Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  I ignored the request for obvious reasons. “How long did the two of you talk? I mean, how long did he confess to you?”

  “Not long, just a few minutes.”

  “Then that’s when he tried to tip you . . . afterwards, right?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t accept it, of course. That’s not the way things are done. When he insisted on making a large donation, I told him that he could give to the orphan fund.” The trace of a smile began to emerge. “He . . . your Mr. Nelson seemed pleased to do so.”

  “How much?”

  “Mr. Kipsey, I’m afraid that I have to disappoint you again. I can’t divulge something like that.”

  I scratched my head, annoyed.

  He conceded slightly. “I can tell you that it was a sizable offering for the children. It will help a great deal.”

  I moved to questions he could answer. “What do you know of Alton Montague?”

  A sly smile formed as he pointed at me. “Is that your confidential client?”

  With my most indiscernible poker stare, I asked, “What would make you think that?”

  He winked, satisfied. “See, you also have things that your profession doesn’t allow you to share. But I’ve never met Alton Montague, though just like everyone else on Addleton Heights, I know who he is.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of . . . anything?”

  “Nothing comes to mind. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I really must prepare for the next mass.” He stood and patted me on the shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay and join us if you like.”

  “Thank you, Parson, but I must be going.” I returned to my feet. “Does the church have something like a roll book or roster? I’d like to see if any Jasons have signed in recently.”

  “We don’t require parishioners to sign in, but I assure you there is not a regular member named Jason. A shepherd knows his sheep.”

  “Hmmm . . . all right. You mind if I take a look in your confessional booth over there?”

  “Not at all. It’s God’s place for everyone, but may I ask why?”

  “Like I said, Nelson was keen on leaving notes. Maybe he left a note in there for Jason.” I approached the booth. “Uh . . . which side is the one you sit in?”

  He looked up from straightening round ornamental tins on the table. “The one on the left is the priest’s. The one on the right is the one for you.”

  Though I feverishly searched every crack and corner in the dim half-light of the booth, I found nothing. I believed what he’d said about Nelson being in here two days before, but there wasn’t any trace of him in here now. If there had been a note for Jason, someone had already taken it.

  Emerging from the long cloth curtain that served as the booth’s enclosure, I made my way to Father J. at the sacrament table. “Has anybody else been in there since Nelson’s confession?”

  “Yes, but not your Jason. All were members of the church. Sorry to disappoint you.” He straightened a flat wooden box. “Maybe you were led here for a different reason today . . . a divine reason. You strike me as a man who is looking for something, and I mean more than a note left by Mr. Nelson for Jason. I sense you are searching for something inside yourself, a change from where you are.”

  This guy was good at quickly sizing people up.

  He moved from behind the table, stopping a few feet from me to allow for a comfortable space between us. “Are you familiar with Abram, one of the patriarchs of the faith?”

  “Do you mean Abraham?”

  “Abram’s name was changed to Abraham after he departed the idol-worshipping land of his father. The Book of Genesis tells of how he abandoned his homeland to settle in the land of Canaan, wherein he prospered. I believe you’re an Abram on his way to becoming an Abraham, if you take the metaphor.”

  “And what?” I asked. “I should leave the Addleton Heights platform?”

  He smiled kindly at my smarminess. “It’s metaphorical. I see you as a man balanced on the precipice of a change. You’ll have to decide who you are and who you will be.”

  Wow, he was really good.

  “We have a few minutes remaining before the next service if you’d like to return to the confessional. Penitence heals the soul of a person and can help you find your way to the better version of yourself.”

  “Thanks, but I have to find Jason.”

  I turned to leave, putting my hat on and bracing for the cold while mentally preparing for the smell.

  “The Lord’s house is always open to you, my son.”

  As I pulled open the door to the vestibule, he called, “I pray you find what you’re looking for.”

  Thirteen

  The rambunctious trio that I’d come to think of as “the snowball boys” were admiring Montague’s steam carriage as I exited the church. Hennemann’s voice boomed as he approached them from the side. “You by-blows stand aside from that property if you know what’s good for you.”

  The boys moved back a safe distance as the big man approached. “We weren’t doing anything, mister.”

  The second of the three added, “Yeah, we didn’t even touch it at all, I promise.”

  Hennemann reached the front of the carriage. “You trots best beware of having an overdose.”

  “An overdose?” the first boy asked cautiously, taking a few more steps backward. “An overdose of what?”

  Hennemann pulled the bottom of his coat aside, revealing his weapon. Moving closer, I saw a wicked smile form as he unholstered his side iron. His arm stretched out slowly and deliberately like a vulture’s neck craning to devour carrion. “An overdose of lead.”

  The sound of the trigger clicking back made the boys scatter like crows off a bassel rail.

  “Put it down!” I shouted. “Hennemann, put it away!”

  As he swiveled my direction, the barrel pointed at me. “Don’t flurry your milk, Kipsey. Just having some fun is all. What took you so long in there anyway? I thought you may have tried something stupid like leaving through the back.”

  “I’m not talking to you while that thing is aimed at me.”

  He laughed. “So that’s the secret to getting you to shut up, point a gun at your chest? I wish I’d known it was that easy.”

  “Put it away, you lummox!”

  “Tsk, tsk. Calling names now, Mr. Kipsey? Very unprofessional.”

  I opened my door of the carriage. “We don’t have time for this, Hennemann.”

  He walked to his side of the cab and got in, the smile fading. As he engaged the steam tanks, he asked snidely, “Better for you, Kipsey? Now, what did you find out from that choker in there?”

  “Nelson was here two days ago around lunchtime. Priest says he made a donation to an orphanage.”

  “Pffft . . . an orphanage? That’s it? That’s real sweet, but we know where Jim Nelson is. The point is where Jason is. I don’t care about an orphanage unless we can find Jason there. What else did you find out?”

  He put the steam carriage into gear with a jolt.

  “Not much. Why didn’t Fitzpatrick tell you that Nelson had come here?”

  Our speed increased as he answered, “Maybe he would’ve if your patron saint of children hadn’t shot him in the throat.”

  “But didn’t you two have regular meetings or something to catch up?”

  “Believe it or not, Mr. Kipsey, I’ve been a little busy with other things of late, things that have taken me away from the good company of the recently departed Anthony Fitzpatrick.”

  Hennemann swerved to miss a couple crossing the street.

  “Busy with what?” I asked.

  “Busy is all. I’m taking over this investigation. We’re heading back to your office for a look at the residency directory for Jason listings.”

  “Fine, but I want to stop by Nelson’s apartment first,” I said.

  “No, you’ve wasted enough time already.”

  The only advantage I possessed about the case was knowing of Nelson’s attempt to contact Commissioner Dav
enport with the note. I suspected there were more clues in the waste bin of the dead man’s bedroom but couldn’t manufacture a reason to go back there without betraying the secret to Hennemann.

  “All I’m saying is maybe we missed something at Nelson’s.” Admittedly, the explanation felt feeble.

  “I said no. We head to get your city residency directory and then over to . . .” He pulled the small burgundy booklet from his waistcoat pocket. Wetting his index finger after every page he turned, he finally proclaimed, “Ah, here it is. Garrett Olsen.”

  “Garrett Olsen?”

  “Yeah, he was Mr. Montague’s gardener until about three weeks ago.”

  “Wait, is that what you wrote down in the study? That’s what you found in the employee directory? How is someone named Garrett Olsen considered a suspect?”

  He tucked the book back in his pocket while giving me a smug look. “Garrett ‘J’ Olsen. See, I can do some detecting my own self.”

  I had to concede that this was a possible lead and that our excursion to the church had turned out to be as fruitless as planting a box of rocks in the desert.

  I said the name, getting the feel for it in my mouth. “Garrett Jason Olsen . . . Olsen. You said he’s the gardener?”

  “Was the gardener for Mr. Montague up until a few weeks ago. At least that’s what the employee directory said. He didn’t have an address in the book, though. He’s supposed to, but Bailey isn’t always the most thorough when it comes to administrative details like that.” He enjoyed relaying this fact.

  “Why would the grounds need a gardener in the winter months?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe that’s why he got fired.”

  “But you’re head of security. Shouldn’t you know why someone got the sack? I mean, shouldn’t that be important?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. I pressed the question. “You’re head of security, right? How is it that you don’t—”

  “Two divisions,” he snapped like a sprung rat trap. He looked guilty. “There are two divisions of security. I do the work on the street side. I’m the head of that, and, well, for the moment, Reginald runs things in the sky.”

  “The redheaded fellow, the one that you delivered Sawyer to?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. We’re equals, but he oversees things up top.”

  I’d mistaken the maid of honor for the bride. Hennemann wasn’t second in command. He was third at best. It took a moment for this to sink in. “So, you never knew Garrett J. Olsen—or Jim Nelson, for that matter.”

  The look on Hennemann’s face confirmed his wounded pride. He must have been embarrassed that he’d presented himself as top dog when he wasn’t.

  Also, it occurred to me that Hennemann needed to redeem himself in Montague’s eyes after Fitzpatrick, a man under his supervision, had gotten shot to death.

  On the other hand, since Reggie had been in charge when the two men had died in his boss’s home, then Reggie’s position was vulnerable. If Hennemann solved the case, it could be a big prize for him.

  All told, Hennemann had a lot at stake here.

  He finally spoke again. “I know what Fitzpatrick told me of Jim Nelson. He’d been watching him for a few weeks.” He changed the subject. “Since your place is one sector over, we’re going there first. We’ll take your city directory with us.”

  I didn’t protest. There might be a chance for me to look for the item he’d planted there.

  “What were you doing while I was in the church?” I asked.

  “Holding my breath to keep from breathing any of that foul air into my lungs. I hope you got what you needed, ‘cause I don’t plan on going back.”

  I ignored the comment and asked, “Did you see anything while I was inside?”

  “Not a thing. I just asked people if they knew anyone named Jason.”

  “I take it none of them did.”

  “So they all said.”

  As we rolled along, he made observations about each district and borough as if I were a visitor to Addleton Heights instead of living in the platform city for my entire life. After a few minutes, I blocked out the drone of his ramble and mulled over the crumbs of the case.

  He’d said that Olsen’s place was on the outskirts of Berthshire. This was good fortune, since the Chinatown sector was a sector or so past that. Remembering the Chinese address Sawyer had written, I was certain to find a tink there to explain the function of the component he’d slipped me.

  The task of performing two simultaneous investigations was daunting, but I had no choice. I desperately needed leverage against Montague. I firmly believed that whatever Sawyer meant when he wished me luck in “solving the real case” was the key. He obviously knew something, and the knowing seemed to scare him even more than Hennemann’s threats.

  I ran my finger across the small lump made by the brass cylinder in my pocket. There had to be a way to convince Hennemann to take me to Chinatown once we’d learned what we could from Garrett Olsen.

  What I needed most was a break in the case. Every investigation that I’d ever been a part of reached a key moment when it invited you in, when it showed you its secrets like a maiden lifting her skirts. Of course, you had to be diligent and create the right atmosphere and pay attention.

  Though it hadn’t even been twelve hours, I needed that break to come quickly.

  Hennemann motioned me into the mess that was my office and closed the door behind us. He quickly made his way to the bust of Aristotle and helped himself to a drink without my offering. “Get the directory,” he said, pouring himself a second glass.

  “Yeah, all right. It’s around here somewhere,” I responded, placing my hat in the guest chair. I gestured to the papers strewn about the place. “The Densmore brothers really did a number on this place last night.”

  “Don’t play with me, Kipsey. Get it and let’s go.”

  He threw the second drink back and pocketed the coin that he’d left from his earlier visit. That had been when we were still “friends” and I was a candidate to fill Fitzpatrick’s vacated position. The prospect of that happening now was as unlikely as a stillborn calf winning a best-of-show ribbon.

  He shot me a peculiar glance as if he’d been caught doing something, but what? Surely he wasn’t embarrassed to take the coin back. He’d made it clear that his opinion of me was below that of the dog he’d strangled.

  “I’m going for a piss,” he muttered as he returned the glass to the shelf.

  “Down the hall, first door at the stairs,” I said.

  Hanging his bowler on the hat rack on the way out, he regained his authoritative manner. “Be ready to go when I get back.”

  The second he was gone, I scrambled to my file cabinet. I’d only have a few minutes, at best, to locate whatever he’d planted to incriminate me. From his visit before, I knew it had to be small enough to conceal in a pocket, but what could it be?

  I checked my desk drawer next, but there was nothing out of place there either. Then it hit me—why he was acting so queer by the bust.

  Making my way across the office, I slid my fingers between the panels behind the pedestal. I felt cool metal, something like a small paperweight. The sense of euphoria that washed over me quickly faded as I struggled to free the wedged object.

  This was taking too long. I was certain to be caught.

  I quickly fell to my knees to gain a better vantage point of my target. A faint glimmer shone from the thing, mocking me.

  I tried another minute or so unsuccessfully. Returning to my feet, I shoved my fingers back into the wedge and grasped at it, trying not to lodge it in deeper.

  I thought I heard him coming until I realized it was noise from the bassel outside.

  I moved the Aristotle bust, glasses, and whiskey bottle to the floor in case I tipped the pedestal. Then I tried again, this time with my left hand. From this angle, I discovered that the object had a small chain hanging from the bottom.

  It was a pocket watch! I remembered him c
hecking the time with it when we first met. I jerked the chain and pulled the timepiece free.

  My heart was pounding in my chest, and I was short of breath. Putting the silver watch on the ledge, I feverishly returned the other items to their proper places.

  With that done, I popped the watch open and saw an engraved inscription: “To Alton Montague, A guiding light and a beacon of hope. Addleton Heights Commonwealth ~ Founder’s Day 1892.”

  I snapped it closed and shoved it into my pocket. It landed with a clink against the unusual component Sawyer had slipped me.

  As I moved away from the hiding place, I tried to remove the brass cylinder from my pocket but fumbled it, dropping it to the floor. There was a tiny click.

  I watched, awestruck, as the small cylinder unscrewed along the center corkscrew and parted into two halves. A second or so later, a tiny spring shot one of the halves across the wood floor with the force of a miniscule trebuchet.

  Startled, I jumped backward, then froze, awaiting what would occur next. When it seemed the device was safe, I retrieved the half that remained on the floor by me.

  What was this fantastical thing?

  Careful not to point the opening directly at my face, I sniffed it, expecting the scent of gunpowder. There was none, which meant the piece had been jettisoned by mechanical means.

  I shook it vigorously before tucking it into the inner pocket of my waistcoat. Though I was reasonably confident there wouldn’t be anything else shooting off from it, I opted to put it near my heart instead of in my trouser pockets aimed toward my manhood.

  On hands and knees, I searched for the component’s other half. I finally located it under my desk. I reached under the front of the desk to grab it but pulled back when I realized that four or five pinprick amber lights were blinking in a steady on-off rhythm.

  What was this thing, and was something else about to shoot from it?

  Deciding to approach it from the other side of the desk, I scooted back.

  “You probably want to stay clear of that crapper for a while. What in Odin’s blind eye are you doing?” Hennemann asked, coming through the doorway.