your company arranges to have his papers delivered as well.”
“Yes . . .” came the cautious reply.
Wilde smiled. “In that case, sir, I need to know who he is . . . or at least where he can be found.”
Edgewood’s face paled horribly, then flushed with great offense. “You expect me to give out the private address of one of our clients?”
“Yes,” Wilde answered flatly. “I assure you, Mr. Edgewood, that we’ll keep your involvement strictly confidential, but I need that information.”
“Inspector, you don’t seem to understand, so let
me make this exceedingly clear to you. The anonymity of my clients is a sacred trust, as surely as if it were sworn in the presence of a priest or a magistrate. The credibility of this printing house demands that we bow to neither bribery nor intimidation, and I am not inclined to make an exception for the likes of you.” He brushed at the lapels of his frock coat dismissively. “And don’t try to threaten me with that policeman’s nonsense of yours either. I know my rights as a taxpayer. I’m above your routine harassment. You don’t even have a warrant, or else you’d have shown it to me by now.”
“Mr. Edgewood, I think you’re being somewhat unreasonable here. I’m asking for the address of one man.”
“Principles, Inspector.”
Wilde tried a different approach. Narrowing his eyes, he moved half a step closer to Edgewood than most people would have found comfortable. “I arrived without a warrant out of consideration for your reputation, Mr. Edgewood. You aren’t a suspect here, so why bother with all the ribbon?” He assumed that Edgewood, like most citizens, could be brought into line by the threat of red tape.
Edgewood was unmoved. “They wouldn’t give you one if you tried, Inspector. I am a taxpayer, if you recall. Go and try your strong-arm methods with those paupers down on Layer Five. I have no time for it. I expect you two can see yourselves out. Don’t soil anything on your way to the door.”
He turned to walk away, fingers tucked around the edges of his vest, but instead of the open walkway, he found himself confronted with Kendrick’s bowler, dark suit, and quivering moustache. Without a word, Kendrick gripped Edgewood by the lapels of his coat and lifted the smaller man into the air.
“I say, how dare—” Edgewood began.
“Let’s try it this way,” Kendrick interrupted. “I’m going to count to ten. If you’ve answered the Inspector’s question by then, I’ll put you down. If you haven’t, I’ll count to ten again. If you answer by then, I’ll put you down on the printing room floor,” he said, nodding to the open chamber that lay a dozen feet below them. “But if you still haven’t answered, I’ll put you down outside the window. And we’re . . .” he turned his head to Wilde, “what, fifty feet up?”
“More like seventy,” came the deadpan reply.
“But . . . but . . .” Edgewood was struggling to understand that a policeman had dared to manhandle him. “You can’t do this!”
“One,” Kendrick counted.
“I think you’d better do as he says,” Wilde offered, with a helpless shrug.
“Two.”
“But I’m a taxpayer!”
“Three.”
“You’re peacekeepers! You can’t do this!”
“Four.”
Wilde shook his head. “No, I’m a peacekeeper.”
“Five.”
“He’s a ‘special’ peacekeeper.”
“Six.”
“Special?” Edgewood gasped, all the more frightened that he did not understand the significance.
“Seven,” Kendrick said, exchanging nods with Wilde.
“Special,” Wilde confirmed.
“Eight.”
The color drained from Edgewood’s face, and his head snapped toward Kendrick as he struggled to say something, anything, to halt the counting.
Kendrick gave the man a sympathetic smile.
“Nine.”
The address belonging to the mysterious Mr. Salad Monday was a small townhouse located in of one of Layer Three’s poorer neighborhoods. While hardly approaching the squalor and poverty found among the laboring classes of the lower city, the less affluent residents of the bourgeois Layer Three still lived in an unenviable state. Their houses were often old or run-down, and it would be dubious to claim that they were truly worth the rents they paid. But surely, the landlords insisted, the superior ambiance of the layer was more than compensation for the extra cost.
Salad Monday’s townhouse was a weathered brick construction, similar to many of the neighboring buildings. It rested at the end of a long alleyway, one kept clean as much through the locals’ efforts as the municipal workers’. It seemed doubtful that the city sweeping machines could even fit down the narrow street.
The front door was locked, of course, but it was a poor Legion officer who was not a good housebreaker. The building’s interior was solid but weathered, with peeling, yellowed wallpaper that no one had bothered to replace in ages. Thick sheets of dust covered everything, confirming the building’s general disuse, and there were no footprints or signs of passage to be found upon the floor, stairs, or banisters.
In the ancient foyer, Wilde glanced at Kendrick, only to see that the other man had drawn two service revolvers from inside his coat and was peering along them toward the interior of the house.
“Kendrick!”
“What?”
Wilde made a face as he led the way into the front hallway. “Put those things away.”
Kendrick’s eyes darted around the hallway, peering at the dim gaslamps and dusty surfaces as if they might attack at any moment. “There could be terrorists.”
“Terrorists who don’t leave footprints? Be sensible. Besides, if there is anyone here—which I’m beginning to doubt—it’ll be a lot of idiot students, not armed men.” Some distant sound caught his attention. He held up a hand for silence, ignoring the fact that he was the one speaking. “Shhh. Do you hear that?”
The two men listened for a moment. Presently they heard a noise rising up through the hallways of the house. It was the all-too-familiar sound of perhaps a dozen typewriters clacking away in unison. The clicks came from further in the house, slowly trickling along the layers of dust until it seemed they emanated from the very walls. The two officers looked about, turning this way and that as they strained to hear where the sound could be coming from.
“Well, there’s clearly someone here,” Wilde noted softly.
“Must be using a back entrance to avoid footprints,” Kendrick agreed. He raised his pistols and began to edge along the corridor. “Bastards are probably downstairs in the cellar.”
Wilde tilted his head. “Wait, Kendrick. I think it’s coming from upstairs.”
“Then search up there if you want,” Kendrick answered, peering around a nearby corner as if he expected hordes of terrorists to be lying in wait. “I say it’s the cellar, and that’s where I’m going.”
Wilde knew better than to argue. As Kendrick disappeared in search of the cellar door, Wilde made for the stairway. The sound of typing was clearer on the second floor, and clearer still as Wilde climbed upward toward the third. The rooms on this floor bore the only signs of habitation; for though there was no activity, they were filled to bursting with piles and piles of newspapers, broadsheets, chapbooks, and other printed materials. The heaps of paper had been neatly placed in some sort of complex order, but nothing had been done to protect them from moths and insects. Many of the papers had been partly devoured by whatever loathsome vermin infested the house.
He exited the room. Dust was everywhere, as thickly layered as on the first floor, but in the hallway Wilde noticed some curious trails upon the ground. Here and there the dust had been disturbed in narrow, twisting lines. Wilde knelt to study these, but he could make nothing of them. They clearly led up and down the stairs in the direction of the front door, but what they were or what they signified remained unknown. If anything, it seemed like someone had trailed the tips of feathers through the dust.
The stairs continued upward to a single attic door. Just upon the threshold, the typewriter clacking was incredibly loud. Wilde felt a shiver descend along his back. There was no reason for fear—the typists were, no doubt, only foolish students who would be as likely to run or beg mercy as fight—but Wilde’s instinct for danger was still working full-time. Reaching for the handle, Wilde eased the door open and stepped into the room beyond. He did not immediately understand what it was that he saw.
The room was larger than it appeared from outside, for it stretched almost the full length and breadth of
the house. The peaked ceiling was exceedingly high, and from it hung a series of burning lamps that kept the attic space bright enough for typing. Piles of printed broadsheets littered the floor. A number of tables had been placed about the center of the room in a rough circular shape, and they were covered variously by stacks of blank paper, typing ribbon, and easily a dozen typewriters. There were no chairs in front of the tables, a point which at first confused Wilde. He was likewise bewildered by the room’s clear desolation: there was no one to be seen anywhere. And yet the typewriters were clicking away still, as if driven by the hands of ghosts. At first, Wilde thought the machines might be automated, but he could see no punchcard reader to direct them, nor steam lines to power them.
As Wilde approached the typewriters, he became aware of certain peculiar details that he had not initially noticed. It seemed as if a series of silken streamers had been hung from the ceiling over each keyboard, yet if the tendrils were cloth or thread, they must have been waxed to give them that unthinkable glisten. There was a luster to them, yet at the same time they were all but translucent. They seemed more mirage than substance and were a curious iridescent color, an impossible mixture of blue, violet, turquoise and magenta. The tendrils all seemed to drift and float through one another like trailing strings of light, yet they were somehow responsible for the movement of the typewriter keys.
Wilde’s eyes followed the fantastically colored lines upward toward the peak of the roof, where they joined together into a layered mass of themselves. This “body,” if such a term could be applied to it, was something akin to a pile of translucent gelatin, with lines and layers too numerous for the eye to understand. In some parts of the floating mass there were strange concentrations of light. These, Wilde suddenly realized, were eyes. Each was fixed diligently upon the typewriter below it, though they were all clearly working independently of one another. As Wilde watched, a collection of tendrils paused in their typing and reached out to a pile of broadsheets. The paper drifted toward the underside of the floating mass, and the folds of the vibrantly colored dome pulled back to reveal a series of things that might have been mouths, or mandibles, or complex beaks. These began to devour the printed newspaper hungrily.
