Clockwork Killer (Steampunk Detectives: Book 1)

by Hall, Ian

  “Francis,” he turned to me, “You want to be known for inventing; that is easy for me to see. But you want to be known for the developments in your inventions after they leave the drawing board. You don’t only want to design the first commercial electric motor; you want to invent it, refine it, fit it to the largest vessel in the world, and propel it to the stars!”

  It turned out to be my turn to gasp. This nameless man had hit the nail so squarely on the head, he’d hammered it flush with one stroke. “With me at the helm,” I said softly, finishing my loftiest of dreams.

  “You never told me.” Emily scolded, shaking her head.

  “It seemed childish,” I said to her with glazed eyes. “With all our meanderings, such a dream seemed so immature. I didn’t want to appear ingenuous in your eyes.”

  “Far be it for me to be a thorn between you,” the man continued, “I am singularly determined to bring the best of the world’s young talent under my wing, so-to-speak, and working for my common goal.”

  I had begun to collect my thoughts about the man, and felt determined to find out more about him. “Sir, we do not even know your name.”

  “Ah, the boring hum-drum.” He sighed theatrically, then leant forward on his chair. The same waiter appeared without warning, refreshing our glasses, and the mysterious gentleman waited until he’d gone to continue. “I have various names, for I have never fallen in love with one; in France I am called Derien, in Germany, Nichts. In Polish, where my ancestry lies, I am known as Captain Drobiaz.”

  I thought of the literal translation of the French and German. “These names mean nothing. I mean, each name means nothing in its native tongue, I must assume Drobiaz means the same in Poland. You give us nothing, sir.”

  “Ah, you are too quick for me, Francis.” He grinned as he poured the wine between his lips.

  “And your goal,” Emily asked, a quiet grin crossing her face. “What’s your goal, Captain Drobiaz?”

  “Why, world peace, of course.”

  I almost laughed. “The disarmament of every nation?”

  “Oh, no, my friend. It is much more subtle than that.” Again the waiter interrupted his speech, this time with three small plates of scallops, perfectly cooked, in a steaming garlic sauce. “Fresh this morning,” Drobiaz announced. As the waiter weaved away, we all sampled the steaming food, and marveled at the taste. “No Francis, I don’t intend to disarm the world, in fact my aim is almost the exactly opposite. As science develops, new more powerful weapons will be found, and I must be at the forefront of such. I intend to stop war by a far more subtle method. I intend to own the top ten governments in the world, and thus, by my ownership simply disobey them from fighting.”

  The food tasted divine, the conversation flowed, and I expected Emily and I to be awake half the night pondering Drobiaz’s vast collection of theories. What I didn’t expect was a telegraph from Paul Chapman to be waiting for me when we returned to Professor Wattles’ house.

  To Francis Smalling c/o Ernest Wattles, Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass

  Whiteman has struck again.

  Woman decapitated by sword, husband tied.

  Last night, Decatur, Illinois.

  Thoughts appreciated.

  Paul Chapman.

  Paul Chapman, Between Mattoon and Decatur, Illinois

  September 3rd, 1867

  Of all the coincidences I didn’t expect, meeting Francis and Emily Smalling on the road to Decatur were not one of them. I heard hard riding behind me, and when I turned to see the source of the commotion, there they were, large as life.

  “Good afternoon Paul,” Francis said calmly, like he’d casually bumped into me on Pinkerton’s street corner.

  “Afternoon to you too,” I said, tilting my new fedora towards Emily. “Missus Smalling,” She grinned widely at my greeting. “How did you get here so quickly?”

  “Train,” Francis said simply. Not quite what I’d meant by the question.

  “Because it was so close to Springfield, we just dropped everything.” Emily said, quite out of breath.

  “What are the details?” Francis asked.

  “Only what I got by telegram.” I began. “A Cassie Kaminski, Decatur, killed by a sword stroke, husband, Conrad, tied up to watch. I’ve got nothing else. The sheriff’s been instructed to keep the crime scene fresh until I, that is we, arrive.”

  We found the Kaminski place in minutes.

  “If it is the same guy, he’s getting bolder.” I said. “This address is still technically in town.”

  “It can’t be the same guy, Paul. I killed Whiteman; we have proof!”

  I shook my head as I swung my leg from the saddle. “I’m not going to get into a fight with you, Francis,” I tied my reins to the rail in front of the house. “Let’s just see where the evidence leads, huh?”

  He looked sullen, yet managed a single nod as they both dismounted.

  A man appeared at the door, wiping his brow with a dirty handkerchief.

  “Are you Conrad Kaminski?” I asked, and received a nod.

  “You are detectives?” His accent was deep Russian, and his brows looked heavy on his head. Greying stubble coursed across his face, his wiry body seemed tired.

  “Paul Chapman, from Pinkertons in Chicago.”

  “Can you let me bury my Cassie?”

  “As soon as we examine the crime scene.” I said, Francis and Emily stood quietly behind me.

  “Come inside,” he said reluctantly. He led us into a foyer, then through a living room to a closed door. “The smell, not so good.”

  I nodded, and he opened the door.

  The room, like so many of the others depressed me. We’d got to victim six, and the killings still continued.

  Cassie Kaminski lay on the bed, her head twisted at a terrible angle, her neck cleanly severed. Her semi-naked body had been bound to the bed, her legs held open with the obligatory piece of wood.

  “I need to hear the whole story, Mister Kaminski.” I said, seeing nothing else worthy of my attention. Francis and Emily slipped past us, and Francis began to examine her body with his flip-down lens microscope.

  “I was doing late things, chopping wood for fire, closing down for night time.” Conrad began. “Then he got me, stuffed rag in my face. I awake and find him pulling Cassie into bedroom.”

  “You were tied up?”

  He shook his head sharply. “No. just on floor, very groggy. He push rag in my face again.” He pointed to the doorway. When I wake again, he has me on chair, and Cassie on bed, she only has a nightgown on. He start saying things; ‘Welcome to the performance’, like he is in a play or something, he swings sword about. Cassie is very frightened.”

  “She was awake?”

  “Da, she is very awake at this time.”

  “Go on.” I waved at him. Considering his wife’s body lay degrading on the bed, he seemed of stoic stock.

  “He touch her boobies, her chest, he shake them at me, he laughs, and say she has good boobies. Then he touch her between the legs, he say she’s no virgin, he laughs again.” He paused and looked at the bed. “Then he cut her. He laugh some more. Then he leave.”

  I saw both Francis and Emily look up surprised. “That’s all he did?”

  “What you mean ‘all’? Is not enough?”

  I put my arm round his shoulders, and led him back to the living room. “Mister Kaminski, I have to ask you some difficult questions.”

  “Go on, we find killer, Da?”

  “Yes, because of your answers, we’ll find the killer.” I indicated that he should sit down, then sat opposite. “Mister Kaminski, did the man touch Cassie, between the legs, you know, sexually. Did he assault her?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Oh God, how could I put it any other way? “Did he play with her?”

  To my surprise, he shook his head. “No funny business, he just touch her once, he had white gloves on.”

  Oh, that was different. Gloves. “Did he take out
his penis?”

  Again, he looked at me like I’d mentioned him turning into a buffalo. “No, he just shake her boobies, then cut her.”

  Again, I sat, quite bewildered. What had changed? Why had he changed his Modus Operandi? “Mister Kaminski, tell me what he looked like. Describe him as accurately as you can.”

  He nodded, then closed his eyes. “He not tall, but not short, maybe same height as boy through there. He had grey rebel uniform, a captain, boots, and hat. He had yellow neckerchief over his face, but I see a red beard on his chin. Long red hair too, like down his back a ways, and nasty blue eyes. He wore thin white gloves, and he smell. He smell of chemicals.” He opened his eyes again, obviously finished. All in all, he’d given me quite a good description.

  “Wait here.” I returned to the bedroom to find Francis and Emily in quiet conversation. “Find anything?”

  Francis held out his hand. “It’s a very small piece, but we think it’s the same clay that we found at the Cotter place in Jacksonville.”

  I gave him a good long stare. “If you’re right, that’s a connection.”

  He nodded gravely. “I was certain we’d got our man.”

  “Don’t worry. Look, there’s been a change though. Is there any evidence of semen?”

  Francis bent to Cassie’s body, and looked through his lenses, then, as he moved round to the other side of the bed, Emily looked too. After a moment, they both lifted their heads, shaking them in unison.

  “Nothing,” Francis said.

  “It confirms what Conrad said.” I scratched my head. “No sexual contact whatsoever.”

  “That’s a new twist,” Emily admitted.

  “A first,” Francis clicked his hat lenses back into place.

  Back in the living room, I asked one final question. “How long have you been married, Mister Kaminski?”

  “Cassie has been my wife for two years.”

  Something had been shaken up in the case, but for my life I couldn’t work out the new connections.

  We rode back to the main street, and I called into the sheriff’s office to let him know we were done with the crime scene, then like old times, we found a hotel, and a half decent meal.

  We talked about the new dimensions of the case, but it was always apparent that the Smalling couple were trying to come to terms with not catching the right guy.

  I slept fitfully that night, only to be roused in the early morning.

  “Detective!” the voice outside my door roared.

  I raced to put on my trousers. “Yes, what is it?”

  Decatur, Redux

  Francis Smalling, Decatur, Illinois

  September 4th 1867

  I heard the commotion outside in the corridor, and rolled closer to my still sleeping wife.

  Wife.

  We’d been married for less than a month, and as I spooned her form, I still marveled at the emotions that erupted to the surface when we touched.

  “Detective!”

  Our door got beat upon this time. “Yes?” I rolled over, turning to the door. “What is it?”

  “The man has struck.”

  Ah, yes, the case so once-forgotten, now re-opened with intensity. “Yes, I know, we attended the Kaminski house yesterday.”

  It seemed to mollify the man, who fell silent. I turned again to Emily, who had been undisturbed by all the uproar.

  “No sir,” he hammered the door again. “He struck again last night. In town. The Burroughs woman is dead, sir.”

  “Shit!” I almost leapt from the bed, scrambling into yesterday’s clothes as quickly as I could. “Emily!” I shouted, then leant over her slowly waking body. “Emily! He’s struck again!”

  She turned, rubbing her eyes. “What’s that you said?”

  “Dress, quickly!” I stabbed at her. “We have to move ourselves. He’s struck again.” I’ve never seen her move so quickly. By the time I’d dressed, she wasn’t far behind me. I opened the door, and slipped into the corridor.

  Chapman was in conversation with the guy. He waved him away as he approached me. “He’s struck again, Francis.”

  “That’s two days in a week.”

  He nodded. “He’s escalating.”

  “And here in town,” I said. “That means he’s not even spending time to stalk his victims. He’s just picking them at random.”

  Chapman shook his head. “It can’t be random.” His face filled with conviction. “It’s just a pattern that we haven’t discovered yet.”

  I grasped his idea. I mean, we’d hardly had time to think of this new intensification of crimes. Two mornings in a week seemed a sudden change in his M.O., such a change that it hadn’t even sunk in, never mind been scientifically processed.

  I heard the door close behind me, and Emily’s hands pushed me to the foyer, where the man waited.

  Chapman led the way. “If you give us five minutes, we’ll get the horses.”

  To my surprise he shook his head. It’ll be quicker to walk; it’s only three blocks away.”

  So close. The woman had been murdered less than three hundred yards away.

  It took us less than five minutes to walk. The house stood in a long row, separated by its neighbor by a space less than thirty feet.

  “He must have been quiet.” I ventured as we approached the front door where the sheriff waited, his face ashen white.

  “Morning,” he said, his face sullen, almost embarrassed.

  “Details?” Chapman asked, stopping, shaking hands, craning his neck to see inside.

  “Perhaps too graphic for a woman’s eyes.”

  “I can take it,” Emily said, keeping her ire under wraps.

  “Miss Hettinger, sorry, Missus Smalling has been exposed to this case in its entirety, sheriff.” Chapman said, obviously frustrated to get inside. “Details, sheriff?”

  “Burroughs residence, Will, the father, Molly, the wife, and Catherine, the niece.”

  “Who’s the victim? Molly?”

  “Yup,” The sheriff nodded, “He tied up both Will and Catherine, made them watch.”

  “What age is the niece?”

  “She’s young, maybe thirteen, fourteen.” He looked particularly uncomfortable. “She’s scared out of her wits; she won’t stop shaking.”

  “Okay, I think we’ve got the idea.” Paul turned to me. “Let’s get inside, Emily if you could ‘see’ to the girl?” he gave Emily a look that said ‘question her’.

  Emily smiled at his attempt at subterfuge. “Yes, sir,”

  The whole thing seemed to be getting old. Man, sitting in the living room. Bedroom off to one side, big bed, a female corpse tied in position, legs wedged apart. I tried to feel compassion, but my heart had apparently hardened, and I looked with cold calculating eyes. Large breasts. A neck that seemed to have been hacked at, rather than cut cleanly. I bent over her corpse, and slid the biggest lens into position. With my magnifying glass held , I soon focused on her neck. I counted the cuts, four, then noticed a fifth.

  “Five cuts.” I said. My words fell quickly silent. “It looks like he panicked or something.”

  The chair lay in pieces nearby, and I stepped over the debris to discover a yellow kerchief on the floor. “Paul!” I snapped, and he quickly crossed to me side.

  I picked it up carefully, noticing a splash or two of blood. Paul looked over my shoulder as I looked at it under my portable microscope. I carefully swept across the rough serge material, paying attention to all its stains, then I stopped; caught in one of the course-looking weaves of yellow material lay a curved hair, perhaps three quarters of an inch long. I picked it up carefully with my fingers, pulling it from the kerchief, taking it to the window for more light, I looked again.

  “What have you got?” Chapman asked.

  “A hair, ginger in color.” I said, then I changed hands, looking at the other end in more detail. “It’s a human hair,” I said. “I can see the root quite clearly.”

  “So we know it’s him.” Chapman said.
“The clay yesterday, a hair today.”

  “But we also know I shot him.” I flipped the lenses away. “We can’t dispute that.”

  “So perhaps there’s always been two of them.” Chapman ventured. “Twins, friends, sharing the same obsession.”

  I crossed to the corpse and looked carefully at her nightgown. “But there’s no male issue here either. He’s broken the pattern.”

  Chapman turned to the door, then seeing we were alone, he lifted the nightdress to look at her sex. “And I don’t think he disturbed her here either.”

  I looked. Her vagina, pulled slightly apart by her open legs looked neither swollen nor flushed with blood. To my surprise, Chapman touched her, feeling under her, towards the bed. Then he held his fingers up in the air, rubbing them together. “She’s completely dry. I’m convinced he hasn’t touched her.”

  My mind suddenly flew back to my poor sister, who’d bucked and railed under the attack of this man. “It’s part of his whole ‘thing’.” I said. My face wrinkled in disgust. “It’s part of his dominance of the victim, he masturbates on the woman, and takes her to her orgasm. Why has he stopped now?”

  “Perhaps you shot more than his leg?” considering the situation, I saw the humor in his remark.

  “No, I saw Whiteman’s prick when he attacked sister Margaret.”

  “Yeah, you seen his pecker, than man you killed, Frederick Whiteman, but not Whiteman two, the man who attacked here.”

  Yeah, the penny began to drop. I had to stop thinking of it as a one man crime; it had obviously changed, or had always been, a two man operation.

  I went back to examining the kerchief, but found nothing else significant to the case.

  I returned to the living room where Chapman questioned the husband. I heard him say ‘confederate’, and shook my head. In a far kitchen, Emily crouched near a child. With a feeling of both dread and uselessness, I walked outside. How could we have overlooked the two-man thing from the beginning?

  I looked around at the surrounding houses. Two murders in five days meant he’d either hidden in town, or he’d returned for the last crime. “Sheriff?”