The Long Chain

by Dan Willis

  Richardson looked back down at the folder.

  “According to this, the research would have used quite a few rare and expensive ingredients, as well as being quite volatile to brew,” he said. “The Dean at the time had to sign off on the project.” He turned a page in the folder, then flipped a few more in rapid succession. “The students who proposed the project, Andrea Flynn and Charles Grier, must have been exceptional students. There are a dozen glowing letters of recommendation in here from various faculty members.”

  Alex was caught off guard by Andrea’s last name. He’d always known her as Kellin, but she had a daughter, so it stood to reason that she must have had a husband at some point.

  “Here it is,” Richardson said. “During Flynn and Grier’s senior year, they had been given permission to test the formula on student volunteers.”

  That shiver up Alex’s spine returned with a vengeance.

  “According to this, the trials were going well until the end of the term. During the lead-up to final examinations, four of the students in the test group broke into the lab and stole some of the potion to help them study. Rather than the standard potion they had been receiving, they stole a concentrated solution.”

  “What happened?” Alex asked, positive he didn’t want to know.

  “During the examinations, all four of the students became agitated,” Richardson read. “One picked up a teacher’s desk and threw it out a third story window. According to eyewitnesses, she then jumped out the window and ran off.” He skimmed the report for a moment, then looked up at Alex. “The other three were involved in similar incidents and had to be physically subdued.”

  “What about the girl who ran off?”

  “Her body was found in the park the next day,” Richardson read. “The four students exposed to the concentrated potion, William Billingsley, Jessica Davis, Lilly Hanson, and Andrew O’Neil, all died of heart failure. After that, the project was canceled.” Richardson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Dear God,” he said, shaking his head. “Those poor youths.”

  “It sounds like they just got too much of the potion at once,” Alex said. “So how come they canceled the project?”

  Dean Richardson put his spectacles back on and scanned through the next few pages.

  “It looks like the Dean had all the evidence reviewed by the campus doctor and the Professor overseeing the project,” he said. “They determined that the potion built up in the student’s bodies over time until it became toxic. Drinking the concentrated potion just made it happen faster. The whole line of research was discontinued.”

  “And that’s it?” Alex asked.

  Dean Richardson flipped more pages until he reached the end.

  “It looks like Charles Grier did try to submit another project based on this one,” he said. “Even got his professor to buy off on it, but Dean Bennett rejected it.” He traced his finger along a line of text, then shook his head. “It seems Mr. Grier had a flair for bad alliteration; he called this one Ponce’s Poultice.”

  Richardson chuckled, but Alex didn’t hear. He suddenly felt that familiar adrenaline rush that would temporarily wipe away his need for Dr. Kellin’s rejuvenator, or, if he was guessing correctly, Leon’s Libation.

  “The professor,” Alex said. “The one who oversaw the research, is he the same professor who supported Grier’s second project?”

  Richardson flipped back and forth between the pages of the folder, then nodded.

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “A Professor Constantine Torres.” He looked back up at Alex. “Does that mean something?”

  “Yes,” Alex said, getting to his feet and putting his hat on. “It means I know what Ponce’s Poultice is. It also means I know who kidnapped Charles Grier, and I’m pretty sure I know why.”

  26

  Connie

  Alex took a slug of the rejuvenator as he waited for the operator to connect his call. The rush of energy washed over him and he took a deep breath, enjoying what there was of it.

  “Tasker,” came the response when the line connected.

  “This is Alex Lockerby,” Alex said. “I need a line on a guy you might know; do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” Billy Tasker replied. Billy was a talented reporter, but he worked for The Midnight Sun, a tabloid of the most sensational variety. He was also the reporter who had given Alex the moniker, The Runewright Detective. “Anything I might make into a story?” he pressed. Billy was always in search of a story, and Alex had given him a few good ones in the past. “I heard a rumor that the cops have got a headless body over at the morgue. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Sorry,” Alex lied. “I am working on a kidnapping case, though. I’ll tell you about it once I wrap it up. How’s that?”

  “Kidnapping’s good,” Billy said eagerly. “What is it you need to know?”

  “Ever hear of a guy named Constantine Torres? He’s an alchemist and I’m pretty sure he’s got money.”

  Based on the number of goons he was capable of hiring, Alex guessed Constantine Torres had a lot of money.

  “You mean Connie Torres,” Billy answered after a few moments. “He came up with some miracle face cream, you know the kind ladies wear at night. Made a fortune.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I’d have to ask around about that,” Billy said. “He’s not the kind of guy who does the social circuit.”

  Alex pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.

  “If he lives in the city, he’ll have a place in the core,” he said. “I’m at Columbia University right now so I figure it’ll take me half an hour or so to reach Empire Station. Do you think you could find out by then?”

  “Sure,” Billy said. “Should only take a few minutes.”

  Alex thanked him and was about to hang up when something occurred to him.

  “Hey, what do you know about a guy named William Henderson?”

  “The Ambassador? I know he comes from the best kind of money. Old money.”

  “Does he still have it?” Alex asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Billy said. “Rumor has it his old man was an original investor in Standard Oil. Henderson’s loaded.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Pretty boring, really,” Billy said. “Sure he flies all over the world and he married a gorgeous actress, but the guy just doesn’t make my kind of headlines. He only goes to the highbrow parties, you know, the ones where no one gets thrown out for being three-sheets-to-the-wind. He avoids press and scandal like the plague. The last time we wrote about him was five years ago or so, and that was mostly his son David.”

  “Why him?”

  “Oh, the usual,” Billy said. “David was a real libertine, drove fast cars and wrecked them, dated faster women and got them in trouble, that sort of thing.”

  “And daddy didn’t like it.”

  “Nope, he cut the kid off without a penny.”

  “What happened to David?” Alex asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

  “Died a couple of years ago,” Billy said. “There was a piece in the Times about the size of the crypt his mother built for him.”

  Alex sighed. He thought he was on to something with David, but it was a literal dead end. He thanked Billy and hung up, heading out into the fog to try to catch a cab.

  It was almost four o’clock when Alex rapped smartly on Connie Torres’ door. The house was located on the part of 33rd Street near Empire Tower that had become known as Mansion Row. This was by far the smallest house of the lot, but that didn’t keep it from being opulent. The entire home was done in a Greek style, with marble columns on either side of the entryway that led up to a heavy-looking plinth above. Flanking the door were alcoves with reproductions of famous statuary that faced inward, as if to judge any potential callers.

  Alex had been to rich men’s houses before. Usually when the door opened, it was a butler or a domestic whose job it was to send away riffraff like him. When
Connie Torres’ door opened, however, Alex found himself looking at a broad, squat man in a cheap suit. He had a flat face with a flat nose and eyes that were half-closed in a perpetual squint. His hands were thick-fingered and rough, and as he held the door open with his left hand, Alex could see the grip of a revolver peeking out from a shoulder holster under the man’s jacket.

  “Yeah?” he said in the most un-aristocratic Jersey accent Alex had ever heard.

  “Tell Mr. Torres that Alex Lockerby is here to see him.”

  “Buzz off,” the thug said, starting to close the door.

  “I’d be happy to go get the cops,” Alex interjected. “Tell them about how those two missing alchemists are being held here against their will.”

  The man hesitated, giving Alex a more scrutinizing look than before.

  “Or you could just let me have a quick word with Mr. Torres,” Alex finished.

  The flat-faced man opened the door a bit and leaned out, as if he expected there to be a dozen armed policemen up against the front wall of the house. Finding Alex to be alone, he shrugged and opened the door.

  “Inside,” he growled.

  Alex tried not to look nervous and stepped in. The foyer of the house was immaculate with marble floors, Persian carpets, carved art-nouveau sideboards, and padded chairs. A grand staircase ran up to the second floor with doors running off into side rooms on either side.

  As opulent as the house was, Alex could see a thick layer of dust on the decorative table in the middle of the floor, and the flowers decorating the room weren’t live, they were silk. Alex knew that Torres had money, more than he could ever spend, so the state of his house meant he didn’t want cleaners inside.

  “What’s this?” a low voice said.

  Alex looked to the door on the left side of the foyer and saw another thug in another cheap suit standing in the now open door. He was taller than the flat-faced man and gaunter, like a feral dog. His dirty blond hair was unkempt, and it looked like it had been some time since he’d seen a barber.

  “I think the boss will want to talk to this one,” the flat-faced thug said. “Cover me while I search him. Hands up, you.” This last bit was directed toward Alex.

  The blond thug pulled a .38 from a shoulder holster and leveled it at Alex. For his part, Alex raised his hands and allowed the flat-faced thug to pat him down. He’d taken the precaution of leaving his holster in his vault, along with his A-5, his brass knuckles, and the backup .38 pistol in his weapon cabinet. He’d even left his rune book behind, though he did have a few runes on individual papers folded up in his shirt pocket.

  “He’s clean,” Flat-Face said once he’d finished. The blond thug looked disappointed and tucked his gun back into his holster. “This way,” the first one said, heading past his companion into the room beyond.

  Following the man, Alex entered an elegant dining room with a table big enough for thirty people and a glass-fronted hutch loaded with fine dishware. Like the foyer, however, it was disused and covered with dust.

  Alex continued to follow his guide through the kitchens and into a large room at the back of the house. It looked like it had once been a solarium, but now it was set up as an alchemy lab. Dr. Kellin stood at a table in the back, measuring some green powder out of a jar and pouring it carefully into a beaker of bubbling liquid. In the far corner of the room, a man lay on a cot with another cheap-suited thug watching him. Finally, a man in a wheelchair sat on a raised platform by a doorway that led to some other parts of the house. He was old and withered with wispy white hair and gnarled hands that gripped the arms of his chair. A look of eager avarice twisted his face as he watched Dr. Kellen work.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he wheezed when he caught sight of Alex and the flat-faced thug.

  Dr. Kellin gasped and dropped a vial of blue liquid she was holding, sending it shattering across the floor.

  “Alex,” she gasped. Her eyes were as wide as saucers and Alex saw fear in them.

  “Hi-ya, Doc,” Alex said, giving her a smile and a friendly wave.

  Dr. Kellin recovered herself instantly, and the look of fear vanished from her face. She turned to the man in the wheelchair before anyone else could speak.

  “You said you’d leave my friends out of this if I helped you,” she accused him.

  The man put up his hands and cocked an eyebrow.

  “I assure you, Andrea, I don’t know who this young man is, or how he came to be here.” His gaze shifted to Alex and his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him. “But I am most interested to find out.”

  Alex felt gooseflesh run up his arms as the old man looked at him. His eyes seemed to burn with the fire of passion, or madness, and Alex wasn’t excited to find out which it was.

  “My name’s Alex Lockerby, Mr. Torres,” he said. “I’m a private investigator. Dr. Kellin here,” he nodded at her, “hired me to find Charles Grier.” Alex looked at the man in the cot. “Can I assume that’s him?”

  Torres looked surprised for a minute then he nodded.

  “Is he still alive?” Alex asked.

  “Of course,” Torres said. “What makes you think he wouldn’t be?”

  Alex smiled at that.

  “Well, I imagine you weren’t very happy with him when you found out that you knew more about brewing Leon’s Libation than he did.”

  Dr. Kellin’s face blanched at the mention of the potion and Torres looked angry.

  “How did you know that?” he demanded.

  “Easy,” Alex said, walking to one of the heavy lab tables and leaning against it. “Dean Bennett confiscated everything after those students died, but you were the faculty advisor to Grier and the doc. You would have had copies of everything. You used their work to make your cold cream that keeps ladies looking young.”

  “What of it?” Torres said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

  “You tried to make the formula work, but all you got was a minor restorative,” Alex said. “That must have been frustrating.”

  “Oh, it was,” Torres said, his smile still in place. “Bennett took everything before I could make copies. I had to recreate the formula from memory, and obviously I didn’t get it exactly right. Still, it did make me rich, so I’m not too upset about it.”

  “And it stayed that way for a long time,” Alex said. “Until you got sick. How am I doing?”

  “You’re a very astute investigator, Lockerby,” he said with a cold chuckle. “I have a degenerative nerve disease that is slowly shutting down my spinal cord.”

  “And when you got that diagnosis, you remembered the work you did way back in college,” Alex said. “Charles Grier’s rejuvenator.” His eyes slid to Dr. Kellin as he said it and her cheeks pinked. “Did you know what he was really trying to do back in school, or did you figure it out later?” Alex asked, looking back to Torres.

  The old man laughed at that.

  “What is it you think Charles was trying to do?” he asked.

  “His work wasn’t some kind of energy elixir,” Alex said, “like some glorified cup of coffee. Grier wanted the ultimate prize, he was trying to create a potion that would prevent the body from aging.”

  “How do you know that?” Dr. Kellin snapped at him.

  He grinned at her and shrugged.

  “It was obvious, really. Charles’ flare for alliteration was the clue. Leon’s Libation and Ponce’s Poultice. Leon is common enough, but I’ve only heard the name Ponce twice before. One is a British swear word I learned when Iggy called a bureaucrat at the revenue office a ponce, and the other is the name of a famous Spaniard. His name was Ponce de Leon and he’s famous for trying to find the fountain of youth.”

  Torres stared at Alex for a long moment, then he burst out laughing, pounding his hand on the arm of his wheelchair.

  “Oh, Andrea, where did you find this boy?” he wheezed. “He’s priceless.” Torres stopped to wipe away a tear of mirth. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “Grier loved to talk about his pro
ject. He told me what he envisioned and where he wanted to go with it.”

  “Too bad it wasn’t his idea,” Alex said. “If it had been, he might have been able to make it work.”

  Torres mirth dried up, and he sneered, but didn’t respond.

  “Did you have to torture him before he told you the truth?” Alex asked. “That the whole thing had been Andrea’s idea from the start?”

  “I did have to have my boys lean on him a bit,” Torres admitted.

  “So, you see why I asked if he was still alive?”

  “Yes, I see,” Torres sneered. “And yes, Grier is still with us, just to insure Dr. Kellin’s cooperation. For my own curiosity, how did you know that Leon’s Libation was Andrea’s idea?”

  “Simple,” Alex said. “If it had been Grier’s idea, he wouldn’t have just let it drop after the accident at Columbia. He’d have kept working on it until he cracked it. But he didn’t, did he? He became a regular alchemist. Nothing in his work indicated that he’d even thought about Leon’s Libation after college. Even you knew more about it than he did.”

  Torres sour face split into a grin and he clapped his hands together in applause.

  “Bravo, Mr. Lockerby,” he said. “I must confess to being excessively entertained by your mental gymnastics. But, as you said, I’m an old and sick man. I don’t have a great deal of time left to me.” He looked at Dr. Kellin. “Andrea has been working diligently to recreate her old formula, but the work hasn’t exactly been going quickly.”

  Torres looked back to Alex, then his eyes shifted to the side and he nodded. Suddenly, Alex was seized from behind and strong arms pressed his head down on the lab table.

  “With you here, I suspect we can prevail upon dear Andrea to work faster.”

  “I told you I’m going as fast as I can,” Dr. Kellin snapped. She was calm but Alex could detect a note of panic underlying her voice. “The potion base takes a week to brew and no amount of cajoling or threats can make it any faster.”

  One of the thugs pulled Alex’s arm up behind his back, hard, and he grunted in pain.