Maybe it was my weariness, my lack of sleep, that had caused me to fumble—to overplay my hand when I held no cards of worth—but in that instant, I realized that I’d overstepped my station. Now that I’d called him a liar to his face, what would he do?
I felt the intensity of his calculating stare. I thought of how prey must feel in the pit of the python. Before me sat a pitiless being, and now I was in the parlor alone with him.
Seven
A smile returned to Montague’s face, but not a true smile like when we were admiring his book collection before. This was a forced smile, and it looked uncomfortable on the man’s leathery visage.
I’d take what I could get at this point.
“Mr. Kipsey, would you kindly pour us a glass of brandy? It’s in the cabinet over there.”
I felt I’d been granted a reprieve. “Brandy?”
“Yes, right over there,” he said, pointing to the maplewood shelves next to the spoiled portrait of his father. “It’s vintage—over a thousand dollars a bottle. I would get it, but as you can see, I’m rather immobilized at the moment.” He gritted his teeth with bitter sarcasm.
I stepped around the scattered books on the floor and grabbed the bottle and two snifters. With my back to him, I decanted the brandy on a small silver tray on the ledge. An odd container on the shelf directly above caught my eye, a brown bug encased in a small glass dome with a polished wooden base.
The liquor was fragrant and inviting. I presented Montague his glass. He lifted it with a toast and clinked it against mine. “Happy 1901, Mr. Kipsey.”
I took advantage of the friendly tone. “Call me Kip—friends call me Kip.”
“Very well . . . then let us be friends, Kip. I don’t have many true friends, just jackals posing as friends to get something from me, or the wolves that lust for the scraps of power that fall from my table.”
I nodded and drank, thinking on the friendship I’d shared with Mr. Schaumberg. He’d been about Montague’s age when he passed. Though my dear neighbor had been light on books, there had been many a night that we had stretched into the wee hours of the morning discussing philosophy.
“Yeah, Mr. Montague, a true friend is hard to come by in this world.” I finished off my brandy. This was much better than the swill at my office.
Montague’s countenance was pleasant, and his voice was even again, but I knew better. “You should have been here a few hours ago. My New Year’s fireworks show is second to none.” He lifted his empty snifter for a refill. “I do it for the people of Addleton Heights. The technicians light them from my courtyard, and the people of the city can see for miles around. It’s quite the spectacle. The entire production lasts about thirty-five minutes. But perhaps you’ve seen them.”
I took the glass from him and returned to the bottle on the shelf. “Don’t usually make it this far into the city anymore.” As good as this stuff was, I didn’t fill a second glass for myself. I needed to stay sharp.
“You should see what I have planned for Founder’s Day. It shall never be forgotten.”
I looked over my shoulder at him. The way he said it made a chill run up my spine.
I refilled his drink but took a moment to examine the bug under the dome of the small display case.
“Tosena splendida,” he said with bravado, “from the phylum Arthropoda, and kingdom Animalia. You know, cicadas have been featured in literature since the time of Homer’s Iliad.”
“Homer, huh?” I pulled the case closer for a look at the brass plate affixed to the front. The biological classification with phylum and class were engraved in small letters.
“Oh, please be careful with that, I’ve had it since childhood. We went on holiday to Thailand, and I brought it back. It’s one of my prized possessions.”
Vacations in Thailand. I thought of how different our childhoods had been. I held the container up to the light. “Prized possession, huh . . . a dead bug?”
He sniggered. “No, not a dead bug. It’s a cicada skin.”
When he motioned for it, I gave it up. He finished his second brandy while cradling the bug case. “Mr. Kipsey . . . I mean Kip, do you know the life cycle of cicadas?”
“Never really cared much for bugs myself.”
He continued undeterred, slowly stroking the bulbous top of the glass container. “It’s quite fascinating. The organism sheds its skin. To become an adult, the nymph crawls up a tree and discharges its exoskeleton. Even at the fresh age of six, I was impressed by how the cicada only takes the necessary components essential to the next phase of its existence.”
He gave it back as if expecting me to appreciate it more now. I looked at it, but it was still a bug in glass.
Pointing at it, he continued, “That was my first exposure to major change in an organism. Are you ready for change, Kip?”
I shrugged. I was ready to be out of this place—I wanted no part of whatever had gotten the two men on the floor killed. “Doesn’t your cicada friend here cause damage to crops, shrubs, and trees? I mean, aren’t insects like these considered pests?”
The observation irritated him. “You’re missing the point. Addleton Heights is a lot like a molting cicada, and the wind of change is on the way.”
“What exactly are we talking about here?”
“Are you aware of what the principal commerce of this area was less than a hundred years ago?”
“No idea.” I was summoned up here for detective work, not a history lesson, but I knew he was about to tell me anyway.
“Oil—whale oil, that is. Before the stilts were built, the area that’s now the Under had a harbor full of ships. Hundreds of them launched from here in search of profitable whale blubber. Fortunes were made from the banks of those very shores. That is until the discovery of petroleum in Pennsylvania gave rise to a cheaper source of oil for lamps.”
Just so you know, I’m not much for small talk on a personal level. I think that’s exactly what it gets you—it makes your brain smaller with every inane sentence—but in the detective trade, a skilled interviewer knows to let the subject jaw as much as they’re willing to. Often, if you’re patient enough, a suspect will unknowingly spill some information.
I returned the case with the bug to the shelf, deciding I’d have another drink after all.
With my back to him, Montague spoke louder to ensure that I wouldn’t miss a word of his rant. “My grandfather—a great man—was astute enough to sense the winds of change blowing. He sank the family’s fortune into constructing the largest steel mill in the world. When the oil collapse came, Addleton avoided economic ruin, unlike our shortsighted neighbor, Martha’s Vineyard, which was not as diversified.”
I gulped the brandy and refilled the glass as he rambled on.
“Advance a few years to the final chapter of the war. My father followed his elder’s pattern. He foresaw an end of the need for steel for cannonballs, dirigibles, and other elements of fighting. While the manufacture of those items would continue, along with steel for bridge repairs and railway beams, he knew we were faced with—to quote Shakespeare’s Tempest—a sea change.”
He seemed especially smug about throwing in a quote from the old bard. Attempting to tie any of this drivel to the Jason investigation was as useless as a sundial at night.
“So, Kip, that’s where Charles Babbage’s difference engine enters the story. Father made a sizeable investment in an invention dismissed at the time as just a quirky analytical device. Now we have fifteen operators and three technicians. My workers compile data for customers all over the world, giving them advantages in business, forecasting changes in tired regimes. But the Montague name shall be remembered as more than just information merchants and captains of the steel trade of days gone by.”
He studied me with the same intensity that had been captured in the painting of him on the horse. “I intend to make my mark with something different, something that the Northern Union and Confederate States alike will need, something they can’t liv
e without—they just don’t know it yet—something the entire world will want.”
“And all for the betterment of Addleton Heights?”
The old man seemed genuinely surprised at my response. “Why, yes, of course,” he said.
Montague had managed to turn this into an advert for his company. It was too surreal that we were drinking the finest brandy money could buy, extolling the virtues of the Montague company, and all a few feet from two corpses—former employees at that. Was this the way the ultra-wealthy conducted themselves? What had I been dragged into here?
It was horrific, and still he prattled on like a discordant marching band making laps around the square. “You’ve no doubt heard of the hurricane that wiped out the city of Galveston last September?”
“Everyone knows about that,” I said.
“Yes, I suspect they do. It was even worse than what hit here in ‘45. They still haven’t rebuilt down there in the Gulf. My point is, similar to the Babbage information services, there are other commodities available to us that are impervious to storm, drought, or freeze in the way crops are susceptible. A commodity that doesn’t spoil or curdle like old milk.”
“Speaking of the information-gathering side that Nelson oversaw, where are the Babbage machines kept?”
“They’re housed in the compound beneath our feet.”
“The area at the base of this compound?” I remembered the redheaded guard that looked like a lumberjack.
Montague nodded. “And now it’s my turn to contribute to the future of Addleton Heights—for its people.”
“Then I’ll need to go down there—where Nelson worked.”
He seemed disappointed that I hadn’t acknowledged his proclamation. “Hmmm . . . I’ll consider it.”
“Mr. Montague, respectfully, do you want me to find this Jason O. or not?”
He scoffed. “Have you understood nothing of what I’ve said to you?”
“About the bug?”
“We stand at the threshold of a new dawn. A time when anything a man can imagine can be realized by the marvel of science. All I need do is think the thought and exercise my will, and it is manifested in reality, even to the point of defying human mortality.”
Manifestation? Defying one’s own mortality? He reminded me of a preacher in a pulpit or a politician during campaign season. Though confined to the chair, his presence was as large as the room.
“I’ve always felt a lifetime should be enough for any diligent man to stake his claim and make his mark in the sand,” I said.
He shook his head. “You miss the point. Just know that it’s a time when achievement in industry, science, and philosophy are converging, a moment when men of excellence can embrace a better tomorrow—if those men are willing.”
He extended his bony finger. It quivered under the power of his words. “Many will shirk away and forfeit their destiny for a bowl of lentils like Jacob’s brother, Esau, did in the Old Testament, but there are a few who choose to unflinchingly move forward down the path to enlightenment. Are you one of those? Are you a man ready to embrace the twentieth century unashamed . . . without fear?”
We locked eyes for a few seconds. I had no idea what this old buzzard was prattling on about.
Finally, I removed my hat and said, “Mr. Montague, with all respect, these men shot each other. If I can’t be trusted with what’s really going on here, even to the point of being denied access to one of the victims’ primary places of activity, I don’t see the point. Thanks for the brandy, and I’ll send you a bill for the time. Don’t worry about me sharing what’s happened here with anyone—I stand by my word and will be discreet. I’ll catch the next bassel down. Goodbye, sir.”
“Wait, not so fast.” He turned his palms upward in surrender. “Mr. Kipsey—Kip, please wait. Let me explain.”
The most powerful man in the city was pleading with me, and it didn’t seem to suit him.
“Kip, I admit I wasn’t entirely open with you, but let’s say that was a sort of audition, a precursor for the main event.”
“This was a test? Two of your workers were killed for a test?”
“You know that’s not what I mean. I assure you that I had nothing to do with these two buffoons shooting each other tonight. I see now that I should have been more honest with you, but through our charade, you’ve proven out what Chief Ormond said about you. You are skilled in the art of deduction, not just a peeping Tom with a camera peeking in the windows of brothels.”
I ignored that I’d been insulted. “Buffoons? You said Nelson was a loyal advisor and your Babbage foreman.”
“Consider yourself hired for the missing persons case.” Montague extended his hand to shake on it.
I let the hand speckled with age spots dangle in the air between us. “But you don’t even know the person who’s missing.”
“Why, Jason, of course. It’s imperative that we find out what he knows about . . .” He withdrew the denied handshake, twirling his finger in circles at the room. “About all of this.”
I put my hat on. “Sir, I really feel it best to inform the authorities. They’re better equipped to—”
“Hogwash!” he shouted. “The authorities? I am the authority!”
I needed to calm this situation down. “What I meant was they have more men that can search for a missing person. If Jason O. is on Addleton Heights, that’s over three thousand men in the Bedford and Wallington sectors alone.”
Terse words spewed from his lips. “You don’t seem to understand the weight of the situation. We are about to embark on a new enterprise, and new enterprises are most delicate in their infancy. They are volatile until the structure is in place.”
He balled his hands into fists. “We have reason to believe that whoever this Jason is, he may have been exerting pressure on Mr. Nelson over there and might have compromised the venture.”
“So this is about trade secrets?”
“Don’t be so naïve. It doesn’t suit you.” His expression showed that he felt I’d betrayed him. “I thought you said that you wanted to be friends.”
“Mr. Montague, all that I mean is—”
Forcibly removing the silk cravat from around his neck, he spoke to himself in a voice barely above a whisper. “All right, time for a different approach.” He rubbed his chin with the silk as he addressed me. “Are you at all familiar with Dactyloscopy?”
“Can’t say that I am,” I lied, bracing myself for another history lesson.
“Hmmm . . . Well, then, let me enlighten you. Dactyloscopy is an exciting new field in the forensic sciences. You see, it’s a sort of classification system, a system that’s really caught on in British India. It’s a most fantastical idea that’s even being reviewed by Scotland Yard.”
I felt uneasy. There was something different about this lecture, something spiteful. I didn’t tell him I’d read of a case in Argentina of a man who was exonerated of murder by this process.
His smile widened. “It’s called the Henry Classification System, named after Sir Edward Richard Henry himself.”
“What’s your point?” I asked cautiously.
Playfully twisting the cravat, he chortled. “Well, I think you’ll find this fascinating, given your police background. It’s about the traces one leaves behind when they touch something. Those little indentations and ridges on your fingertips leave a certain . . . impression behind, much like a wagon wheel rolling over a muddy street.
“You leave a fingerprint on everything you touch. That shows an investigator you were there. It’s like an invisible footprint left by the tips of your fingers.”
This wasn’t good. I knew where he was headed now. I looked around the room, remembering everything I’d touched: the brandy bottle and glasses, the globe, the cicada display. I felt a rush of heat to my face as I realized that I’d touched both murder weapons and their bullets. All these objects placed me in the room.
“Ah . . . I see you’re already ahead of me, as I should expect a man
of your keen deduction skills to be.”
He paused like a poker player savoring the moment before laying down a winning hand. “So, with everything you’ve touched, plus your signature at the security station, I think even a rookie policeman could establish that you’ve been in this room tonight.”
He definitely wasn’t trying to strike up a friendship now. He’d twisted the silk cravat into a tight cord. “All that evidence plus a special item that Marcus planted in your office as you were getting dressed should incentivize you to do your duty for the city.”
“You framed me?” I recalled the sound of my office’s file cabinet closing while I was in the other room hours before. “You sonofabitch!” My blood boiled and my heartbeat pounded in my eardrums as I moved closer. “Tell me, Alton . . . these fingerprints that you speak of . . . do they leave little invisible footprints on velvet?”
I lunged at the man, snatched the bony shoulders of his burgundy dinner jacket, and shook him vigorously. He struck the side of my head with his brandy snifter, but the blows were feeble, and the glass tumbled to the floor.
I shouted into his face as I tossed him from side to side. “What did he leave there? Tell me!”
He struggled against me, but he was no match.
“Why did you do it? Why did you set me up?” I screamed.
“Kipsey! Unhand him or I’ll send you straight to hell!” a booming voice shouted.
I turned to see Hennemann’s large pistol drawn from across the room. I had a decision to make.
Eight
I released my grip on Montague’s jacket. He gasped to catch his breath.
I instantly regretted not running off when Hennemann first left. I could’ve abandoned the old man while he was immobile in the chair and made a break for the sky ferry instead of letting him prattle on about the destiny of the city and bugs shedding their skin. I could’ve hidden behind one of the oversized topiaries until Hennemann walked by and then gone down to street level.
Hennemann rushed up to us, pounding the floor with each step. “You stupid shant, I oughta shoot you where you stand.”
Addleton Heights Page 6
