Railroad! Collection 2 (The Three Volume Omnibus)

by Tonia Brown

  “Quick as you can,” Dodger said to Ched’s back. Turning to the lawmen, Dodger clapped his hands in a very Dittmeyer-like fashion. “Sheriff Stanley, Deputy Duncan, I’m going to need your help.”

  “Help with what?” the sheriff asked.

  “Help with hauling whatever contraption is hiding in the bank walls out here so we can all get a good look at it.”

  And even that got the snobby banker’s attention.

  ****

  back to top

  ****

  Chapter Six

  The Device

  In which Dodger ponders the ponderous

  Wrestling the huge thing from the cubbyhole was a challenge, to say the least. It became obvious to Dodger as they worked that the thing wasn’t put into the cubby all in one piece, yet he didn’t want to take it apart for fear of breaking something. The contraption wasn’t much bigger than the opening, but it was ungainly and took a world of manipulation before it finally slid free. The three lawmen stepped away to catch their collective breaths, while the banker decided to rejoin the action now that the heavy work was done.

  “That was in my bank?” Biddlesworth asked, with a heavy emphasis on both ‘that’ and ‘my.’

  “Yes, sir,” Dodger said.

  “But how? I supervised the entire construction, from the first brick to the last nail. I didn’t request that hole in the wall or this blasted thing!”

  “Well, sir, I think you’ll find that ‘that hole,’ as you call it, isn’t part of the bank itself. I would wager it is built into the back of the vault. A false back, as it were. For a vault, I should remind you, that you had shipped in from somewhere else.”

  This seemed to calm the banker somewhat. “I see.”

  “But surely this thing didn’t come with the vault,” the deputy said. “It’s so fragile.”

  “True,” the sheriff said. “If they had hauled that thing all the way here inside that lead box, it would’ve been smashed to pieces from rattling around.”

  Dodger had given that some thought too. “I don’t think it was shipped together, at least not one inside the other. My guess is that the contraption was installed piece by piece. Maybe even over a few weeks. Or months. By someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who knew the cubby was there. Someone who had access to the bank, alone, every day.”

  All eyes turned to the banker.

  “And here we are again,” Biddlesworth said. “You know, I find it amusing that my assistant goes missing and the only man in town who was supposedly awake at the time claims not to have seen a fool thing. Yet everyone thinks my lad is at fault.”

  “You must admit, Mr. Biddlesworth,” Dodger said. “It does seem rather convenient.”

  “And just how could William have left here with thirty thousand dollars and not be seen? How could he have yanked the very shelves themselves off the walls and no one heard it? What I really want to know is why no one suspects him?” The banker thrust an accusing finger at the deputy. “You want convenient, there’s your convenience. He roams this town all by himself every single night. He has keys to all the buildings. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had the combination to the vault!”

  “What are you getting at?” the sheriff asked.

  “You know what I’m getting at.”

  “Then why don’t you just come on out and say it!”

  “Fine! I think your man there stole the money. And furthermore, I think he kidnapped my assistant in the process, to make William look guilty!”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Deputy Duncan said.

  “Of course you didn’t!” the banker shouted. “You never do anything. Because actually doing your job would interfere with your drunken carousing!”

  Once more, the sheriff and Biddlesworth fell into a heated argument, all while the deputy hung his head and listened in shame. It was rather like a couple of parents fighting in front of their son.

  “Quiet!” Dodger shouted over the men.

  The arguing pair wound down into mutual muttered bickering.

  “Mr. Biddlesworth has a point,” Dodger said.

  “Now you see here,” the sheriff started.

  “No. You see. All of you see. This bickering isn’t helping any. And it doesn’t matter who we blame for what, because there is still one glaring question that everyone seems to be forgetting.”

  “What?” the banker and sheriff asked together in a huff.

  “What in the hell is this thing?” Deputy Duncan asked as he crouched in front of the odd device.

  “Exactly,” Dodger said. (Duncan might have been the town drunk, but he seemed far more levelheaded than the other men.) Dodger joined him in his inspection, curious as to what the machine could be.

  At the bottom lay a spider web pattern of metal slats, interlocked to form a set of legs on which the body of the machine perched. The bulk was a complicated looping of wires and metal, wood and glass, and all manner of things Dodger wasn’t sure he could identify if he wanted to. At one end, it bore a muzzle about the width of Dodger’s wrist, wrapped all around with think copper coils. At the other end there rested the distinct makings of a trigger. A gap of about three or four inches lay between the two ends, leaving a deep recess in the belly of the machine. Or was it a weapon?

  “Looks like a gun of some kind,” Deputy Duncan said as if reading Dodger’s mind.

  “It could be,” Dodger said. “Shame, though. It’s the only piece of real evidence we have, and we don’t even know what it does.”

  “It reduces things,” Professor Dittmeyer said.

  All of the men spun in place to find the professor standing behind them, accompanied by the driver.

  Of course Dodger had heard the bank doors open and close, and smelled the oncoming funk of Ched, so the appearance of the men was no surprise for him. Yet the professor’s garb was a surprise indeed. Gone were the workaday lab clothes, replaced instead by a gray silk suit complete with bowler hat and ebony walking stick. He even wore matching gray gloves. (When did he have time to dress so fancy? Ched had only been gone twenty minutes at the most.) The man cut a fine figure, but still, Dodger couldn’t help but find it a bit amusing. He repressed his chuckle, however, being of the opinion that perhaps laughing openly at your employer in front of others wasn’t such a good idea.

  “Who are you?” Biddlesworth asked, returning to his usual snobby tone.

  “I’m Professor Hieronymus J. Dittmeyer,” the doc said, doffing his hat to the men as he raised his cane to the contraption behind them. “And that, my good sir, is a reduction machine.”

  “Come again?” Dodger asked.

  “A reduction machine,” the professor repeated. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them into his hat. Pushing the hat into the banker’s hands, the doc made his way past the men to get a closer look at his quarry. “And quite an extraordinary beauty it is too. Would you look at that? What a lovely piece of engineering. A bit rough around the edges, true, but a fine prototype, to be sure.”

  “What does it do?” the sheriff asked.

  “Do?” The doc gave Sheriff Stanley a blank look, blinking in his classic Morse code of confusion. “I thought it was obvious. What part of reduction machine do you not comprehend?”

  “Well, sir, I get the reduction part, and I understand what you mean by machine, but I don’t think I have ever heard them used together in such a manner. How does it work?”

  “Well, it shrinks things.”

  “Shrink things?” Biddlesworth asked.

  “Yes,” the doc said. “Reduces them.”

  “Reduces them?”

  “Yes, makes them smaller.”

  “Makes them smaller?”

  “Oh my.” Professor Dittmeyer cupped his hand around the shell of his ear, as if trying to home in to some distant noise.

  “Oh my?” Biddlesworth asked with uncertainty

  “Yes, that’s quite an echo your bank has. You might want to invest in some soundproofing insulation. I can give you a good
rate on it if you like.”

  “What nerve!”

  “Professor, sir,” Dodger said. “I think we all need a more detailed explanation of the machine’s function. If you don’t mind.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” The professor thought about this a moment, then asked, “How simple of an explanation must it be?”

  “Simple enough for Ched to understand it.”

  The professor all but wilted at the prospect. “I don’t think I have that much time.”

  “Hey!” Ched said. “I’m probably the only on here that getsh the gisht of what thish fanshy-pantsh masheen can do.”

  “Excellent!” the professor shouted. “Then you explain it to them.”

  Ched puffed his cheeks. He shifted his weight from one foot to the next. He rubbed his chin, put his hands in his pockets, then shifted his weight back to the other foot. The free foot began to tap, ever so slightly.

  “Well?” the doc asked.

  “I’m thinking on it,” Ched said.

  “For Odin’s sake, if we wait on you to think about it, then it’ll be next year before these gentlemen are any wiser.”

  “Sir?” Dodger asked. “If you can try for us. Please?”

  “I’ll try.” The doc clasped his hands and tapped the tips of his forefingers together. “What I’m trying to say is that the machine is employed to reduce the size of objects. It makes objects smaller. It shrinks them.” He motioned to the muzzle end of the thing. “For example, I could place an object just there. Say, my hat, for instance. I would then power the machine with this crank here.” The professor flipped out an arm from the side of the device, giving it a few turns to show it was indeed a crank. The machine crackled and groaned in response to his cranking. “Once the generator was at full capacity, I would then activate it with the trigger there at the other end, and the machine would emit a series of focused rays—which I have dubbed infinitium rays, by the way—and voilà. The hat would be smaller.”

  “How much smaller?” the sheriff asked.

  “The smallness would depend upon the settings of the machine. Half the size. A fourth. A mere millimeter in length.”

  “Does it stay that way forever?”

  “Certainly not. It’s impossible to maintain that much compression for lengthy periods of time. And again, the result depends on the settings and the amount of energy used.” The professor poked at the dials and switches on the machine in question. “From what I can see, the last person who used this set it to its upper limit of twenty-four hours.”

  “Meaning,” Dodger said, “whatever he shrank will only be that way for a day.”

  “Yes. Excellent deduction, Mr. Dodger. But I’ve come to expect such from you.”

  “But how?” Dodger asked. “How is it possible to shrink something at all?”

  “Oh dear …” The professor pondered this question a moment, then sighed. “I’m afraid that explanation will require a few diagrams and maybe a model or two. Oh, and a Master’s in Physics. Of course.”

  “Of course.”

  The professor leaned into Dodger, pulling him down by the elbow to whisper into his ear. “I’m sure you could grasp it in no time, Mr. Dodger, but I’m afraid your friends here would be a bit lost in our discussion. We don’t want to make them feel awkward, do we?”

  “No, sir, we don’t.”

  “Piddlecock!” Biddlesworth shouted.

  “Piddlecock?” the professor asked.

  “Yes. Piddlecock. The notion of that machine making things smaller? Piddlecock and hogwash, I say. Why, the very idea is preposterous.”

  “I assure you, my good man, that what you have before you is indeed a reduction machine, and not, as you put it, piddlecock. In fact, I stake my name on it.”

  Biddlesworth pursed his lips thin enough to drain them to white lines. “Fine, then. Prove it. Shrink something.”

  “I can’t prove it.”

  “Ha! You can’t prove it, because it’s all piddlecock!”

  “There. He said it again. Piddlecock?” The professor whimpered in distress and turned to Dodger again. “I’ve heard of poppycock. I say poppycock myself, but what on earth is a piddle and why is he obsessed with the thing’s co-”

  “Professor,” Dodger said over the man. “Why can’t you prove it?”

  “Well, I would that I could, but I can’t, because it’s broken.”

  “Ha!” the banker shouted. “Likely excuse.”

  “Yes. It is likely. So likely, in fact, that it is true.” The doc placed his hand in the gap between the muzzle and the trigger mechanism. “There should be a crystal the size of my fist just about here. But as you can see, there isn’t one. Whoever employed it last either destroyed it or took it with them.”

  Dodger caught that last phrase and latched onto it.

  A destroyed crystal.

  Why did that sound familiar?

  “Hang on a tick,” he said as the answer came to him.

  Grabbing a lantern, Dodger returned to the cubbyhole, ducked inside and carefully swept some of the shards into his handkerchief. Just as he grabbed the lamp again, something in the corner caught his attention. A shadowy spot in the back of the recess. A place he hadn’t noticed before, because the machine was blocking it from view. Dodger pushed the lamp against the back wall of the cubby and knelt to peer closer, making sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

  They weren’t.

  A narrow hole sat at the bottom of the lead-lined wall, a few inches high and a few inches wide. Just outside of the hole lay a heaped pile of what appeared to be discarded miniature shelves. Even weirder than this, just inside the mouth of the hole was a tiny set of tracks. They reminded Dodger of train tracks, only much, much, much smaller. This fact noted, he clutched the handful of shards and returned to the doc.

  “You’re right,” he said, handing the hanky over. “The crystal was destroyed. There’s a layer of this all over the floor in there.”

  The doc clucked his tongue as he brooded over the contents of the hanky. “It seems whoever used the machine last had no intention of letting others have a go at it.”

  Which fit right into Dodger’s idea of what had happened. “Can you fix it?”

  “I’m sure I have the right components. Looks like a simple quartz to me. Maybe a few other bits and bobs. But you should know it will take some time.”

  “How long? ‘Cause I’m not sure how much time we have.”

  “Fix it?” Biddlesworth asked. “I thought you said you wanted to help us.”

  “I am helping,” Dodger said. “But you have to trust me.”

  “I don’t know how I can trust anyone anymore. My bank has been robbed, those people out there have lost their entire life savings in one night, and your idea of helping is to fix some ridiculous fantasy machine?”

  “Robbed?” the professor asked. “Who was robbed?”

  “Them wash robbed,” Ched said. “Shome brave shumbitch took off with their whole banksh holdingsh in the middle of the night. Which meansh they ain’t got the jack to pay you either, shir.”

  “Is that true, Mr. Dodger?” the professor asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Dodger said, cutting his eyes at the driver. “But I think I can track down-”

  “Well then,” the professor said without giving a Dodger a chance to explain. “I’m afraid you know the policy. No money, no service.” He snapped up his hat and began to put his gloves on.

  “Professor Dittmeyer,” Sheriff Stanley said. “Please don’t abandon us like this. We need those lamps. Our town is liable to die off without ‘em. We’ll come up with your money somehow.”

  “And when you do, you can send for me. But until then, I am a very busy man. I do apologize, and I hate to seem unreasonable, but science doesn’t fund itself. Well, in a way it does, but this is how it funds itself. Understand?”

  “I understand we need those lamps,” the sheriff said. “And we are good for the money. We just need more time.”

  “I d
on’t have time. I did what was asked of me; I expect compensation.” The professor bowed, returned his hat to his head and said, “Good day, gentlemen. You know how to reach me.” The man then made for the exit at a fairly good clip.

  Dodger scurried up behind the professor and took him by the arm. “Sir, I know they owe you a hunk of change, but please give me a chance-”

  “Mr. Dodger,” the professor whispered, “I appreciate the situation these people are in, believe me. I don’t wish to appear an ogre, but I cannot gain a reputation for handouts or charity. Not again. You take pity on one family and give them an iron horse to help them haul their wood to market, and next thing you know, you have half a village lining up expecting their free horse too. It’s a nightmare, I tell you. A nightmare. And it ends up costing you a month’s worth of work and countless materials. This is for the best. I am sorry.”

  “I understand you have to do what is best for your family, and I would never ask you to put yourself out or give away your talents. You deserve to be showered in gold for all you do.”

  “Really?” The professor smiled as he considered this. “Golden showers, you say?”

  Dodger smirked. “Not exactly, but please hear me out. I think I know what happened to-”

  “What if you took the masheen as trade?” Ched asked over him. “Or maybe ash a down payment, at leasht until they can find their mishing money?”

  Though the driver had interrupted Dodger, an action he found most annoying, he didn’t mind in this instance, because it really was a good idea.

  “That old thing?” the professor said, looking back at the machine with a scowl. “It’s a nice gesture, but I don’t really need another one.”

  “Ched has the right idea, sir,” Dodger said. “If it’s all they have, then perhaps you could just take it as …” Dodger’s words trailed off as his brain caught up with his ears. “Wait up, now. What do you mean you don’t need another one?”

  “I mean I have a reduction machine already. A much nicer one too, if I do say so myself. In fact, Lelanea and I have been working on all manner of inventions that employ the infinitium rays. I can show you if you like.”