“He’s not Charon. He’s part of the compound’s security.”
I didn’t believe him. He looked like Charon to me. As our carrier lifted higher, I could see into the skiff, which was little more than a mini-dirigible, barely larger than a bathtub. The captain of the air vessel had lost interest in us and was searching for activity below.
I knew of the order of Charon sentries from school, but this was only the second one I’d ever seen. These men—and occasionally women—were the secretive guard patrols that kept the wretched sub-human people of the Under from creeping up to the civilized platform of Addleton Heights.
I studied the small figure balancing the skiff gaff pole like a lance on his shoulder. As a teenager, I’d thought through how many Charon there might be—just as a thought experiment, mind you. It would take twenty of them to patrol the city’s twenty lowering portals. Since they’d work in shifts, I’d doubled the number to forty and then allowed for an even fifty, factoring in days off due to special circumstances and sickness.
When he faded from view, I asked, “You said he’s security. He’s security from what?”
He made no attempt this time to mask his annoyance. “You seem to be under the misconception that you’re being paid for the number of questions you ask, which is wrong. You’ll be rewarded only for the answers you provide to Mr. Montague.” Signaling the end of the conversation, he pulled the brim of his bowler over his eyes, crossed his arms, and prepared to nap.
The carrier ascended like a tiny metal basket on a string high above the ocean. I estimated that if the cable snapped, we’d freefall for ten seconds or so before splashing into a watery grave. Somehow, falling into the cold Atlantic Ocean was more troubling than splattering onto the ground, though the results would be the same. I fought down a queasy feeling, convincing myself we’d be there in just a few more minutes.
Five
As the bassel ascended to the massive steel underside of the compound, I thought of Trudeau’s comment about the Under. No one ever speaks of it, but everyone harbors some idea of what goes on down there hundreds of feet below the city, below sea level. Through an unlikely symbiosis, we depend on the inhabitants of the Under to shovel coal to power our city. In exchange for their compulsory service, Addleton Heights lowers food and supplies to the walled-in degenerates known as scrapes.
There is an age-old tale of an instance when the scrapes went on strike, refusing to shovel coal into the converter units. The story is that it was a blatant act of defiance. It’s said that the Commonwealth suspended scrape rations for two and a half weeks and never had a problem again.
As a boy living close to one of the lowering portal shafts, I spent a good deal of my adolescence trying to catch a glimpse of the scrape village below us. One night, I succeeded in bettying the lock to the lowering station gate and went inside the small metal hut. Tying myself off, I leaned as far over the opening as I could. All I managed to see was the faint glow of a campfire far below. Even so, I watched the tiny flickering light until it burned itself out.
In time, my fascination with the scrapes was overshadowed by the discovery of the fairer sex, a preoccupation that I still maintain.
Far above the sky ferry, clusters of steel tubing weaved through various sizes of gridwork partitions. I caught a glimpse of the colossal banks of stabilizing fans, barely visible in the moonlight. Until that moment, I hadn’t considered how the compound kept from bobbing in the ocean breeze like a kite on a string. In order for the sky ferry’s cable to remain taut while tethered to the southernmost edge of the city platform, hundreds of oscillating blades spun at different speeds, serving as a counter balance.
Watching the massive underside of Montague’s floating estate grow above our heads made me wonder if this was what the sky looked like to the scrapes beneath the city. I don’t usually delve into transcendental musings, as lofty thoughts are best reserved for professors and philosophers, but for a brief moment, I thought of how we, the dwellers of Addleton Heights, must be a kind of scrape to a being like Alton Montague.
We were nearly two hundred yards below a circular opening in the middle of the steel girders and continued to climb at a sharp angle. A yellowish light shone from within the hole, illuminating the cable carrying us upward. The pervasive, buzzing roar of stabilizing fans rattled the glass windows of the bassel, but Hennemann didn’t seem to notice.
It was as if the center opening of the compound was swallowing us whole. I stood as the carrier approached a circular opening in the estate’s platform and slowed, gliding up to deck level. My eyes adjusted to lantern lights reflecting off the surfaces of the steel cave.
Hennemann lifted his bowler to a burly guard who sat in a chair kicked back against a large metal door.
“Sit down, Kipsey. We’ve got a ways to go. This level is the worker compound.”
The man outside paused in his whittling to look me over as we slowly glided by. His brawny stature and thick red beard reminded me of a lumberjack. I suspected this guard had no orientation speech to welcome visitors.
As the airlift returned to normal speed, we were hoisted through a diagonal tunnel carved from the main structure. The walls of the shaft zipped past in a blur, close enough to touch through the windows.
A few moments later, the carrier emerged from the tunnel like water shooting up from a whale’s spout. We soared high above the estate grounds, supported by a series of tall poles and ornate scaffolds bearing the Montague crest. In the distance, the huge hydrogen bladders that held up the compound appeared as low, floating clouds in the moonlight.
Snow blanketed the vast courtyard below us, including a dozen or so topiaries in the shapes of large cats, giant rabbits, elephants—there was even something that looked like a twelve-foot figure holding a parasol.
Then there was the colossal structure before me. To call it a mansion would be a slur. It resembled postcards I’d seen of St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City.
The bassel lowered and slowed to a stop under the canopy of a narrow, two-story depot.
We exited without a word as another set of drunken tuxedos and evening gowns took their seats inside the carrier and began their descent.
As I followed Hennemann down the icy ramp to ground level, something clicked in my mind: those guests—and the ones who got off before—were laughing and celebrating, completely unaware of the murders. Whatever had happened here was being kept from the partygoers as well as the police.
We strolled across the snow-blanketed lawn, the ice crunching beneath our footsteps almost in rhythm.
“Dry your boots,” Hennemann said as he pointed at a mat between two enormous Doric columns on the veranda. “We can’t have you traipsing through Mr. Montague’s study soaking his fine Persian rugs.”
“So, the study, is it? One of the murders took place in the study?”
Hennemann held up a metal finger. “Soon enough. You’ll see soon enough.”
An older, dark-skinned man met us at the door and motioned us to the foyer.
“Berkeley, tell him we’re here,” Hennemann said.
The butler nodded and ducked around the corner up the stairs.
Montague certainly knew how to flaunt it for the privileged allowed to visit up here. The vast foyer was breathtaking, from the reflective white marble floor leading to the magnificent extended red-velvet-carpeted stairway to the colossal chandelier that looked like a thousand shooting stars aimed at the ground. More Doric columns formed a semi-circle leading toward the staircase. The room was excessively and painfully bright.
I left Hennemann’s side to explore.
“Don’t touch anything,” he said in a commanding whisper.
I waved him off as I moved to a twelve-foot-tall grandfather clock positioned next to a high-backed chair. I could smell that the furniture had been oiled recently.
Though not as tall and not nearly as ornate, we’d had a grandfather clock before my father’s death. Out of everything we were forced to sell
in the months that followed, that had garnered the most cash. I wondered if it was still working somewhere in the city. I’d always loved the regal sound of its chimes on the hour.
“Three twenty-eight,” I announced in a voice loud enough to echo in the cavernous area.
I looked back at the big man. The red glow of his Charon eye scope meant he was using its magnification feature on me. I fought the temptation to adjust the clock hands simply to aggravate the man.
Instead, I ambled to the other side. Where one would have expected a mirror, there hung a full-sized painting of a man riding bareback on a stallion in mid-leap. I presumed the rider was a younger Alton Montague. I’d seen the old standby halftone picture the papers printed when reporting the mogul’s latest philanthropic enterprise, and this resembled those enough. Though the figure’s eyes didn’t look straight on at the viewer, the artist had captured an intensity in the rider’s gaze that made it hard to turn away.
To the right of the painting was a nook containing what appeared to be a tall metal statue. The nine-foot grey figure resembled a man of arms, with hinges, springs, sprockets, and the like for joints. He had no head.
I shouted to Hennemann, “Hey, I found where your arm came from!” Maybe it was unwise to taunt the man, but I figured some restitution was due. He wouldn’t dare strike me here in Montague’s home. “I said this has arms like yours.” I rapped the torso. To my surprise, it sounded hollow.
“I told you not to touch anything in here!”
“Do you really believe I could damage this thing? It’s built like a locomotive. Look, its arms are as big as stove pipes.”
Before I could ask about the statue’s missing head, there was a sound at the top of the stairs. A high-backed wheelchair skidded to a stop and then turned ninety degrees to face us from the second floor. A burst of pressurized steam escaped from behind it. When the steam cleared, I saw him . . . Alton Montague, in the flesh.
Hennemann took the stairs three at a time to meet his master. I stayed in place, surveying the man in the chair. He was smaller than I’d expected, even feeble, a decrepit frame wrapped in a deep burgundy dinner jacket made of crushed velvet. His bulbous head budded out of a colonial-style silk cravat, and the color of his skin was an odd, pale hue—not jaundiced, but not the color of health either. A veined, claw-like hand wrestled with a lever until his chair wheels locked into place with a loud snap.
Hennemann removed his bowler and tucked it under his arm before reaching the landing. The old man stared down at me as Hennemann bent and whispered into his ear. Montague nodded slowly in response to whatever was relayed to him, his eyes still fixed on me.
When I could no longer withstand the intensity of his stare, I averted my gaze. I realized just how tired I was when I finally noticed the scratches in the marble floor. Evenly spaced scrapes led to the metal feet of the statue behind me. I snorted. All of the chamber’s opulence, and yet whoever had placed the statue had marred the floor. The statue was also slightly off center.
“Something funny, Mr. Kipsey?” rang out the voice at the top of the stairs.
I answered boldly, attempting to mask my discomfort. “Must have been some party. Your statue here is missing its head.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Kipsey. It’s no doubt that the Addleton Heights police force is woefully deficient of your wit. What has it been, three years now?”
Montague spoke in an even, measured tone. It wasn’t that his words were slow, but that he appeared to savor each syllable on his tongue like the final drops of fine champagne.
“Two and a half years, actually,” I answered and then asked an obvious question of my own. “You know of my service?”
“Indeed, your beloved commissioner became a member of the Commonwealth some eighteen months ago. Even if he hadn’t, I think everyone is probably familiar with some version of your row with him. I hear it’s quite a tale.”
“Not that interesting of a story,” I said. “I had a lot to drink and lost my temper is all.”
Hennemann moved out of Montague’s line of sight and furiously motioned for me to approach.
Montague continued, “I know of your transgressions with him. I suspect it was more than a flare-up of your Irish temper, as you modestly put it. Anyway, the man is a fool.”
I was struck by how controlled each sentence was, how he commanded every nuanced inflection. It was hypnotic while being slightly eerie.
I made my way up the stairs at a pace slow enough to make Hennemann cringe. If I could keep Montague talking, maybe I could find out what the large man had been hiding. “The commissioner and I don’t keep much company these days.”
This drew a snicker from him. “I should say not, but for Davenport to be found with a woman like that serves as a prime example of his lack of discretion. Troublesome deficiency, and one of many reasons why I have no place for him. Discretion is an important virtue, don’t you think?”
“In the right circumstances, I guess,” I said while climbing another step.
Montague patted the back of his fine white hair. It was wispy and wild and ignored his attempt to bring it under control. “I also have a fair number of dealings with Chief Ormond throughout the year.”
So, it was Wesley Ormond who’d recommended me. He was the only member of the police force who hadn’t treated me like a pariah. In fact, eight months ago, when he discovered that my neighbor, Mr. Schaumberg, had died of old age, he’d attended the funeral with me. He’d never met the man, but he knew through our talks that the old tink had assumed the role of a surrogate dad to me. Chief Ormond was a decent man, indeed.
Montague continued with his sales pitch. “The chief says you are the model of discretion. He recommended you somewhat unofficially to me this morning, though he wasn’t told what this was about.”
“For discretion, of course,” I said with a tinge of mockery as I joined the men on the landing.
Sarcasm is only enjoyable when the other person gets your meaning.
“Of course,” Montague answered with a nod of the head.
Hennemann sidled up to me and forcibly removed my hat. Thinking of the miniature camera inside, I accepted it back from him without putting up a fuss.
I cleared my throat and stole a glance at the tapestry on the wall behind us. An ornate letter “M” dominated the pattern, matching the smaller crest stitched on the old man’s breast pocket. “Well, now that’s out of the way, what is this all about, Mr. Montague? To say that your man here was vague would be an understatement.”
“Please accept my apology. He was acting under my strict instructions.” The man’s bony hand brushed Hennemann’s side, and if the big man had been a cat, he would’ve purred. “Marcus is one of the most trusted members of my staff.”
“Marcus, huh?” I could feel the heat from his one-eyed stare, though I deliberately avoided looking his direction. “So, what are we dealing with here?”
“I admire your eagerness to begin, sir,” Montague said. He adjusted the brake lock on the wheelchair and turned a dial that resulted in a high-pitched whistle of steam. He ignored the sound and continued, “And I appreciate your answering my invitation to come up here at such an early hour.”
“Kidnapping, invitation . . . what’s in a word?” I mumbled under my breath.
The whine from the chair subsided as it began moving at a leisurely pace. Hennemann replaced his hat and trotted before us to a set of large mahogany doors opposite from where Montague had first entered. He shoved a key into the lock with a click.
Montague signaled with a raised hand for him to wait. He slowed, and his chair swiveled to face me. “Mr. Kipsey, there’s been a most unfortunate incident in which two of my guests have been brutally murdered. The reason I belabored the point about discretion is that my abode here is likely the most secure place in all of Addleton Heights.”
Thinking he was done, I took a step forward.
He raised his hand again. “The news of this event would ripple through the community.
It would likely strike fear and dread into the hearts and minds of the townspeople.”
I presented my most impenetrable poker face. For a second, I thought I caught a glimpse of something behind his mask: a surprising whiff of sincerity.
“I take to heart my responsibility to ensure the well-being of my workers and the communities they live in. I know it sounds sentimental, but I sometimes feel like a father to the people of Addleton Heights, watching over them from above, making sure that they have what they need, protecting them.
“I’ve singlehandedly passed ordinances prohibiting the sort of anti-science séances and nineteenth-century mysticism that plagues the mainland countries below. As for harmful hallucinogens such as absinthe, they’ve all been banned except from those backward opium dens of the John-Johns in Chinatown. I protect the good people of the city. We wouldn’t want to start a panic that there’s a killer running rampant through the streets.”
I nodded, growing restless to see what was behind the door, but Montague rattled on like an October windmill.
“A story like that breeds fear, the kind of fear that’s only good for selling newspapers, not for my plans. I’ve asked you here to help me to protect them from the ugliness behind this door. Of course, once the murderer is caught, we will be allowed to let them know. It will be safe then for them to know, and you . . . you’ll be a hero to the city. Who knows, maybe you’d even return to your old job back on the police force, despite your falling out with the commissioner.”
The notion of restoring my dignity had my attention.
He spoke cheerily, “Everyone works for someone, even Francis Davenport.”
“If that’s a true statement, then who do you work for, Mr. Montague?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw the gleam of a large clockwork arm rising.
“It’s all right, Marcus. He asks a valid question.” The old man shifted in his seat. “Why, I work for the common good of the people of Addleton Heights, of course. And what of you, Mr. Kipsey? May I count on you to do what’s right for Addleton Heights? Do I have your word that you will exhibit the utmost discretion?”
Addleton Heights Page 4
