Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3)

by Alexander, MK

  With some regularity, he and a companion were driven down to Monte Carlo in a second-hand Bentley. They’d gamble for the entire evening. Roulette was his game. I never got a very good look at his companion though, not even through the binoculars. All I could say was that she had red hair, a good figure, and seemed rather short when she stood next to Mortimer.

  Anika decided a closer look at the house was necessary and planned a visit. She would pose as a tradesman. We returned to her garage where she had a white Renault van with corrugated sides just for such occasions. There was also a Vespa parked in the corner. It seemed to be badly in need of repair.

  “Oh no, it runs perfectly,” Anika insisted. “It just looks a bit rough around the edges.” She rummaged through a pile of signs to pin to the van. She held them up and asked for my advice. “What should I be tomorrow? A plumber, a mechanic, an electrician, or perhaps a florist making a delivery?”

  I had no idea what the signs said. She translated them for me with no small bit of impatience. “Don’t you speak French? Dutch? German?”

  I shook my head no to each.

  “Oh Patrick, what good are you?”

  “I can play the perfect tourist.”

  Anika was less than impressed. I had a hard time believing she could ever pull off posing as a plumber, though she did have a way with people, and her smile was quite disarming. She also had the whole Bridget Bardot thing going on.

  ***

  There was still no sign of Pavel when Thursday came again, but Anika decided it was the perfect night for a burglary. We took the harrowing ride aboard her Vespa along dark mountain roads. She was right though, it ran well and quietly. We parked some distance from Mortimer’s villa and waited in scanty woods until midnight.

  For Anika, the alarms were easy to circumvent. She snipped a few wires and rerouted a few others. The two dogs that prowled the grounds, two mastiffs, I thought, eagerly devoured the raw steaks she threw over the railing. “Now we wait for a bit.” She glanced at her watch and leaned back against a high stone wall. Five minutes later, the dogs were lolling about, each emitting a soft low moaning. Ten minutes more and they were fast asleep.

  Anika and I scaled the wall. She cautioned me about the embedded shards of glass along the top. We followed it carefully to where it met a second story roof. There was a considerable gap between them.

  “You want me to jump to there?”

  “It’s not as far as it looks,” Anika said and smiled, then took a great leap across to the rooftop. She was on the other side before I realized. I saw her urging me on. Well, at least she didn’t blink out of existence, I thought, and took a few steps back in preparation.

  I jumped. When I landed, a red-clay scalloped tile came loose. It skidded and fell to the ground with a shattering sound. A different dog started barking and a porch light went on in a nearby house— probably the servants’ quarters. Anika motioned for me to remain still and duck down. A few minutes later once things had quieted, we snuck across the roof until Anika found a skylight. While she cut the glass with some device that included a suction cup, I peered into Mortimer’s villa.

  Below was a sprawling living room, ultra-modern with clean lines, spotless really, almost sterile though classic, with stick-leg Danish furniture. At the center of the room was a conversation pit, a sunken area lined with built-in sofas facing a massive but very low table of glass and veneer. Apparently this Mortimer had spared no expense to furnish his lair.

  We lowered ourselves down on a knotted rope. Anika knew exactly where to go and found a safe in the bedroom.

  “You’re a safe-cracker too?”

  “Of course, comes with the job…” She smiled and produced a stethoscope from her bag. The safe door opened moments later. She examined the jewelry carefully. “It’s paste,” she said, seething.

  “Paste?”

  “Costume jewelry, none of it’s real. Just look at these pearls, they’re painted metal balls.”

  “And Pavel’s crystals?”

  “Let’s try the living room.”

  “What are we looking for exactly?”

  “A necklace that resembles mine, I would guess.”

  Instead, I came upon a collection of canes, artfully lit and arranged in a glass case. There were many more than I supposed could exist, but recognized at least three of them: the bear claw, the jackal, and a lion’s face— the last being the replacement cane I had bought in Amsterdam. There were claws from other animals as well, notably, a bird, an eagle perhaps.

  “Which one is it?” Anika came over and asked.

  “I’m not sure any of these work.”

  “What then?”

  I remembered what Inspector Fynn always cautioned: Change as little as possible. “It’s best if we leave them be.”

  “Why?”

  “Your father says so.”

  “Well, I don’t see Pavel’s crystals anywhere. We should steal something so the evening isn’t a total loss.” Anika smiled.

  We came upon another case, this one held black-faced pocket watches, none with a normal dial, and compass was a better word. Here I fared better, recognizing Edmund’s work, but how his compass could be here in this particular time was beyond my understanding.

  Anika quite unexpectedly smashed open the glass. “To make it look like a proper robbery,” she explained, “…and just for the fun of it.”

  I chose the most likely compass and tested it briefly. At least I could see faint lines of yellow, green and red flicker across the dial. I put it in my pocket, and at that moment, alarm bells started. I could hear voices and people running, drawing nearer.

  Quickly back to the skylight, we were about to start up the rope again. Anika insisted I go first. We had no time to argue. Someone was pounding against the double doors to the living room.

  “Climb,” she said. “You must go, hurry…”

  I looked down. She was following, though the rope swayed precariously. “But the police…”

  “Ah, I don’t worry much about them.” Anika smiled up. “I’ve been caught before… It’s the Count that concerns me. He will not know me… though he may remember you.”

  I wasn’t so sure she was correct. The doors finally gave way and two burly figures emerged from the shadows. I had just reached the top and grabbed the edge of the skylight, hauling myself back to the roof. I turned to help Anika.

  To my horror, the rope had slipped from its anchor. I looked down. She was sprawled on the living room carpet. Thankfully, she seemed unharmed for the moment, sitting up slowly. I saw her mouthing the words, “go, go…”

  Two men were standing over her now; one of them looked up at me. There was nothing I could do in that moment but sprint back to the Vespa. In the distance, I saw flashing lights winding up the mountain road. I heard an, ee-ou, ee-ou, the signature European siren.

  chapter eighteen

  flatland

  There was little I could do to help Anika the next day. I couldn’t leave her stranded, and jumping anywhere else in time seemed like a bad idea. I did learn the French authorities were remarkably understanding when it came to visitation. They directed me to a maison d’arrêt, a small remand-prison in the nearby town of Nice; and there, I was allowed to sit with her in the courtyard for a good half an hour. Anika seemed unconcerned about her incarceration, explaining that she had a very good lawyer who was friends with the local prosecutor.

  “The bad news is that he’s on holiday until Monday,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure if she meant the lawyer or the prosecutor. “Is there any way I can help?”

  “Oh, dear Patrick… there’s nothing you can do for me, but thank you…” Anika squeezed my hand. “The best idea is for you to go and find Mr Fickster… Edmund.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he knows where my father is, eh? You must find him, please.”

  “But how?”

  “You have his famous compass, yes? And Pavel has given you a map for this island?”
<
br />   “I guess.”

  “Well, off you go then…” she said encouragingly.

  “Like a car, a train, a boat?”

  “Exactly this. Take the ferry at Brindisi.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll stay here in case Mr Mekanos decides to make an appearance.” She smiled. “Or perhaps, I’ll do a bit of sleepwalking and find myself back in Amsterdam.”

  “Will you remember me?”

  “Of course, my darling. You’re completely unforgettable.”

  ***

  On the Island of Samos, I befriended a local man named Yanni who spoke excellent English. Near the docks, we shared a demitasse of thick bitter coco under a shady awning. He was a student of archaeology at Oxford, he claimed, and I had no reason not to believe him. His lifelong aim was to find and excavate Pythagoras’ boyhood residence here on the island. “Every summer I return home to see my family… and continue with the work at hand.”

  I explained that I needed to charter a boat.

  “Where do you have to go? Fishing?” he asked. I pointed north and slightly west to a tiny brown speck on the very edge of the horizon. “The Flatlands,” I said.

  “Ah, düz arazi,” Yanni repeated, “That’s Turkish territory.” He led me to the harbor where some old wooden skiffs were tied up. I heard Yanni repeating, “επίπεδη γη,” as we walked by. Most of the fishermen nodded their heads and clicked their tongues. I figured that meant no. One man did reply, and it wasn’t long before a heated argument broke out. I walked over to them. “Says he won’t take you there for all the drachmas in the world,” my new friend translated.

  “Why not?”

  “Too dangerous, he says.”

  “How about Spanish doubloons? Gold…” I held out a palm full of coins.

  “Chrysós,” Yanni translated.

  The fisherman eyed me and plucked a few from my hand. He hefted them in his own and spoke to Yanni with a bright smile.

  “Okay, he says he’ll take you because you’re an American and he loved John Kennedy. Get your gear and climb aboard,” my friend told me. “And he wonders why you look like a commando…”

  Admittedly, I was still wearing a black turtleneck and had a carry-all filled with grappling hooks and rope ladders, and other sundry climbing equipment.

  Our old wooden caïque approached the island very slowly. I think it may have had a one-cylinder engine, emitting a constant but ineffectual putt-putt noise the whole way. We must have been making progress though, as I could see waves breaking against the prow, and the island was growing ever larger on the horizon.

  It was a featureless brown and gray lump of rock with a few bits of scrub growing here and there. All I could see was a low rising hill, flat on the top. One shore, the eastern shore, rose from the sea to a hundred-foot-high rocky bluff, a tall cliff being slowly eaten away by the waves.

  At the bottom, I could see various skeletons scattered against the rocks, white bones, femurs, rib cages, and skulls, bleached by the sun.

  “The coastline is very treacherous, the Captain tells me. This is as far as he can go,” Yanni said.

  “What— does he expect me to swim the rest of the way?” I laughed. My new friend threw me a pair of flippers, a mask and a snorkel.

  ***

  I was happy enough to be wearing the flippers as I waded up a shoreline covered in black sea urchins. I changed into dry clothes, and from the rocky beach, it was a fairly easy climb to the top of the island. I looked across this bleak place. It was baking hot and salty, the only relief came from a breeze that gusted in from the west. I was also happy enough to find there were no ghosts to be seen. Flatland was a bit of a misnomer, maybe Slope-Land would have been better, for the whole island was at a gentle incline, from the bluffs on one side, to the sea on the other.

  Edmund Fickster was surprisingly difficult to find. There were lots of odd people milling about, many more than I expected. Each was dressed so disparately, I’d have to say they were in costume, though some of their garments were faded, tattered and frayed. They all stared at me with blissful smiles, or nodded a welcome as they ambled by, but no one said a word. Men and women alike, none seemed very young, and they had a peculiar look about them, as if they lived in a state of perpetual bewilderment. Everyone seemed happy though, at peace, I’d guess; or at least happily satisfied.

  I finally spotted Edmund, the only person in a lab coat, a heavy apron, and goggles, which were draped around his neck. I also saw a pair of rubber gloves poking from his back pocket.

  “Edmund…” I called out from a distance and came running across the scrub.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “Patrick. Don’t you remember me?”

  “No. Are you a new arrival?”

  “I guess.”

  “You’re not at all familiar.”

  “I’ve come to rescue you, set you free.”

  “Have you now? And why would you do that?” He scrutinized me carefully. “And who says I need rescuing anyway?”

  “Well, I need your help also.”

  “Help in what way?”

  “I’m looking for Fynn.”

  “Fynn, you say? Is Tractus with you?”

  “No, he’s missing.”

  “Well, he’s not here, young man.”

  “I thought you might be able to help me find him.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “He told me you were friends.”

  “Those were his words?” Edmund paused for a moment. “I suppose I can take some small comfort…”

  “Well?”

  “I’m not inclined to offer any assistance today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Indeed, I may know Fynn, but I’ve never seen the likes of you.”

  “Are you protecting him?”

  “From what?”

  “Being found.”

  “He might wish to remain lost, knowing Fynn as I do.”

  “I think something bad has happened to him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “No one has seen him, and I was told you might know where he is.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Mr Mekanos, Pavel.”

  “You claim to know him as well?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s a friend of yours?”

  “Yes… he said, he saw you last Thursday.”

  Edmund gave me a long stare. “That does sound like Pavel… Why doesn’t he help you look then?”

  “He seems to be missing too.”

  “Really? Well, who else have you spoken with?”

  “Madame Madeline, among others…”

  “Did you ask Mr Quandary where Fynn might be?”

  “Yes. He said Fynn died about five hundred years ago.”

  “There you have it. There’s no arguing with Mr Quandary. He’s never wrong.”

  “I don’t believe him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Anika.”

  “Fynn’s daughter?”

  “Yes. She’s here.”

  “On the island?”

  “No… in jail… in France.

  “How terrible.” Edmund sized me up again. “Say, haven’t we met before?” He looked at me anew.

  “Yes.”

  “At the Library, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s my compass then?”

  I reached into my pocket and gave it to him. “Well?”

  “Alright, I do know where Fynn is. And he’s not long for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s in some real trouble unless the magistrate does something quickly.”

  “What magistrate?”

  “There, I’ve said too much already.”

  “You haven’t said anything.”

  Edmund gave me a long look. “You don’t know the magistrate?”

  “No.”

  “I felt sure you would… well, no matter. There’s nothing to
be done. We’re both stuck here now.”

  “But…”

  “Come along,” he called and started down the gentle slope of the island to the other shore. The wind picked up as we got closer to the water. “We like the breeze,” Edmund said. “It keeps the flies away.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I thought I might show you around… find you a bunk… Maybe you’re hungry or thirsty?” Edmund led me across the featureless landscape. There was nothing moveable to be seen and nothing higher than a few inches. There were certainly no boulders to jump from, no structures either, like houses or walls; though I could see lots of costumed people about, near and far, some engaged in purposeful effort.

  We came to a kind of barracks, a circular chamber dug from the rock with twelve windows at the very top. They were about two feet wide and it reminded me of a World War Two gun emplacement. The chamber was only accessible by means of a spiraling tunnel that started at the ceiling and emptied at the floor. Inside was a space about a hundred feet across, comprised of a single curved wall of stone. I could see the windows again, they were high above us set in a dome some fifty feet from the bottom. Dozens of low stone beds lay against the wall, each had a table and a bench nearby. They were built-in or carved from the rock but no more than a few inches from the ground.

  There was a large hearth to one side, smoldering not really burning; and at the middle of the room, a fountain of sorts, not much more than a stone pool with water gently bubbling from the center. All this drained away to an angled culvert that led to a small alcove, presumably a kind of privy.

  At the very least it was cooler down here. There were torches and the odor of rancid fish oil. I expected to see prisoners in shackles or with weights tied around their ankles, as Fynn had once described.

  “Ankle weights— Fynn told you that? How very odd. I don’t wear them myself.”

  “He said they were so no one could jump away from here.”