Montague waved him off with one hand. “No, Marcus. Remember we need him!”
The phrase ran down my back like a razor. What did he mean, “we need him”? Was he referring to the frame up? I had to get out of here. I had to get off Addleton Heights before he banished me to the Under.
Hennemann protested, “But he can’t get away with that.”
The old man shook his head. “Put that thing away.”
The gun was nearly close enough to touch. This was the second time I’d found myself looking into the barrel of this massive weapon in the last few hours, but this time, I’d upped the ante and would likely pay for it with a hole in the leg or arm, if not the head. I didn’t care. I was furious. “What did you put in my office, you scrape?”
Taking a massive step forward, he closed the distance between us. The cold pistol barrel pressed against my temple. “That wouldn’t seem to matter much at the moment, Mr. Kipsey.”
“No, Marcus,” Montague said. “There have been enough good men shot in this room within the last few hours.”
“Just let me shoot him in the foot.”
What was it about this guy wanting to shoot my toes?
The pistol slowly moved downward, searching for a target on the lower half of my body.
My adrenaline soared in expectation of the coming pain. “Do it, you big oaf!”
Hennemann clicked the trigger back.
Here it comes.
“Marcus!” Montague shouted.
Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. Hennemann’s single exposed blue eye hadn’t blinked this entire time, and his Charon scope was a ring of crimson fire. His face was so close, I couldn’t see anything else.
“Put it away, I said! We need him. Shooting him is not good for our plans—not good for the city.”
Another veiled reference to my undisclosed role.
The one at a foxhunt without a gun is usually the fox.
I had to get away from this madman. I wouldn’t even go by my office. I would head straight to the airship.
Hennemann still didn’t blink. The air was thick with tension. The only sound was the faint motorized clicking of his mechanical arm.
Montague shifted in his chair. “Marcus!”
Finally, Hennemann lowered the hammer and let the gun rest at his side. He leaned in, his hot breath smelling like spoiled cabbage. “When this is over, I’m going to kill you.”
My memories of schoolyard bullies summoned within me a snide laugh. “Yeah? Well, I’ll be ready, then . . . ready and waiting.”
“Gentleman,” Montague said. It was a rebuke. “Marcus, I’m sure you’ll agree that the strategy of telling Mr. Kipsey you’re going to kill him after he solves the case hardly gives him any incentive to solve the case. Now settle down, both of you!”
Hennemann blinked as he looked over at Montague. I continued staring straight ahead, so then I was looking directly at his ear. Curly white sprigs of hair coming out of the waxy hole looked like an untamed miniature forest.
“Yes, Mr. Montague . . . it’s just that when I saw him shaking you, I—”
“It’s all right now. Mr. Kipsey here is a reasonable man who is just very passionate about his work. He’s agreed to help us on our quest to find Jason O. Furthermore, you will accompany him, making sure that he has what he needs and doesn’t become distracted.”
Like hell I agreed.
“Yes, boss.” He turned back to me, but I was already moving to the side to get a better look at Montague.
“Mr. Montague, firstly, I agreed to nothing. Second, even if I were to take the case, I work alone.”
“You will take the case, and Marcus will assist you while reporting your findings to me. You’ll agree to my terms or a third carcass will be carried from this room this morning.”
Yeah, Montague and I were definitely not going to be friends.
I suddenly noticed a man standing on the other side of the room. “Who are you?”
The man took a hesitant step forward. “Uh . . . my name is William E. Sawyer.”
“Shut up, Sawyer,” Montague commanded, straining to see behind him. “Get over here and fix this thing.”
“Yes, sir.” He produced a custom wrench from a sagging tool belt as he rushed to the steam chair.
I guessed he was in his fifties. Except for tufts of hair on the sides of his head, he was as bald as a baby. The pronounced dimple in his clean-shaven chin added to his man-infant appearance. His skin was pinkish, like he’d been out in the cold, though he only wore a soiled laboratory coat. Hennemann probably didn’t give him a chance to grab something warmer.
The man dropped to one knee and reattached the component that Hennemann had broken off before.
Montague rewarded Sawyer’s diligence with a smack to the back of the head.
Sawyer recoiled. “I’m sorry, sir. The problem is with the—”
“I don’t care what’s wrong,” Montague said sharply. “Just fix it or Mr. Hennemann is going to put a dent in your skull.”
A hyena-like smile formed on the big man’s face as his metal fingers snapped into a fist.
Whether Sawyer was done with the front panel or simply wanted to get out of Montague’s reach, he scurried around to the metal tubing behind the seat.
“What took you so long to get here?” Montague asked.
“Sorry,” Hennemann said. “I had to wait for the bassel, and then I had to finish with some of the . . .” His eyes shifted to me and then back to the man in the chair. “Those things for the . . . project.”
Sawyer hammered on the brass caps with a rubber mallet. Remembering how they’d shot off before, I made note to stay clear of them in the future.
Sawyer twisted a palm-sized wheel on the side and returned to his feet. “Should be fine now, sir.” Coming around to the front of the chair, he pointed to the panel. “You’ll need to switch to the reserve tank.”
“I know that, you idiot.” Montague slapped Sawyer’s hand away.
I stepped back as the sound of the machine building up pressure grew. I noticed Hennemann also take a step backward.
It’s not prudent to camp near a geyser.
“Cowards,” Montague mumbled.
“It’s completely safe now,” Sawyer said, gathering his tools from the floor.
I took another step backward.
Montague pulled a lever, and the chair advanced a couple of feet. “That’s more like it.”
Sawyer got up to leave but suddenly stopped. He’d seen the bodies.
He looked nervously at Montague, then at me.
“I’m investigating the murders,” I said. “I’m a detective.”
Now mobile, Montague rolled up beside Fitzpatrick’s body. “Take a good look, William. Tell me, what do you see? These men have no future. They made whatever choices they were presented with, bad decisions that resulted in this conclusion. Tell me now, Sawyer. You haven’t wavered in your faith, have you?”
What was going on here?
“No, sir. But why—”
“They were not worthy for a spot at destiny’s table.” Montague’s face turned to a snarl. “With all you’ve done to bring us to this point . . . I wonder if you will also squander your seat, if you will forfeit your place. Or perhaps I should send Marcus here to visit your dear Marjorie.”
Sawyer stammered, “No, I’ve done everything you’ve asked . . . everything.”
“This is true, and I have given you a new life—a path where your genius can be revealed to Addleton Heights . . . and to the world.”
“Who’s Marjorie?” I asked.
No one answered.
Enough of these theatrics. The sooner I started this case—the sooner I could leave this madman—the sooner I’d be able to break away from Hennemann.
“So, let’s get started,” I said boldly. I took one of the thin books off the floor and thumbed through it. “What’s this stuff?”
“Monthly accounting records,” Montague answered as he rolled
back to me. “To the casual reader, those reports would be as indecipherable as hieroglyphics.”
I thumbed through it. It was true, every page contained columns and rows of numbers and abbreviated headings I didn’t understand. I bent and picked up another, this one labeled September. It was the same. Next, I grabbed the July edition. Curiously, the front corner of this ledger was mangled. It looked as if someone had tried to pry the pastedown sheet away from its cover. “Any idea why these ledgers would be scattered around in here?”
As the pages flipped under my thumb, I came across a loose sheet. I partially unfolded the small note, and with the quickest of glances spotted the signature of Jim Nelson. My heart raced, and in a split second, I decided to withhold the discovery. I continued flipping through the ledger nonchalantly.
“None whatsoever,” was the reply from Montague.
“Huh?” I stammered, snapping the book closed on my new find.
“You asked if we knew why those were off the shelf.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’m just a little sleepy.”
“Mr. Nelson was responsible for preparing them for the Commonwealth.”
I caught myself clutching the thin book more tightly. “For the Commonwealth?”
Montague rolled closer to me. I envisioned him demanding the book.
His tone was condescending. “Yes, Kip. As I mentioned, everyone answers to someone, even Montague Steel. As ludicrous as it seems, I’m required to submit monthly statements to the board like the one you have in your hands. The antiquated practice is a holdover agreement that my father made with the city founders long ago, a ritual that teeters on obsolescence.”
I nodded and offered a sympathetic frown in hopes of a friendly favor. “May I borrow these?”
“Those are to be sent down to the city overseers, so I can’t allow you to take them. I doubt you’ll find anything about Jason O. in them.”
That meant I needed a distraction to get Nelson’s note out.
“Fair enough,” I answered. With as much authority as I could muster, I said, “I’m going to need the guest list for tonight.”
“Guard station below,” Hennemann volunteered.
“I’ll also need the addresses for these two.” I pointed at the dead bodies.
“Of course. Sawyer will act as our scribe.” Montague pointed to the bookcase. “Get the employee directory on the third shelf over there. It has a blue spine labeled Workers. This is Nelson and Fitzpatrick.”
The cherub-faced man obediently hurried to the thick book, cracked it open, and ran his fingers down the pages.
I moved over to Nelson’s body and gently pulled back the left side of his woolsack coat.
“What are you doing?” Hennemann asked in a gruff tone.
Though in truth, I’d bent down over the body to conceal putting the note in my vest, I called out, “Keys . . . I’m looking for the keys to his home. Get Fitzpatrick’s over there. I’ll need to search his place too.”
A slight bulge in Nelson’s coat turned out to be two tickets for the Addleton Heights transport to the mainland. Maybe I’d sussed this out all wrong. Perhaps Jason O. was to accompany Nelson. I hastily slid them, along with the handwritten note, into my inside pocket.
I continued by rote. “I’ll also need a list of known associates of the deceased, especially colleagues they may have had in common.”
As I stood, I noticed that Hennemann hadn’t moved. “I said to get his keys.”
“Have ‘em.” Hennemann replied curtly.
“How do you already have the victim’s keys?”
“Let’s focus on Mr. Nelson for now,” Montague ordered as a buzzard’s smile formed across his face.
“So, is Fitzpatrick off limits?”
“No, of course not, but it was Jim who left the message.” Montague pointed at the painting of his father. “He’s the one who knew Jason.”
“Have it your way, but I’d still like a list of regular vendors, clients, employees, and former employees that Nelson may have interacted with over the last four to six weeks.”
Montague nodded. “A reasonable request. I’m sure that we can round all of that up for you by this time tomorrow.”
“Found them,” Sawyer said as he crossed the room with a scrap of paper. “I wrote out their addresses.”
Montague snapped his fingers, and Hennemann sprang to intercept the scrap before Sawyer could deliver it to me.
Hennemann flipped to the back of the paper. “What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s nothing. A wrong address of someone else. I wrote it by mistake.”
He looked directly at me.
“It’s just a mistake,” Sawyer said.
Hennemann’s Charon eye scope began to glow as he looked him over.
Nervous laughter erupted from the inventor. “So silly of me. I guess it’s the lateness of the hour.” The smile faded from his cherub face, replaced by the unmistakable look of panic.
Eager to see what Sawyer had called a mistake, I stepped forward to get the paper, but Hennemann waved me off. “Hold your horses.”
“May I see it, or are you the detective here now?”
“Just be patient,” he said, pulling his small burgundy booklet and stubby pencil from his waistcoat pocket. “I’m copying this down.”
After a few noisy scratches on the sheet in his book, he tucked it back into his pocket. With obvious reluctance, he released the slip of paper to me.
Pretending to show no interest in the back of the paper, I commented on Nelson’s address. “That’s in the New Gettys sector, right? Why’d he live so far away from the municipal district?”
“Who knows?” Hennemann said. “He was an odd little man.”
I stole a glance at the other side. Sawyer’s boxy letters were perfectly spaced. Though he’d crossed through the writing with a single line, all of the characters were still legible. I committed it to memory.
210 QINS HIHUANG TERRACOTTA W.
Was this a Chinese street address? I hadn’t been to the Chinatown sector in years.
Making sure to maintain an even countenance, I said, “Mr. Sawyer, please copy down anyone named Jason in that employee listing. It’d be worthwhile to check in on them as well.”
Hennemann shoved Sawyer to the side as the big man made his way to the book. “I got this.” He took the small notebook from his pocket again. “You’re going to be riding with me anyway.”
I couldn’t hide my sour expression at the idea of being crammed into the steam carriage with him again. “I’ll also need to borrow a city directory to look up all the listings of all the Jasons living on the platform.”
“Unfortunately, that’s one of the few publications that I don’t have,” Montague admitted. “Not to be coy, Kip, but I don’t really have a habit of making house calls. Anyone who needs to meet with me comes here. Even the quarterly council meetings are held in my conservatory.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I have one back in my office.”
I felt as if I’d finally caught a break. I now had an excuse to return to my office. While there, I could search for whatever incriminating evidence Hennemann had planted.
“How do you have a residency listing?” Hennemann asked in disbelief.
“I pay a man at the census office to nick one for me each year when they’re printed.”
“Very well, then,” Montague said.
Hennemann nodded as he scribbled something in his burgundy notebook.
What did he find in the employee directory?
“Mr. Kipsey, I will overlook your earlier outburst if you return here with Jason O.,” Montague said. “However, if you fail me or attempt to jeopardize his apprehension in the slightest, I promise on my family’s name that you will die the most interesting death that Mr. Sawyer can manufacture.”
The blood left Sawyer’s face as he averted his eyes.
Hennemann returned the directory to the shelf. “That’s if I don’t do it first.”
I was sick t
o death of all the threats. I pushed back. “Speaking of family, Mr. Montague, are you an only child?”
His eyes shifted to the side as he paused for a second. “That’s quite enough. My family is not involved with this.”
I decided to go all in. “I was just thinking that if someone found out that there was an illegitimate son, a bastard brother named Jason . . . or something in Frederick’s past . . . perhaps that could be what—”
“That’s quite enough.” Montague switched the chair into motion and headed for the parlor’s exit.
I called after him, “This is your last chance to tell me what’s really going on here!”
With his back still to us, he shouted, “Good luck, Mr. Kipsey. Marcus, see that Sawyer is returned to his quarters.”
And with that, he was gone.
Nine
I stayed clear of Hennemann as he straightened what he could of the parlor. I wasn’t certain that he’d comply with Montague’s charge not to harm me, but for the moment, he was preoccupied with returning the metal globe to its stand. As he finished stacking the scattered ledgers on a small round table, Sawyer pointed to the bodies. “What about those?”
“Later. There’s too much blood. Anyway, it’s time to go.”
I thought of Nelson’s note in my pocket. Not sure of when I’d have an opportunity to read it in private, I headed toward the parlor door.
“Where are you off to?” Hennemann called out.
“Too much brandy. I need to use the privy.”
His mouth closed into a thin line as he stared at me.
“Better for me to go while we’re up here instead of pissing up Mr. Montague’s sky bassel, right?”
“All right, don’t get tetchy. It’s across the hall. Make it quick, and don’t wander about. By the way, in the event you decide to make a break from my company, Mr. Montague had his manservant, Berkeley, telegraph the Addleton Heights airship depot. They are to suspend anyone with an ID that bears the name Jason.” A devilish smirk formed on his face. “He also sent the same for anyone with the name of Thorogood Kipsey. You won’t leave the platform until Mr. Montague allows for it.”
My heart sank as I walked away.
Addleton Heights Page 7
