Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  There was no need for stealth crossing the street since the building was windowless. I reached the door and looked back in time to see the carriage sputtering away. The street was empty save for a couple heading to the bassel platform down the block.

  Not surprised to discover the door locked, I bent to a knee and began my work. Since the lock was newer than the one at Olsen’s flat, it betied in no time, and I was in.

  I entered and closed the door quietly behind me. It was dark, so I paused, waiting for my eyes to adjust, but it was as black as tar on a moonless midnight. My ears perked up to the sound of soft clinks of glassware in the distance.

  Someone was here after all.

  I moved slowly forward with my hands out until I encountered cold metal against my palms—empty brass coat racks. Realizing that I was in the vestibule of the club, I moved the other way. My outstretched hands eventually touched the coarse fabric of a heavy curtain. I readied the revolver as I pulled the door covering to the side for a peek.

  The bitter aroma of stale cigar smoke filled the air. In the back corner of the long room was a lone figure at a sink, his back to me. Wearing a white shirt and an apron, he was scrubbing dishes.

  The flicker of the gaslight above the sink threw long shadows of the man against the wood paneling next to him. Since this was the only light on in the place, the darkness lent me stealth. If I were quiet enough, I’d be able to get the jump on him and avoid a skirmish.

  The man continued washing up as I quickly made my way past tables to him. I scanned the half-dozen booths that lined the walls. Anything in the area that could be upholstered in black velvet had been. For a second, the extravagance distracted me. The squalor of the building’s exterior was a convincing disguise.

  I stopped ten feet from the man and fixed the gun on him. Though adrenaline raced through my body like wildfire, I managed to speak evenly. “I want you to put the dishes down slowly, lift your hands, and turn to face me.”

  It was obvious by his jerk that I’d startled him, but he obeyed my commands and turned around. Glistening soapy water ran down the man’s bare, elevated arms, but with the light behind him, I couldn’t make out his face.

  “Are you the only one here?” I asked.

  With a wavering voice, he informed me, “Mister, I can’t get to the money.”

  “That’s not what I asked you,” I said as gruffly as I could manage. “Are we alone here?”

  “Yeah, just us, but like I said, I can’t get to any of the money.”

  I needed to be able to read his face in order to conduct a proper interview. “It’s too dark in here. Turn the lights up.”

  “But the club only has candles,” he stammered and motioned to the row of tables behind me. “It’s intentionally dark . . . you know, for atmosphere.”

  “If we have to go outside, it won’t be very pleasant for you.”

  “The bar!” he exclaimed. “I could get the lamp that’s used to see the drinks we mix. I’ll just go and get it.”

  His eagerness to get back there alarmed me. “Wait a tick,” I said. “I’ll get it. Turn back to face the sink . . . and keep your hands up high for a minute.”

  I walked backward, the gun aimed at his long torso. Midway down the bar, I located the lantern, but what I was really looking for was on the shelf under it: the bar’s peacekeeper. Tucking the smaller pistol into my belt, I grabbed the iron ring of the lantern with my free hand and returned to him.

  “Mister, my wallet is in my jacket over there on the chair. You can have the money in it. Just take it, but I can’t get to the club’s money. Last night’s receipts are locked away in the safe, and I don’t know the combination. I’m new here.”

  I placed the lantern on the side of the bar and took the matches from my pocket. “I’m not here for money. Turn around and light this thing. I want to see your face.”

  “Not here for the money? Then what are . . .”A second later, he reached the only other possible conclusion a man in his situation could come up with. He shivered. “Are you here to kill me . . . because of . . . my condition?”

  “What condition? Oh, this? No, that’s not what this is. I’m working a case. It has nothing to do with homosexuals. Right now, I could care less about who you take to your bed. I’m looking for someone. Light the lantern, and let’s have a chat at one of these tables.”

  He obeyed, and the area was bathed in a glow of white light. I made a point of emptying the bullets from the bar’s revolver into a nearby spittoon so that he could see me do it. As they hit with metal clanks, I asked, “Is the coffee in that kettle over there fresh?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, still suspicious of my motives. “I made it when I got here a half hour ago.”

  I tossed the empty gun to him. “Throw that into the sink and bring the kettle and a cup for me.”

  With Fitzpatrick’s iron still trained on him, I moved a good eight feet back from the table as a precaution in case he tried to slosh scalding coffee on me. “Put it down and take a seat. Put your hands on the table palms up.”

  I studied the slim features of his face in the lamplight as he complied. He appeared to be a few years younger than I was—likely in his late twenties—with neatly cropped dark hair. His perfect pencil-thin moustache twitched.

  I took my place and plopped Fitzpatrick’s massive gun down on the table with a thud. A slight nudge to the butt of the weapon angled the barrel at him. “I’m looking for Garrett J. Olsen.”

  The man’s brilliant steel-blue eyes widened. “Does he know you?”

  “I rather doubt it,” I said, emptying steamy coffee from the kettle into the cup. “But Olsen works here, right?”

  “Uh . . . yeah, well . . . he did. That is, he only worked here for a few days but then quit. He said he was leaving the Addleton Heights platform.” His eyes darted to the side as he spoke. “I think he packed up and went to . . . Boston.”

  The bitter coffee was exquisite and did wonders to clear the fog from my brain. I sipped it again and looked the area over. Clumps of white confetti from the party the night before littered the floor like pockets of snow that refused to melt. With the improved light, I could make out a pianoforte on a small platform over the man’s shoulder.

  “Hmmm . . . Boston, you say?”

  “Yeah, I’m certain of it,” he said, attempting to sound more confident. “He went to Boston.”

  The cup made a sharp clink as I returned it to the saucer. “Mr. Olsen moved to Massachusetts, huh?” I asked, tracing the contours of the butt of the gun with my fingers to draw his attention back to it.

  “Yeah, about a week or so ago.”

  “I just came from his flat. He had a copy of yesterday’s paper in there.” I paused as if I were actually contemplating some phenomenon. “Now, how do you suppose that got in there, seeing how he left town a week ago? He also left a lot of belongings behind.”

  “You just came from Berthshire?” he exclaimed. He quickly shifted his eyes to his lap, knowing that he’d overreacted.

  I took a long sip. Acting overly interested in the cup, I upped the ante. “Where do you suppose someone gets lemons this time of year? Lemons in January on Addleton Heights.” I waited. You can tell a lot about a man in the way he lies to another man.

  Finally, he admitted it. “All right, mister, I’m sorry. I get a little nervous when a gun is aimed at me. I lied.”

  I patted the gun a few times like I was rewarding a hunting dog. “I think that’s a reasonable response from a rational man, but I’m going to keep this here a little longer.”

  “Seriously, mister, I know firearms. Sometimes they can go off by accident.”

  “Well, for your sake, let’s hope that doesn’t happen here.” I took another sip of coffee and stared at him through the curls of steam. “Speaking of guns, why would a barkeep have an extensive background in weaponry? You look too young to have served in the War of Secession.”

  His shoulders tensed slightly. “I apprenticed for a br
ief period under a level six weapons master down in the Confederate States, a gentleman bloodletter by the name of Drew Heyen.” He paused before asking, “So, why are you looking for Olsen? What’d he do? What do you want him for?”

  “I don’t know if he’s done anything. I just need to talk to him. So when did you really see him last?”

  “Well, he was here last night. He bartends.”

  “Good worker?”

  “Yeah, good with customers. Very friendly.”

  “How friendly . . . like prostitute friendly?”

  He glowered at me. “No, this isn’t that kind of club!”

  “Then what kind of a spot is this?”

  His anger melted as he searched for what to say. “It’s just a place where men can come to be themselves, a place where they don’t have to worry about disrupting the lives of the good citizens of Addleton Heights.” The words tapered off into sarcastic disgust. “Where people can go and avoid any repercussions for having a good time.”

  I poured another cup and lifted it in a toast. “You make good coffee.”

  The compliment confused him into thinking we were finished, and he scooted back from the table. “Who should I tell Mr. Olsen is looking for him when I see him next?”

  “Hands back on the table!” I barked as I snatched up the gun with my left hand.

  “Sorry, I thought—”

  “Shut up! It’s going to take more than a cup of coffee to get you out of this.” With the pistol still trained on him, I put the cup down and grabbed the rope from inside my jacket. I threw it onto the table, and it landed on his hands. “My partner told me to tie you up, but I prefer a more civilized method when circumstances allow.”

  “Your partner?”

  “Yes, he’s outside minding the carriage.” I switched the gun to my right hand. “He’s one of Alton Montague’s men.”

  I doubt that if the entire club had instantly filled up with ghosts, the man’s gasp could have been any louder. This alone confirmed my suspicion even before he asked, “Mr. Bailey? What’s he doing way out here?”

  There wasn’t a reason to tell him that I wasn’t referring to Reginald Bailey. Let him think what he would. “I told you, he has some business with Garrett J. Olsen.”

  The color drained from his face, and I decided to go all in. “Business with you, Mr. Olsen.”

  He tensed up at the declaration—it was him. Elation swept over me, and for a change, I felt as smart as a tree full of owls. He trembled before me. I had to strike now before he regained his composure. “What’s the ‘J’ in your name stand for?” I demanded.

  Olsen removed his hands from the table to grab his temples. “I swore to him I’d never tell, and I haven’t . . . I haven’t told a soul! Nobody knows.”

  What was this? I continued with my line of questioning. “What’s your middle name? What’s the ‘J’ for?”

  “What? Why do you care about that?”

  I studied the panic in his eyes. “Answer me! What’s the ‘J’?”

  “Joseph!” he shouted. “My middle name is Joseph! What difference does it make if he’s sent you in here to kill me?”

  I was stunned and lowered the gun to the table. How could it be Joseph instead of Jason? The surge of excitement deflated as quickly as a leaky airship. I barely heard his pleading.

  “Mister, please just let me go. I promise not to tell anyone, and I’ll even leave Addleton Heights for real, I swear it. Just let me go.”

  Imagining Hennemann’s reaction to another dead end made me shudder. For the briefest of moments, I was tempted to turn Olsen over to him in exchange for my freedom. Montague wouldn’t be the least bit surprised when the man denied his middle name was Jason. By the time employee records were verified and they knew the truth, I could be long gone with a new life below in the states.

  “Mister, I’m begging you, please just let me go.”

  “Just be quiet for a moment and let me think.”

  He nodded as tears spilled out of his eyes.

  I sighed deeply, knowing that I couldn’t bring myself to offer up this man or anyone else to the brutish Hennemann.

  As consolation, I might be able to extract information about the Montague compound from him. “Look, Mr. Olsen, I’ve come a long way this morning to be here with you. I’ll consider telling Reginald Bailey that I found this place as empty as a dodo’s nest this morning if you’ll answer my questions and answer truthfully. You’ve already lied to me twice. If I even suspect for a moment that you’re playing me for a flat, I’ll march you outside and leave you fry in your own fat with Montague’s man. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.” He sniffed. “Anything you need to know, just ask.”

  In a demonstration of good faith, I returned the gun to the table. “Now we’ve wasted a lot of time, and that red-headed bastard, Reggie, isn’t the most patient of men, so I want you to answer quickly and succinctly.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “You told me that you’ve kept your promise to Mr. Bailey, that you haven’t told anyone.”

  “That’s right, he told me I was a dead man if I let anyone find out.”

  I reached for the cup, acting like I wanted another drink, but I was really stalling for time. How could I catch him unawares and pluck this secret from him without him knowing my game? I remembered the two cigars at his apartment and the boy who’d caught him in a compromising position. “The man at your place yesterday, you didn’t share it with him?”

  A genuine look of surprise formed on his face. “Trevor? Why would I tell him? No, he’d be the last person I’d tell.” His eyes pleaded.

  The revelation that Jim Nelson wasn’t the man at Olsen’s apartment was another wrench in the spokes of the investigation, but I couldn’t let the disappointment show.

  “Wait, Trevor’s not in any danger, is he?” Olsen asked.

  Taking advantage of his distraction, I responded coolly. “Trevor’s not in danger yet, but remember, succinct answers.”

  “Yeah, right. Trevor doesn’t know what I did up there. He thinks I was only the gardener.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  Acting perfectly attuned to what he alluded to, I asked, “Then he never suspected?”

  He massaged his forehead with his fingers. “Well, there was one time when he came over and . . . well, there was some gunpowder on my boots. It was last summer. I told him that was something to help the soil. I called it black nitrates or something like that. I fooled him into believing that Mr. Montague’s tink—”

  I volunteered Sawyer’s name to grease the tracks of the conversation.

  “Sawyer, yeah, that’s him,” he said, gnawing at his lip and nodding. “Anyway, I told Trevor that was something the tink had cooked up to help with weeds and quickly washed my boots off. I promise you he doesn’t know anything about the weapons. You can assure Mr. Bailey and Mr. Montague that I won’t tell, ever.”

  “What can you tell me of Mr. Sawyer?”

  Olsen stroked his pencil-thin moustache. “Not a lot, really. The tink was there at the beginning because the guns were his design, but once the modifications were made, he didn’t come around after that.”

  “Who was in charge of crating them up? Do you know where the guns were being sent?”

  Olsen looked confused. “Crating them up? What do you mean? The artillery installation was still there when I left. They weren’t sent anywhere. All of them were mounted outside.”

  I’d said something wrong and needed to pull back before the interview went off the rails. Hopefully, he was too rattled to guess my bluff. “Of course they are, but what I’m asking is, you didn’t see William Sawyer after the weapons were set up, right?” I took another sip of coffee, hoping he’d reengage and I’d finally be able to figure out what we were talking about.

  “No, though I think the idea to hide them in the bushes was originally his idea.”

  I nodded as I wondered how much longer I could keep
the farce rolling. “Yes, a clever idea indeed.”

  “What do they call those things?”

  I felt the weight of the ruse. I had no idea what he was asking. My mind raced. “What?”

  “What do they call the bushes . . . when they trim them into shapes? You know, like big cats, or elephants, and such?”

  All at once, I understood. “Topiaries,” I said, relieved to be back on track.

  “Yeah, Sawyer had the idea to conceal the battery guns with topiaries. Word is that Mr. Montague didn’t want his guests looking out the window at an arsenal, so he covered it up. Twice a week, I’d ride the bassel up there and manicure the grounds. When I was finished with that, I’d check and clean the guns.”

  I was sitting across from Montague’s former munitions expert. He was no more a gardener than I was.

  I repeated his line, remembering the strategically placed bushes covered in snow. “Yes, very clever indeed. But why so much fire power? I mean, the only way to the compound from Addleton Heights proper is the sky bassel.”

  Olsen shook his head. “The installation wasn’t to protect the compound from workers or visitors from the town. It’s designed to ward off attacks from sky ships.”

  “Has that ever happened?”

  Olsen shrugged. “Not that I know of, but Mr. Montague is known for planning for every contingency.”

  The building made a settling noise. At first, I thought Hennemann had decided to come in despite what he’d said. I needed to speed this up.

  I reached in my pocket for the picture of Nelson and the woman. It was a long shot, but I may as well ask. “Do you know anyone named Jason O. or did you work with anyone at Montague’s named Jay or Jason?”

  “No, sir. Neither.”

  “All right, Mr. Olsen, I want to show you a photograph of someone. You tell me if you’ve ever seen this man or the woman he’s with.”

  He accepted the photograph from me and slid it closer to the lamplight. “I know who this is, the man, but he’d never come in here.”