by Arthur Slade
When they were finished eating, Modo said, “I’m already worn out. We should retire to our cabin.” Octavia nodded; when they stood up, she bumped into the man with the paper.
“Sorry, so sorry,” she said, giggling. “I find ships so topsy-turvy.”
The man glared at Modo. “You ought to keep a better watch on your wife,” he snapped. “Women are delicate, clumsy creatures.”
“Good day to you,” Modo said.
As they walked back to the cabin, Octavia began to giggle again, and by the time they stepped inside she was full-out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Modo asked, smiling. “That man was rude.”
“He said to keep a better watch on me,” she said between giggles. With that, she produced a golden pocket watch hanging from a fob. “He should have been watching his own watch!”
“You stole it?” Modo cried. “We could get into trouble!”
“That dunderhead will never figure it out. I wish I could be there to see the look on his face when he checks the time.”
And, imagining that, Modo joined her in laughter.
7
The Arrival
Modo gazed from the forecastle of the Abyssinia out at the port of New York City, the late-November wind sending a chill down his spine. He was wearing his gentleman’s winter clothes and his Knight face. Mr. Warkin, he reminded himself. Octavia—Mrs. Warkin—was at his side, a thick muffler around her neck. Modo’s legs felt as though they were made of India rubber, but he stood as tall as he could, wanting to capture every detail. Steamships from various countries plied the waterway, as did sailing ships and tugboats; they seemed to miss each other by inches. The Abyssinia passed a sandstone fort: Castle Garden. It was the immigrant landing depot, where all passengers from foreign ships had to go through an inspection. Line after line of piers filled the southern side of the island, and beyond them were the buildings of the city, some so tall they boggled Modo’s mind. How would he be able to climb them? The city looked orderly, though, compared with London, each street in a perfect line.
“It really is a wonder,” Octavia said. “It looks so … so new.”
“It is new,” he agreed. “This was farms and a village not long ago.” He searched his mind for any tidbits he remembered from his studies. “There are over a million people here. Maybe more.”
“And one of them is our Mr. Wyle. I do hope he knows how to make tea.”
A short time later they disembarked. Modo saw the third-class passengers waiting in long lines in the cold and dragging all their own luggage. He felt a stab of pity as he and Octavia were directed to the first-class arrival line. Porters carried their portmanteaus, and they were speedily ushered through Castle Garden. He was careful not to cough around the border agents, as he knew they were always on the lookout for passengers with infectious diseases.
Soon they were in a hansom cab, the horse’s hooves clomping on cobblestone streets. The cab itself was much like any he’d seen in London, but the driver wore a bowler. Modo stared out at the people on the street—so many! The men’s hats were shorter than was the fashion in London, and the cut of their jackets was different. Several men wore striped gray trousers with black frock coats. They dressed as if they were going to a picnic, though they were entering the doors to the city hall.
The cab rattled down another street and finally turned onto Lafayette Place, where Modo and Octavia got out and paid the driver with the American money Mr. Socrates had supplied. Modo grabbed both portmanteaus and stood on the sidewalk, glancing up and down the street. It looked like a safe enough lane, but he plotted an escape route anyway. Over the years Tharpa had drilled that necessity into him.
“Let’s not dillydally,” Octavia said. They went to the address Mr. Socrates had given them, entered the building, and climbed several sets of stairs to the third floor. Modo set down their luggage as Octavia knocked on the door of Mr. Wyle’s apartment. She banged again. No answer.
“He must be out,” Modo said.
“Who are you?” A middle-aged man was coming up the stairs, wheezing with each step. A red handkerchief, neatly folded, peeked out of his front pocket. Modo took a measure of the man. Short, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds, and no weapons in his hands or visible in his jacket.
“He’s the caretaker,” he whispered to Octavia.
“Oh, aren’t you the master detective,” she whispered back. “Look out, Scotland Yard.”
The man Stopped on the landing, removed the handkerchief, and dabbed at his balding forehead. “Are you here to see Mr. Wyle?”
“Indeed, we’re here for our honeymoon,” Modo said. “We had intended to surprise him.”
“He’s my brother,” Octavia continued. “We’re visiting from London.”
“You are much younger than Mr. Wyle.”
“I’m the youngest of a large family.”
“Ah, well, I should introduce myself. I’m Jonathon Trottier, the caretaker here.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Modo said, extending his hand. Trottier’s palm was sweaty, his grip weak. “We are Mr. and Mrs. Warkin.”
“Well, I have some bad news. I’m sorry to inform you”—he took in a wheezy lungful of air—“that Mr. Wyle has passed away.”
Octavia started back. “No!”
“How?” Modo asked.
“He was found in his room nearly two weeks ago. I’m afraid … that … he was murdered.”
“Oh, dear Lord! How horrible!” Octavia was looking suitably pale. “Murdered? Why would anyone want to hurt him?”
“My dear, my dear.” Modo embraced her. He looked at Mr. Trottier. “Did they catch the murderer?”
“No. Not that I know of. And I follow the papers and have had contact with the inspectors.”
Modo patted Octavia’s back as she wept quietly. “Was it a robbery?”
“No. There seems to be no reason, but another man was murdered at the Astor Library on the same day. The authorities say there may be a connection.” He patted his forehead again. “I was told the police couldn’t find any next of kin for Mr. Wyle.”
“We had fallen out of touch,” Octavia said, lifting her head from Modo’s shoulder. “He was … a quiet sort.”
“He was, at that. I’ll let you into his apartment. It, uh”—he paused to wheeze—“it has been properly cleaned, but perhaps, Mrs. Warkin, you would prefer not to be in the place where the foul deed took place.”
Octavia sniffed and Patted at her eyes with a handkerchief. “No. I must see his room, if only to believe that he is gone.”
Mr. Trottier produced a set of keys and opened the door. It was a smallish apartment, with a window that let in the morning light. The furnishings were spare; the walls bore no artwork or hangings. Octavia motioned to several books on the shelves and whispered, “He always liked reading.”
The man stood at the door, and it became clear that he had no intention of leaving. It would be impossible to find clues under his watchful eyes.
Octavia began to weep impressively, leaning on the table. Modo put a hand on her shoulder and she turned and rested her head against him. Her hair smelled of perfume. “Darling,” he said, the word slipping out so easily, “this is too much. Too much for your delicate spirit.” He turned toward the caretaker. “Would you be able to bring us some tea, Mr. Trottier? My wife needs something warm to soothe her.”
“I can make coffee. Would that do?”
“We would appreciate that so very much.”
The moment he was out the door, Octavia lifted her head, wiped at her tears, and began searching through cupboards. “Be quick, Modo. That old duffer could return any moment.”
“Yes, dah-ling,” he said, but swallowed nervously. He didn’t exactly enjoy picking through a dead man’s possessions. “So who killed Wyle?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“The enemy, of course,” Octavia answered in a whisper. “Sadly, that doesn’t narrow down our suspects. Perhaps the French knew he’d been following them.”
“But a man was killed at the library.”
“Wyle could have killed him. Then someone followed Wyle to his apartment.”
“Who? More French agents? Or are other agents involved? The Germans? The Clockwork Guild?”
“Let’s hope it’s the Germans. I don’t fancy tangling with the Guild again. Now shut it and keep your mind on the task, Modo.”
“Well, you don’t need to get peevish!”
“Just concentrate! That’s what Mr. Socrates would tell you. We don’t have much time.”
“Well then, what are we looking for?” He opened the closet. Three suits, a pair of boots, a raincoat.
“I don’t know. A hint of what he may have discovered. If anything.”
Modo checked the suit pockets. A bill from R. H. Macy & Co. Was that important? He picked up a pair of boots, knocking on the soles to see if there was a concealed compartment. Mr. Socrates had a knife hidden in his shoe. Could these be the boots Wyle was wearing when he died? Modo set them down.
Octavia tapped the top of a dresser. “Aha!” She had pulled a drawer out and was feeling behind it. “There’s a hollow space here.” She removed a square box and opened it to find several papers and a few notes, which Modo tucked inside the pocket of his jacket.
They heard a sharp cough. Modo slipped to the door and peeked out, but there was no one in the stairwell. Someone must be downstairs, in the entrance. When he turned back, he saw papers on the table that he hadn’t noticed before.
“Were these always here?” he asked.
“We must be going blind!”
One was a drawing of a fish; another showed fancy handwriting that Modo thought might be a woman’s. It said VSVYWBT KEUW 6035236. The third piece of paper had Grand poisson 6035236 scribbled in a large, quick hand. Several other words had been crossed out as though someone had been trying to solve a puzzle.
“It looks like a cipher,” Octavia said.
“I bet this page is Wyle’s handwriting. And the code has already been partially solved. Big fish—that’s nothing that we didn’t already know. What do the numbers represent?”
“It must be another code.”
Modo heard footsteps on the hardwood in the hall. “Quick!” Octavia said, and Modo was able to tuck the papers into his jacket before the caretaker returned.
“Your coffee,” he said. “You must forgive me, I didn’t express my condolences.”
“We are in debt to you,” Octavia said sweetly. “You are being so very kind.” She and Modo sipped their coffee. Modo had never understood the attraction of this bitter drink over tea, but he thanked Mr. Trottier anyway.
“Is there lodging nearby?” Octavia asked. “We must rest and … and tell my family the news.”
“Yes. The Mercer Hotel is a few blocks from here.”
After receiving directions, they bid the man goodbye. Modo grabbed their luggage and they went down the creaking stairs. They needed to send a telegram to Mr. Socrates with all the information they had found so far.
Modo grimaced, testing the suppleness of his face. His muscles weren’t tired—he was in control of his transformation. It had been three hours since he’d shifted into the Knight form. He’d have just another few hours before he’d have to slip his mask back on.
“Open the door for me, husband,” Octavia said when they reached the outside door.
“But my hands are full,” he answered.
“I am a lady and you will open the door.”
Modo rolled his eyes and balanced the portmanteaus so that he could twist the knob, letting a bit of a cold breeze through. “Let us go, then, my delicate wife,” he said. “We have much work to do.”
8
Other Eyes
In an apartment across the street from Lafayette Place a young man sat looking out the window, playing with a roll of gauze, occasionally wheezing out a cough. He’d been keeping an eye on the building for weeks. On this particular afternoon he was contemplating calling his masters to suggest they move him on to more interesting work, when a young couple carrying luggage stopped outside Lafayette. They were clearly visitors. As soon as they entered the building, the man dropped the gauze. There was no time to prepare a disguise or dress properly. He would go as he was, despite the cold.
He ran over and crept up the stairs. They were inside Wyle’s apartment! He heard a male voice say, “I can make coffee. Would that do?” and watched as the caretaker emerged and climbed the stairs to his third-story apartment. The young man stealthily took the remaining stairs and positioned himself next to the door. He stilled his breathing, and listened. He overheard the conversation between the two strangers and discovered that their names were Modo and Octavia. It was soon obvious they were agents, but their English accents meant nothing. They could be working for anyone. They mentioned a Mr. Socrates. Another code name? He would take things into his own hands and trick these two into decoding the numbers for him.
The young man cursed Agent Wyle for dying so easily. He had intended to squeeze critical information out of him first. And now he had no idea what the numbers on the paper meant. He’d telegraphed his masters for guidance but had not yet received a reply. What was the point of having a telegraph if not to obtain instant answers? No one was giving him any direction!
And so, brazenly, he had stepped right into the apartment while their backs were turned and placed the papers on the table. He walked as though he had no weight. He retreated just as quietly, but couldn’t stop one cough from squeaking out. Damn his lungs. He hid in a doorway and listened as they found the papers and argued over their meaning. Fools! he thought. I’m playing you!
He waited around the back of the stairs as they clomped down them, and smirked as Modo opened the door for Octavia. They had no idea he was stalking them. It was almost too easy.
He approached the door to observe their direction; then, cursing the cold, he followed.
9
The Indecipherable Cipher
Octavia believed she was about to go stark raving mad. Or perhaps she would just get mad, at the very least. She picked at the crusts from her beef sandwich. For the past hour they had been sitting in O’Bryan’s Eatery, examining Agent Wyle’s papers. There was one note about losing the trail of Colette Brunet, and another about the Red Horse, a saloon that French sailors frequented; and finally there was the code: Grand poisson 6035236. The numbers were completely vexing!
Modo had the page in his thick hand and was staring at it as though his eyelids were glued open. She took a moment to examine him. There had been a subtle shift to his face; it seemed fleshier, somehow, and a rashlike redness had appeared on his forehead. She knew he had some unnatural way of manipulating his appearance. Was that what he was doing now?
He was the oddest, most exasperating man she had ever met. No, she corrected herself, he wasn’t a man. He was a boy who looked like a man. She was certain that he was younger than her own fifteen years.
“You’re breaking out in a rash, husband,” she said.
The panic on his face surprised her. He patted at his forehead, peeked at her through his fingers. “I’ll soon have to wear my mask again,” he said.
“What’s happening to you, then? Why can’t I see what you really look like?”
At this, his eyes narrowed.
“Let’s not discuss that,” he said, somewhat coldly. “You know I can’t show you. Now, come on, we must solve this code. Mr. Socrates will want to know the answer.”
“We’re going in circles,” she complained. “It’ll take greater minds than ours. We should contact our lord and master at once and wait for our orders. Use the wireless telegraph he gave you.”
“Not here in the open. Besides, I want to solve the puzzle first.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Modo,” she said.
“Fine. We’ll say that it’s your decision.”
“Of course it’s my decision. I am the senior agent.”
Modo let out a raspberry, loud enough that other
patrons looked their way, and quite suddenly both of them began giggling. They continued to chuckle as they walked down the street to the Mercer Hotel.
“We have to be on our guard,” Modo said, still smiling. Octavia was impressed by how easily he carried both portmanteaus. “If someone was trailing Agent Wyle, they may be watching us.”
“Oh, Modo,” she said lightheartedly, “Mr. Socrates has you boxing with shadows. We’re completely safe.” She wished she could believe her own words. After all, she didn’t know New York; she felt safer in London. At least there she knew good places to hide. Any one of the hundreds of people on the street here could be the enemy.
They checked into their room at the hotel, and once they’d unpacked, Modo withdrew the wireless telegraph from his pocket and opened it. At the top of the device was a small switch and three keys. “Now to get this to work,” he said.
“Do you want me to do it?”
“No. Mr. Socrates gave it to me for safekeeping.” His fingers hovered over the keys. “It uses electromagnetic induction to jump the signal to the nearest telegraph line.”
“Really? Ain’t you a longheaded professor! How do you get it going?”
“Oh, that’s easy!” Modo pressed a key and nothing happened. Then he tapped the side of the machine. “I believe a wire is loose.”
Octavia reached over and flicked a small switch. A light bumblebee-buzzing noise was followed by a hum.
“I was just about to do that!” Modo said. He slowly typed out a message. “There! It’s done.”
“How will he reply?”
“That’s the problem. This can’t receive messages. He’ll send a telegram to the hotel.”
“So we have to wait. We should go browsing books, then, my dear,” Octavia suggested.
They went back to Lafayette Place, dodging carriages as they crossed the street, and strode toward the Astor Library. Octavia wondered what it was that made New York so different; it wasn’t just the people. The air was clear and crisp. She was so used to fog and coal smoke; she found she actually missed them.
