by Dan Willis
“Right here,” a new voice came from the door.
Alex turned to find a middle-aged man with slicked back hair and a jowly face standing in the doorway. He wore a tweed suit and carried a black medical bag in the same style as Alex’s crime scene kit.
“Dr. Higgins,” Karen exclaimed, relief filling her voice. “Come in.”
Higgins hadn’t waited for an invitation. He was already stepping around Alex to get a look at Leonard Burnham.
“Leo?” he questioned, when Burnham didn’t react to him. “Can you hear me?”
Leonard nodded, then turned to Alex.
“Is this a friend of yours?” Leonard said.
Dr. Higgins looked at Karen.
“Does he remember anything?”
All Karen could do was shrug.
“I think he knows this is his home,” Alex supplied. “He seems dazed.”
“Leonard,” Higgins said in a loud, clear voice. “I’m a doctor and I need to have a look at you.”
He held up a finger and had Burnham look at it while he moved it around, then asked Burnham a series of random questions. When he was satisfied, he looked at Alex.
“Go ahead and take him upstairs,” he said. “Have him lie down. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Alex did as he was told while Higgins talked with Karen. A few minutes later he came up and Alex was banished back downstairs.
“What did he say?” Alex asked when he got back to the front room. Karen was pacing around like a tiger in a cage, biting the fingernail on her right ring finger.
She shook her head and kept pacing.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Alex said, not out of any genuine intuition but rather from a desire to be encouraging.
“Oh,” Karen said, looking up at him. “I’m sorry. I need to pay you.” She went back into the kitchen and came back with her handbag. “In all the excitement, I forgot.” Withdrawing a leather wallet from her bag, she counted out a few fives and some ones, then handed the stack over. “Twenty-five, you said?”
Alex nodded and accepted the money.
“Thank you for finding him,” Karen said, her voice wavering.
Alex could tell she was on the edge of hysterics. He put a hand on her shoulder, causing her to look up at him.
“Why don’t you sit down,” he said, leading her to the sofa. “The doc will be a few minutes.”
Karen looked as if she wanted to protest, but sat in spite of it. Alex sat down on the far side of the couch and offered her a cigarette. By the time the doc came down the stairs, Karen had smoked three to Alex’s one. She practically leapt up when Higgins reached the parlor.
“How is he?” she demanded.
“He has a concussion,” Higgins said.
“How did that happen?”
Higgins shrugged.
“There’s a pretty nasty bump on the back of his head. If I had to guess, I’d say he fell and hit it.”
“What about that bruise on his face?” Alex asked. “That looks like he was in a fight.”
Higgins looked Alex up and down with an expression of obvious disdain.
“Leonard Burnham is a man of quality,” the doctor said in an indignant voice. “Men of quality do not go around getting into fights.”
“No,” Alex admitted. “But sometimes a fight shows up anyway.”
“Are you questioning my medical opinion?” He turned to Karen. “Is this a friend of yours?”
“I’m a private detective,” Alex said, stepping close to Higgins so he could glower down at the shorter man. “Miss Burnham hired me to find her missing grandfather, which I did.”
“And now that your job’s done,” Higgins fired back, “I’d say it’s time you were on your way.”
“Don’t worry,” Alex said, leaning down to pick up his hat from the coffee table. “I’ll go, just as soon as I’m sure Miss Burnham and her grandfather are out of danger.”
Karen, who had looked uncomfortable during the whole conversation, went white.
“What do you mean, out of danger?”
“Your grandfather has cuts on his hands and bruises on his knuckles,” Alex said, turning to her. “The technical term for that is ‘defensive wounds.’ It means he used his fists in a fight.” Higgins opened his mouth, doubtless to reiterate the absurdity of Leonard Burnham being in a fight, but Alex kept going right over him. “The most likely explanation for that is that he was out somewhere and got jumped. But he wasn’t dressed up, he’s wearing old work clothes. No thug looking for cash is going to jump somebody dressed like that, which leaves only two options.” Alex held up his hand and ticked off his index finger. “One, he ran afoul of someone truly desperate, and since he still has his belt and his shoes, we know it isn’t that one.” He ticked off a second finger. “Or two, someone attacked him who knew he had money.”
“What makes you think my grandfather has money?” Karen demanded. She wanted to appear angry, maybe outraged, but her voice broke when she said it, betraying her fear.
Alex fixed her with a steady look.
“This house is immaculate,” he said. “The lawn is cut, the porch is swept, there’s no peeling paint.” He waved around at the parlor. “There’s no dust anywhere and this floor has been swept. The only space that’s not tidy is the one place your grandfather probably wouldn’t allow anyone but himself. He’s a slob, you have a demanding internship, and yet the rest of the property is well cared for. Clearly, he pays people to do that. Then there’s you,” Alex said. “Your internship probably pays less than being a waitress, and yet you didn’t balk at paying my fee, and you aren’t worried about what Dr. Harris here will charge you. Clearly your grandfather has money. The question is, who knew about it and how much did he usually carry?”
“This is preposterous,” Higgins scoffed. “No one is stalking Leonard. He doesn’t go around with wads of cash in his pockets. It’s far more likely that Leo bumped into something in his workshop and then fell down.”
“I’m sure the doctor is right,” Karen said, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “I’m glad you’re looking out for us, Alex, but we’ll be fine, really.”
Alex held her gaze for a moment, then shrugged and put on his hat.
“Do you think Dr. Burnham will regain his memory?” Alex asked Higgins.
“It’s impossible to say,” he replied, then turned to Karen. “But with rest and good care, I’m hopeful.”
Alex withdrew one of his business cards from his jacket pocket and passed it to Karen.
“Glad I could help, Miss Burnham,” he said. “If you feel you need me for anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”
She thanked him; Alex wished her good night and stepped out into the fog and the darkness.
By the time Alex climbed the steps to the brownstone belonging to his mentor and landlord, Dr. Ignatius Bell, it was well after seven in the evening. Normally a trip from the West Side to the brownstone would only have taken half an hour but with the fog thickening toward the pea-soup variety, it took him forever to find a cab. Then, of course, the cabbie had to go slowly to avoid hitting other cars. The trip had taken over an hour.
Alex sighed as he pulled out the brass pocket watch in his vest that served as his key to the building. Fog and slow cab rides were just two of the many parts of his life that were well beyond his control. He pushed the watch’s crown and the lid popped open. Inside the watch, a complex series of runes activated, pushing at the protection runes that kept the brownstone safe.
Reaching out, Alex opened the door and stepped inside. As he did so, he snapped the watch closed, reenabling the protection runes and sealing the front door. He passed through the vestibule and into the house proper, hanging his gray fedora on a peg along the wall by the stairs.
“Well, here you are,” Dr. Bell said as Alex stepped into the library. The library was in the front of the house and consisted of a room filled with tall bookshelves on either side of an impressive stone hearth. The fireplace held a grate for bur
ning coal, but with the warm weather, it was covered by an ornate brass screen that resembled a peacock. Two comfortable, wing-backed chairs stood opposite the fireplace, separated by a tall end-table. A Tiffany lamp cast a good light for reading down below its shade and dappled, multi-colored light above.
In the far chair, book and cigar in hand, sat Dr. Ignatius Bell, late of His Majesty’s Navy. He was a somewhat grizzled man in his seventies with deep set eyes and a bottle-brush mustache. His real name, of course, was Arthur Conan Ignatius Doyle, creator of the world’s most famous fictional detective, but only Alex knew that. The thought made Alex glance up at the bookshelf to the left of the hearth, at the thin red book on one of the upper shelves. It was the Archimedean Monograph, the most sought-after book of rune lore in the business. It was also what forced Iggy to flee his home and family and change his name. Powerful and dangerous people wanted that book. Governments wanted it, and here it sat, on a shelf in Iggy’s library, hiding in plain sight.
“You seem melancholy,” Iggy said, shutting the dime novel he’d been reading. Pulp mysteries were a passion of his...for obvious reasons. “No luck with the girl and her missing relative?”
“Not at all,” Alex said, dropping down into the second chair, glad that Leslie had remembered to update Iggy. “I found him, but he’d been in some kind of scrape and got hit on the head. When I left, he still didn’t remember anything, not even his name.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Iggy said. “Head wounds can be tricky. He might be okay with a couple days’ rest.”
“That’s what his doctor said,” Alex confirmed.
“Then what’s the problem?”
Alex shook his head and sat back in the chair.
“Something about it bothers me,” he said. “Not sure what.” He stood and walked over to the hearth, looking down at the screen. “It’s probably just the fog; it’s got me on edge.”
“Well, you know I always tell you to trust your instincts,” Iggy said. “What’s bothering you? What do you think?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Alex said with a chuckle. “The girl got her grandfather back, I got paid, and that’s the end of it.”
Iggy sighed and puffed on his cigar.
“I suppose it is,” he said. “Did you see the paper?”
“The war between China and Japan is heating up,” Alex said. This was one of Iggy’s favorite games. When he’d first trained Alex to be a detective, he’d stressed the importance of remaining up on what was going on in the world. The most random or innocuous bit of data might be relevant in the right context. To train Alex to observe and remember, Iggy went through the day’s paper and would quiz Alex on what he found. Over the years it had grown into a game where each of them tried to find something so obscure the other would have missed it. Lately neither one of them could trip up the other.
Iggy made a sound of agreement.
“The Japanese are butchering them, if the reports are true. Roosevelt even recalled our ambassador to the Emperor.”
Alex had seen that, but hadn’t really paid too much attention.
“David Hendricks,” Alex said.
“Henderson,” Iggy corrected.
“Skinny guy with glasses and a pencil mustache,” Alex supplied, remembering the photograph that accompanied the article. “What about Edison Electric?” Alex asked, changing the subject. “Do you think they’ll be able to stop Barton from putting up his power relay tower in Brooklyn?”
“No,” Iggy chuckled. “Barton’s got too much money and too much pull. That lawsuit is the best Edison can do, but it will keep Barton wrapped up in court for a year or two.”
“Too bad for Brooklyn,” Alex said. He returned to his chair and wearily sat back down. It had been hours since he’d had a swig of the rejuvenation elixir and he could feel the exhaustion building.
“Yes,” Iggy agreed, puffing on his cigar. “Once Barton’s towers go up, everything will change. Speaking of change, what do you think about this weather?”
“It’s making my cabs run slow.”
“And?”
Alex turned to Iggy and found the doctor looking at him expectantly.
“And what? It’s just fog, we’ve had fog before.”
“Except the weather reports in the paper called for clear weather.”
Alex laughed at that.
“So? When is it news that the weather report is wrong? If the weatherman at the Times was a baseball player, he’d be traded to the Braves.”
“It’s news because the experts can’t explain it,” Iggy said.
Alex looked back at his mentor with a skeptical expression.
“Are these the same ‘experts’ who predicted a cool summer?”
“Point taken,” Iggy said, opening his pulp novel. “You look tired. I left you a sandwich in the icebox.”
“Thanks,” Alex said, pushing himself out of the chair. “But I think I’ll just turn in.”
“Eat something first,” Iggy said, his nose now stuck in his book.
Alex didn’t argue. Iggy was right, he needed to keep up his strength. He made his way to the kitchen and found the sandwich Iggy had made him, roast beef with mustard on rye bread. Iggy had cut it into halves and left it on a plate. Alex took one of the halves and went upstairs.
His room, like his office, was on the third floor. It was a simple affair with a bathroom, closet, desk, bed and reading chair. Alex hung up his clothes, then went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. He felt tired, exhausted really, but he wasn’t prepared for the face that looked out at him from the mirror.
“I look like a damn raccoon,” he muttered, noting the dark circles under his eyes.
He finished washing his face, then went to his chair and sat, ignoring his sandwich. He poured himself a shot from the bottle on the table. In the past, that had been cheap bourbon, but these days it was decent whiskey. He took a sip, savoring the taste, then set the glass aside.
His mind drifted back over the events of the day. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t focus. It was as if the fog outside had permeated his brain. He resolved to stay up for a while, eat some of his sandwich and think about Karen and her grandfather. Maybe he could figure out what it was that bothered him about that whole affair. As he sat, trying to will himself to think, however, his eyes slid closed and all thought of cases, clients, roast beef, and whiskey vanished from his mind.
5
Alchemical Matters
Alex arrived at his office half an hour early the next morning. The life energy he’d sacrificed saving the city two years ago caused him to be tired almost all the time, but ironically, he still couldn’t sleep very long. Thank heaven Iggy, on his way to bed, had come by to check on him and seen to it that Alex had gotten into bed, himself; he’d be feeling a lot worse if he’d slept the whole time, slumped in that chair. As it was, his shoulders and back were tight and stiff.
“At least you’re still on this side of the dirt,” he muttered as he let himself into the waiting room with his key.
He went into his office and picked up the stack of client folders from his in-box, then went out to Leslie’s desk and sat down. Since she had gone to see Randall out in Suffolk County, Alex would have to cover the front office. He didn’t mind, but he recognized that as good a detective as he was, he was no Leslie — that required different skills. Still, he managed to put on a pot of coffee and log the money Karen had paid him into the cash box before he started making calls.
Alex started with the lost dog, and to his utter disappointment, the wayward pooch had been found and returned to the owner. He continued that way, calling through the stack of clients, taking down their particulars and advising them on how he could help. When he set the last folder aside and sat back, the clock on the wall showed it to be almost noon. The time had passed quickly, but now that he had stopped, Alex felt the ever-present weariness washing over him.
Standing, Alex retrieved the flask of rejuvenator from his office.
A quick swig replenished him, and the nearly empty flask reminded him that he’d need to go see Jessica for more. That thought made him smile.
Since it was lunch time and he was done with his calls, Alex decided to go across the street to the five and dime and get a sandwich. He had just put on his jacket when the office door opened, and Dr. Andrea Kellin walked in. She was an older woman, in her sixties if Alex had to guess, with a rather severe face and gray hair that she kept twisted behind her head in a bun. She wore a cream-colored jacket over a blue blouse that exactly matched the color of her eyes, along with a dark skirt. Her face was stoic, but that was usual for her; what was not usual was the hollow look of her cheeks and her bloodshot eyes. Clearly the push to perfect her daughter’s cure was taking its toll.
“Hello, Alex,” she said, shutting the door behind her.
Alex looked at her, somewhat confused. Except for the time Iggy brought her to the office, Alex had never seen her outside of her own shop, north of Central Park.
“Hi-ya, Doc,” Alex said with a grin. “What brings you out my way?”
“Do you have a few minutes?” she asked, not returning his smile.
Alex took off his hat and put it back on the stand beside the door, then motioned toward his office.
“Always for you, Doc,” he said.
“I’ve been wrestling with myself all the way over to see you,” Dr. Kellin said, once she’d sat down in front of Alex’s desk. “I’m not sure what I should do.”
Alex sat down at his desk and pulled out his note pad.
“What’s the problem?”
“I have a friend,” Kellin began. “His name is Charles Grier and he’s an alchemist, one of the best in the business. I’ve known him for years.”
She paused for a moment and Alex let her gather her thoughts. He noted that she didn’t introduce her friend as a doctor. Many alchemists got a medical degree, like Dr. Kellin, but it wasn’t a requirement.
“I...I’ve been working hard on my polio formula and I need a certain catalyzer. It’s very difficult to make and I usually get it from Charles, because he’s one of the few alchemists who stocks it. I’ve been by his shop three times in the last week, but it’s been closed. That’s very unlike Charles. I’m worried something has happened to him.”
