Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  A mental technique they taught at the police academy was to retrace the steps through an investigation from a different perspective. The method was similar to watching a stage play in the audience and then returning the next night to view the very same actions performed from where the prop master stood behind the curtain.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? What’s the point of hiding that from me?”

  “I didn’t hide anything. It just doesn’t pertain to finding Jason.”

  I was seething. “How do you know it’s not important? No, no, from now on, you tell me everything.”

  That Hennemann was unfazed by my shouting angered me even more.

  The steam carriage took a sharp right onto the main road.

  “Tony . . . Fitzpatrick was assigned to watch Nelson.”

  “Watch him? Why?”

  “He’d been acting funny for the last few weeks, and Mr. Montague wanted surveillance of him to see what he was up to.” Hennemann sighed. “You see, Mr. Montague is working on a project and was afraid that Nelson was going to betray confidences and leak secrets.”

  “Why would he, after being loyal for so many years? What were the secrets?” I thought of the note hidden in my hat.

  “That part’s not important,” Hennemann said dismissively. “What counts is that whatever Nelson was up to, Tony must’ve found out, and it got him shot, but not before he ended that little prick.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this from the beginning? Why tell me now? What changed?”

  “Your job—your only job—is to bring this Jason person back to Mr. Montague. You need only concern yourself with that task. Whatever Fitz was working on, even whatever Nelson was doing, is of no concern. Simply get this Jason person into our custody, and you’re done.”

  I wanted to understand more of how the Montague security detail was set up. “Are members of the street-level security like you and Fitzpatrick required to live within close proximity of the compound?”

  “Yes,” he said cautiously. “I have a loft within the municipal sector. Other employees can choose their residency anywhere on the Addleton Heights platform. We’re required to be closer in for obvious reasons.”

  “Why, then, would a high-ranking employee of Montague Steel live so far out here?”

  “I told you, he was an odd one,” Hennemann answered.

  Thinking aloud, I mumbled to myself, “The bassel ride to the mansion must have been quite a trek each day.”

  I remembered the crates from when we first arrived at the sky ferry landing. The thought struck me that maybe they contained tink goods or were loaded with machine parts, or maybe tink-modified weapons. Had Nelson stumbled across something he wasn’t supposed to see? We were barely a mile outside of the manufacturing sector, the largest conglomeration of tink workers. Was Jason a tink?

  I kept these questions to myself as we rode along.

  The snow was cold and wet, and I was on my side in it.

  “Wakey wakey.” Hennemann closed the vehicle door I’d been leaning against.

  The fall from the cab rekindled my earlier injuries from the Densmore brothers. I grunted in pain. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Stuff your bleatin’. You fell asleep. We’re here.”

  My hands slid in freezing slush as I attempted to push off the ground into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

  “Time to find Jason.”

  I gave him a dirty look as I stood, brushing snow off myself.

  “It’s about five thirty.” Hennemann moved around to the rear of the steam carriage. Seconds later, he returned with a shovel. “Here.”

  “What’s this for?”

  “Shovel up the snow and put it in the hatch on the side.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  He activated his Charon eyepiece. “Checking for nobblers before we go in. If this Jason has set up some sort of an ambush, I for one do not intend on getting caught in it.”

  “And so what . . . I just stand here in the open shoveling snow and hope for the best?”

  “Something like that.” Feeling vulnerable to attack, I scanned the moonlit roofs and darkened windows of the buildings surrounding me. The only living thing visible was an owl staring down at me from the top ledge of Nelson’s building.

  According to the address we’d obtained from Montague’s study, Nelson’s apartment was on the first floor of the four-story housing unit we were parked in front of. It could boast to being the tallest structure on the street and, while slightly worn, looked well maintained. Not that I’d expected the New Gettys sector to be rookery, but the area appeared to be in good shape considering how far out from the central district we were.

  My injuries ached with each mound of snow I shoveled into the compartment.

  I realized I was alone. This was the chance I’d been waiting for, my escape from all this nonsense.

  Then I remembered the eye scope that allowed him to see through the dark. It was definitely Charon issue. It didn’t take much to figure out that a Charon hunter on the ground was still Charon even without his skiff or gaff pole. I remembered how fast he’d moved in my office, especially given his age.

  Slowly turning in a full circle, I tried to see if he was watching me from the shadows, if this was a test to see if I’d flee. I’d make a fairly easy target for him, and then he’d tell Montague that I’d gone rogue and he’d had to shoot me.

  I returned to my task.

  As I scooped the snow, it occurred to me that Jason might be an ally instead of an enemy. Nelson had written Jason’s name in his own blood. Why would he implicate a friend? The old proverb came to mind: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. My current employer was about as friendly as a smashed nest of hornets. Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have shaken the old man.

  Maybe I could barter with Jason O., warn him about Montague in exchange for him helping me to escape from Addleton Heights. If he were connected to any anti-establishment factions, he’d likely be able to get us past the depot guards. I had two tickets to New Haven, after all. We could go together, provided I found Jason before Hennemann did.

  Other than being born here, I had no real reason to stay. There was no possibility of me returning to the force, work as of late required very little of my deduction skills, and no one was waiting at home for me. Even the densest player at the poker table eventually recognizes when he should fold.

  I jumped ahead in my escape fantasy. Did Addleton Heights have extradition agreements with the Northern Union if the authorities there caught us? I knew that the Confederate States of America did, but what of the north?

  A moment or so later, the sound of snow crunching beneath heavy boots filled my ears, then Hennemann called out, “Put that down and come on! The block is clear.”

  His gun was drawn, but he wasn’t pointing it at me for a change. Presumably, it was out for the ambush that wasn’t there. He shouted, “Did the fall from the carriage make you glocky? Put that thing away and come on!”

  I returned the shovel to the clamps on the back of the vehicle. He motioned for me to take the lead, and I complied. My escape plans would have to wait. He’d let his guard down at some point, and then I’d get free. For the moment, I was genuinely intrigued as to what we’d find in Nelson’s apartment.

  Eleven

  My fingers were stiff from the cold, making it difficult to get Nelson’s door key from my vest pocket. Hennemann pushed me aside and clamped down on the doorknob with his mechanical fist. With a quick jerk, he ripped the locking apparatus and knob from the wood with a loud crack. He tossed the mangled knob to me as he peered into the ragged hole.

  “Why’d you do that?” I asked.

  “It’s not like Nelson’s coming back here anytime soon.”

  I let the broken knob fall to the floor, not expecting the sound to startle Hennemann as it did.

  “Shhhhhhh! Be quiet, you dolt.”

  “Too late for that,” I said. “You made more noise breaking it off. What d
o you see in there?”

  “Not much,” he said, standing and nudging the creaking door open.

  Once inside the room, I fired up the gaslight. He might be able to see in the dark, but I couldn’t.

  An odd scent lingered in the air—the smell of turpentine. Everything in the sparse living quarters was positioned at right angles. I’d never associated with any Babbage or accounting types. Were they all this precise? It was borderline neurotic.

  The entry room was a modestly sized space with rugs meticulously centered on the hardwood floor. Two identical, evenly spaced rocking chairs balanced out a boxy built-in lounger on the other side of the room.

  I moved across the area in front of the brick fireplace as stealthily as I could, though my efforts were negated by Hennemann stomping about like a rhino. Bookcase colonnades shaped what would’ve been a rectangular shape into two evenly spaced squares. The second area, a small kitchen with a sink and a stovepipe oven, branched out into two adjacent rooms—first a water closet and then the bedchamber.

  It felt good to be doing detective work—real detective work—again. This was what I was born to do. For a brief moment, I didn’t mind that I was being forced to used my skills under duress.

  “Notice anything peculiar about the walls?” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  I pointed at blank spaces as I walked. “There’s no artwork, no pictures of family. Nothing even on the mantle.”

  “I told you he was an odd little man. Hey, what are we looking for around here anyway?”

  I made my way into the bedroom and lit a lamp. “I don’t know yet.”

  He followed. “You don’t know? What does that mean?”

  “That’s the way this works. Now be quiet so I can think.”

  The smell of turpentine was stronger in this room. There was a small straw-stuffed bed, but what caught my attention was the suitcase on the bottom corner of it.

  Hennemann crowded in as I opened it, pointing out the obvious. “Looks like he was taking a trip.”

  I tried to dismiss the notion before he deducted anything about missing tickets—tickets hidden in my hat. “Perhaps, but we can’t jump to conclusions. We need to look at all the facts.”

  “Jump to conclusions? What else do you do with a suitcase?”

  Jim Nelson packed in the same manner he arranged his apartment: neatly and in perfect order. The luggage was precisely sectioned off, containing three folded pairs of trousers, a trio of dress shirts, and three pairs of nylon socks, belts, and ties. No toiletries, though. I guessed that he’d shave and clean before he made his 11:00 a.m. rendezvous at the airship.

  Could I convince Hennemann to deliver me to that depot without divulging my discovery of the tickets so that I could intercept Jason there and try to negotiate something? There was no way to be certain that the second ticket was for Jason at all or that he and Nelson had planned to meet there on New Year’s Day. The vouchers were for any day in January. But my theory wasn’t entirely unreasonable, and it was all I had at the moment.

  Thoughts of how I could break free from Hennemann returned. I suspected there wouldn’t be any risk at the depot, provided I didn’t use the tickets and board any airship. I could simply mill about, pretending to wait for the arrival of a passenger from the mainland while watching for any other loiterers to show up—namely, Jason.

  Sliding my palm beneath Nelson’s clothing, I touched a smooth pane of glass. I lifted a picture frame out, a photograph of a slightly younger Nelson in a business suit similar to the one I’d found him in at Montague’s. Standing next to him was a shorter man—no, a woman.

  I’d measured Nelson at five and half feet, putting the young woman at around five. Normally, women being photographed cinch up their Sunday best and adorn themselves with pearls and a head covering. This one couldn’t have been more different.

  Goggles atop her head served as a headband, allowing only the most stubborn wisps of lightly shaded hair to escape from underneath. She wore a man’s white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hands in work gloves. Suspenders bracketed her bosoms like a set of parentheses. An oversized leather belt strap slung over shapely hips contained a half dozen pouches for bolts, tools, and whatnot.

  I committed the image to memory, which wasn’t hard. Despite the grime on her slacks, she was Helen of Troy. The most disarming thing about her appearance was how her youthful smile contrasted with Nelson’s stoic expression.

  Hennemann snapped his fingers twice, motioning for the frame.

  I asked, “Have you ever seen her?”

  Holding the picture in his metal palm, he shook his head. “No, I’d definitely remember tits like that.”

  “Was Nelson ever married?” I asked for three reasons: the woman didn’t resemble him in the least, the apartment was absent a female touch, and the bed could barely accommodate a single sleeper.

  “Don’t know,” he answered, adjusting his bowler. “He was a very private fellow. Maybe she’s a judy.”

  “Who’d take a photograph with a prostitute? Secondly, if she was a toffer, why would she be dressed like a tink?”

  “I told you he was odd. Maybe that was his preference—you know, his thing, dabbing it up with prostitutes who dressed like tinks or whatever.”

  He handed it back. “That may explain why he lived out here in New Gettys, close to where those mech-worker types congregate. You’ve got the Krupp sector to the left, and if there ever was a tink capital, it’d be to the right of this place. “

  I returned to the photograph, mumbling, “What would an accountant have to do with a tink?” Again, there was no trace of any tink presence here—quite the opposite. I recalled how unkempt and cluttered the place of my former neighbor, Mr. Schaumberg, had been. Tubes and wires, cogs and sprockets, and diagrams and blueprints had littered every inch of his flat. Tinks seem to thrive in disheveled work places.

  Hennemann continued his rant about prostitutes, of which I’m certain he was a connoisseur. “I, for one, could care less what they dress like. It’s what they look like undressed that interests me, and that one there certainly would’ve made me put ol’ Nebuchadnezzar out to grass.”

  The idea of Hennemann having sex with anything was repulsive. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  He mockingly raised his eyebrows and grabbed his crotch with his real hand.

  “Well, we’ll have to find her first,” I said with indifference as I removed the picture from the frame. On the back was the inscription: “To Jimmy, always and with love, J.”

  I was stunned. Had I missed the entire thing? Maybe it wasn’t “Jason” we were looking for at all. Maybe the bloody letters weren’t “Jason O.” but “Ja Sono” or “Ja Sond” – I wasn’t entirely certain the last letter smeared across the painting had actually been an “O.” It very well might have been a droopy “D.” Perhaps “J. A. Sond”?

  I made a mental note to review the picture I’d taken in the study when I developed it. Had there been spaces between the letters?

  “What is it?” he asked.

  I held it up to show him.

  “Hmmph. So I guess she was his girl after all. Hmph. I’d always pegged him to be a shirt lifter.”

  “Well, if they were ever together, it hasn’t been for a long time. Look in the wardrobe—no female items.”

  Hennemann acknowledged with a slow nod. “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said, folding it in half and placing it in my coat pocket.

  I nudged past him and returned to the rolltop desk. Opening it, I wasn’t surprised to find the half-full bottle of turpentine, but next to that was a glass jar of glue. Picking up a small waste bin, I emptied the contents onto the desk surface. I rummaged through an assortment of paper shavings, a couple of loose razor blades, a number of small wooden sticks for applying glue, and other waste.

  “Is it always like this?” Hennemann asked, making his impatience clear.

  “What?
Investigating? It’s like putting together a clock—it doesn’t work until all the pieces are in place.”

  “Yeah, but with a clock, even if it’s not working yet, you can tell it’s a clock instead of a piece of fruit or a bird. We still don’t know anything about Jason O.”

  “True, we don’t know much yet . . . but we will. I’ve closed every case I’ve ever worked on. I’ll close this one too, as soon as I have more pieces to the clock.”

  I continued sorting through the rubbish before me for a few seconds before asking, “Do you know if he handmade his ledgers?” I remembered how the book with the note from Jim had a mangled pastedown sheet that was separating from its inside cover.

  Had there been something under that sheet?

  I had to get another look at those books, as little as I wanted to return to Montague’s.

  Hennemann hadn’t answered, so I asked, “Did Nelson construct the financial ledgers from scratch that Montague Steel turned over to the Commonwealth?”

  Finally, he answered, “I don’t think so. That seems a bit aberrant even for him. Why do you ask?”

  I pointed at the pile. “Most all of this”—I held up the cardboard spine of what had once been a slim book—”is for bookbinding.”

  He took the scrap from me, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it back onto the pile. “Fascinating . . . truly it is, Mr. Kipsey, but unless there’s something in there with Jason O.’s last name—or better yet, his address—I’m headed into the other room to do my own investigation to find some gatter.”

  “Suit yourself, but I doubt you’ll find any alcohol in this place.”

  He turned to face me from the doorway. “And just why is that, Detective?”

  I held up a crumpled post bill I’d just discovered. The notice announced in bold letters, “New Year’s Day Sunrise Church Service.”

  “It’s in Low Bromick, three sectors over,” I said. “We can make it before they dismiss if we hurry.”