Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  As if on cue, my guts convulsed and gave up all that I’d taken in over the last few hours. The sour stench of bile filled the air. After the retching stopped, she grabbed me by the ankles and heaved me across the room one clumsy jerk at a time. She paused to catch her breath after a bout of coughing. “Judging by the size of you, control over your motor skills should be coming back over the next few minutes.”

  As the fog began to leave my brain, I noticed the long gloves extending to a few inches past her elbows. The gloves weren’t leather. They appeared to be vulcanized rubber but not as rigid. No doubt they shielded her from the shocker mechanism.

  Standing over me, she grabbed the shoulders of my jacket and then jerk-lifted me into a slumped sitting position. She coughed again and then said, “Even though some of your movement’s returning, don’t resist me.”

  Next, she scooted one of the two chairs up against the wall beside me, its curved wooden slats pressing against the corner so it couldn’t rock. In a matter-of-fact tone, she said, “I’m putting you in this chair. If you’re inclined to fight me on this, I’ve got Rodger wound up and ready to give you another zap. Don’t try anything. Do you understand?”

  Her cornflower-blue eyes studied me, awaiting a response.

  I decided that I hated Rodger, whatever insidious tinkware that mechanism was.

  I managed a hoarse yes while offering a spastic nod that made my head swim. The vibrating sensation of my muscles gave way to tingling and heightened itching.

  “Good boy,” she said as her gloved hands found their way under my armpits. As promised, with a determined grunt, she lifted and placed me in the chair with a thud. She made quick work of tightly fastening my arms and legs.

  “Now, I’m only telling you this once. Don’t be moving about and stretching out Jimmy’s neckties and belts any more than they already are.”

  She cinched the one on my wrist tighter as if to emphasize her point.

  “Jimmy’s gonna be chaffed at me as it is already, but that’s what happens when a person’s got no twine or wire for binding.”

  It took a moment for me to realize that “Jimmy” wasn’t a nickname for a companion mechanism to the dreaded Rodger. “Jimmy” was Jim Nelson.

  I was relieved when she returned Rodger to a hook on her leather utility belt. I prayed that we were done with that business. A unified soreness echoed through every joint and layer of sinew.

  The woman snatched my gun from the floor. After a few seconds of admiring it appreciatively, she dragged the other rocking chair from across the room. Positioning it directly in front of me, she sat with one leg crossed over the other. She rocked the chair casually—a little too casually, considering she’d just electrocuted a stranger until he puked.

  “Mister, you certainly picked the wrong home to break into.” She mockingly aimed the gun at me, pretending to examine the straight line of the barrel. Despite my current condition, the irony of this wasn’t lost on me, considering it was the same tactic I’d used on Olson just a few hours before.

  “Yes, the wrong place,” she repeated, adding a bitter laugh. “You have no idea. I know it may not look like much, but the man who lives here is in the employ of one of the heads of the Commonwealth.”

  I nodded and managed a single word: “Montague.”

  This surprised her, but she recovered quickly and tried to appear even more casual by slinging her legs over the arm of the chair. “Yeah, that’s right—Alton Montague.”

  Fitzpatrick’s gun appeared much larger with the end of the barrel pointed at me. I made a mental note to apologize to Garrett Olsen if I should ever see him again.

  “How do you know that? How do you know who he works for . . . or was that a lucky guess?”

  I didn’t answer. Suddenly, it all seemed too complicated.

  “What did you expect to find in here anyway?” She adjusted a strand of blond hair that fell from her head like a silky golden ribbon. “He doesn’t bring any of his work for Mr. Montague home—not allowed to.”

  I remained silent, thinking of what I hoped to find in the waste bin in the other room.

  “Not much of a bobolink, huh?” She tossed the gun to the floor with a thud and gave the small handle on the side of Rodger a series of aggravated twists. “I assure you, dear sir, I will find out everything I want to know. So you’d better start talking or Rodger will lead the conversation, and believe me, that would make for a pretty unpleasant afternoon for you.”

  I didn’t like how it sounded as if she spoke from experience. My esophagus burned from when I’d thrown up.

  “Water . . . water . . . and I talk.”

  Maybe it was a nervous tic, but her fingers played with the ruby brooch fastened in the center of the oversized choker around her throat. Finally, she sat forward, nearly touching Rodger to my nose. I strained to pull as far away as I could and took the risk of saying the name I’d come across in the city directory. “Please, Janae.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  My gamble paid off. “Water, please. I’ll tell you.”

  We were frozen in place for a few seconds until she let out an exasperated sigh and stormed off to Nelson’s kitchen pipeworks.

  I struggled to break free of my bonds as quietly as I could, but either I was still too feeble or she’d done a master’s job of securing Nelson’s belts and ties. I noticed a cinched-up burlap potato bag on one of the perfectly placed rugs across the room. That hadn’t been here before, causing me to wonder if she had more cruel devices waiting for me. I tugged at my restraints with renewed vigor.

  She returned with a pewter mug, its contents sloshing to the brim in time with her steps.

  “If you try and bite me, I shock you. If you spit any of this on me, I shock you. If you try to¬—”

  “I get it. If I do anything, you shock me. Just give me the water . . . please.”

  The mug was cool to my lips as she began to pour. I gulped greedily as the water washed away the acid in my throat. It was heavenly. As she raised the mug, it blocked my view of her, and the water gushed out and ran down the sides of my mouth onto my lapel. I didn’t care—it was the best I’d ever had.

  “Thank you,” I gasped. “That’s much better.”

  “Time for answers,” she said, placing the mug next to the gun on the floor. “What are you doing here, and how do you know my name?”

  I wasn’t certain how to begin or how much to tell her. I needed to find out what her involvement with Nelson was while offering enough information to avoid being electrocuted again. I decided to blind hookey it and tell the essentials in hopes of her showing the cards she held about the case, if any.

  “My name is Thorogood H. Kipsey, and I’m a detective for the Commonwealth. I came here looking for clues to a case Alton Montague has dispatched me on.”

  “You don’t look like a miltonian. What’s your badge number?”

  “I’m not on the force anymore. I’m a private investigator.”

  She mulled this over. “Are you working with Jimmy on something?”

  My words came out slowly as I contemplated how much to release to her. “Jim Nelson is involved.” Before she could fire off another question, I asked, “Miss, er . . . Janae, it would be helpful for me to understand your relationship with Jimmy.”

  She shook her head no. “How is Jimmy involved? He was supposed to be here. Did he send you here to get me?”

  I looked into her intense blue eyes and the way she nervously fidgeted with the ruby brooch on her covered throat. With every second that passed, more faint worry creases appeared on her forehead.

  “I asked you a question, Mr. Kipsey. Were you sent by Jimmy to get me?”

  Though as a man, I’d managed to lie to scores of women throughout my life, I suddenly misplaced the skill to do so to the one who sat before me.

  “Janae . . . I’m sorry, but he didn’t send me.”

  She tensed up. “What kind of case is it?”

  “It was supposed to be
for a missing person, but everything’s changed now.”

  “You’d better hurry to make sense before Rodger and I get—”

  “You don’t need to do that. I’ll tell you.”

  “For the last time, where is Jimmy?”

  “He’s dead. A man named Fitzpatrick shot him.”

  She recoiled as if she’d been physically struck. “Dead? Jimmy’s dead?” Janae leapt to her feet, brandishing the shocker. “You’re a liar! He’s not dead. He told me to meet him here! He sent me a note . . . we’re leaving for Connecticut!” She wound Rodger’s charge wheel. “No, you lie. I don’t know why, but you’re lying!”

  I remembered the destination of the airship tickets. As she closed in, preparing to give me a jolt from Rodger, I shouted, “New Haven! That’s where you were going!”

  She pulled back and eyed me suspiciously. At least she’d lowered Rodger. “That doesn’t prove anything. For all I know, you work with him and know we’re leaving.” She crossed her arms. “For all I know, you knew he’d be coming back here with a large amount of cash for travel and brought this gun to take it from him.”

  She kicked the gun across the room with her boot.

  I bowed my head and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “Miss Nelson, is it?” I asked softly. “Your last name is Nelson, right?”

  She glowered at me. “I don’t believe you. Why should I?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I can prove it. He was shot in the side by a man named Fitzpatrick. They shot each other at the Montague mansion at the New Year’s party. I saw them.”

  “You saw them? That’s preposterous. You saw them shoot?” She’d returned to twisting the charge dial on the shocker. Though it seemed it was a nervous reaction, I was concerned the thing might ignite if overwound.

  “No, I was called in after. Will you please put that away? You don’t need it. Look, I need to see something in Jimmy’s bedroom and then I’ll go.”

  She ignored both requests. “You said you could prove all of this?”

  “Yes. If you untie me, I’ll tell you how.”

  “No!” she shouted. “You tell me first, and then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

  I didn’t like the prospect of anyone “deciding what to do with me.” Even after the water, the metal taste on my tongue lingered. We were at an impasse. One of us had to give.

  I decided to come clean and go all in. I could only hope that she wasn’t a Montague informant.

  “There’s something going on, and based on the players involved and their eagerness to shut down or conceal whatever it is, I think it may be big—really big.”

  I could feel my strength returning in waves. “Jimmy used his final moments to send a message to whoever found him, and that someone turned out to be me, so . . . whatever this is about, I’m going to do my dead level best to solve this case and expose whatever Montague wants to keep hidden. Now I’ll ask again. Please untie me so I can honor Jimmy’s last wishes and be done with this.”

  She sat in the rocker and studied me. “He sent a message, huh? A message that requires you to come here and look in his bedroom? Sounds a little thin. What’s the proof you said you have?”

  “I may be the only one to figure this thing out,” I pleaded.

  She laughed scornfully. “Not even the police can handle this one, eh? Well, I’d better get you out of that chair to solve the big mystery.” Her droll expression soured and turned to stone. “This will be the final time that I ask you, Mr. Kipsey or whatever your name really is. What proof do you have that my brother was shot?”

  This took me aback. “Your brother?”

  “Yes, my brother.”

  The click and whirl of Rodger meant more pain was on the way. “Wait! Wait . . . stop!” I yelled as she leaned in to connect the mechanism to my flesh. “I’ll tell you, but you won’t believe me!”

  The device retracted with a sharp click. “Well, I do declare, that’s the first thing you’ve said that I actually do agree with.”

  Before she could start again, I said, “I have photographs back at my office . . . pictures of his body after he was shot.”

  Her face grew solemn. “What’s the address?”

  “To my office?”

  “No, Buckingham Palace. Of course to your office. What’s the address, and I’ll go look at them. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll return and set you free to do your investigation.”

  Oh, this wasn’t going to go over well.

  I bit my lip. “The pictures aren’t developed yet. They’re still in a camera . . . a secret camera in my hat.”

  She laughed. It was an honest, heartfelt burst of laughter. “So, to be clear, you’re not on the police force, but my brother’s been shot, and the only way you can prove this is by showing me some photographs that are undeveloped in your secret hat compartment back at your office, so I just have to untie you and let you go. Does that pretty much sum it up?”

  My silence was an admission of how outrageous it sounded.

  The humor was gone. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Where is Jimmy, and how did you know my name?”

  “You signed the back of the photograph—or rather, you initialed it with the letter J. You wrote him a note on it: To Jimmy, always and with love. I took a guess that your last name was Nelson—just playing a hunch. I have the photograph on me.”

  “Again with photographs? What is it with you?”

  “The photograph of you and Jimmy, the one from a few years ago—go look in his suitcase. The frame is empty. I was here before, working on the case, and took it. It’s in my pocket. I used it to show people who may have seen him around.”

  I added as sincerely as I could, “I know that what I’ve said seems like a badly told lie, but therein is the truth of the matter. Why wouldn’t I concoct a better fib, especially if it meant I could get free and avoid your shocker tool?”

  It seemed to take root in her mind.

  “Miss Nelson, I am sorry, but your brother is dead. He truly is, and I offer my deepest sympathies, but there is a big oaf of a man I escaped from to come here, a man who once was Charon. It won’t take him long until he decides to look for me back here, and he won’t be pleased to find you impeding Montague’s investigation. Sure, he’ll scold me, may even rough me up a bit for running off, but he’s sensible enough not to kill me, because he’ll want to know what I’ve discovered. But you . . . you’re a different story.”

  Janae slowly stood.

  Had it worked? Did she believe me? Was she going to set me free?

  She moved in closer, and then she hit me hard enough to knock the saliva from my mouth.

  “Don’t you ever threaten me with Charon. Do you understand? Never!”

  Bracing for another strike, I mumbled, “I’m sorry, but he’s coming and we’ve got to get out of here.”

  Surprisingly, she didn’t hit me again. “Who is he? Who’s coming?”

  “The boss of the man who shot your brother.”

  “How do I know that you’re not— Wait, what’s that?”

  “Huh? What’s what?”

  She stepped behind her rocker as if taking cover. “What are you doing? Make it stop!”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

  She retreated behind one of the bookcase colonnades, shouting, “I’m serious, mister! I don’t know what that is, but make it stop! Make it stop now or I will make it stop by putting a hole in it with your gun!” She was genuinely frightened, though I couldn’t figure out why.

  “I said to turn it off!” she yelled, pointing at me.

  Completely baffled, I looked down at my boots, legs, and waist. Finally, I realized what she was going on about. The other half of Sawyer’s tinkware was flickering right through the fabric of my shirt pocket.

  “I’m not doing anything to make it blink like that, I promise. It’s tinkware given to me by a tink named Wil
liam Sawyer.”

  “Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “And I’m really Queen Victoria.”

  “You know of him?” I asked, surprised. “He gave it to me and sort of said to go to Chinatown. Bald head, baby-faced, dimple in his chin? I saw him just a few hours ago. I think he wanted me to give the thing in my pocket to a tink to look at.”

  Janae took a couple of steps closer but maintained a safe distance. “You’re serious. You really saw him here on Addleton Heights?” She mumbled to herself, “What would he be doing here?” As if in a trance, she moved closer. “What’s the tinkware do?”

  “I have no idea. My trade is detective, not inventor.”

  Seeing her reaction made me realize that I should’ve opened with the tease of the gadget. We could’ve saved a lot of time. She moved closer, like a moth to the flame.

  “I’m warning you, if this is some sort of trick—”

  “No trick. Take it from my pocket if you like.”

  She inched her way past the rocking chair. “Why is it blinking now?”

  “Hell if I know. Maybe you activated it when you tried to electrocute me with Rodger.”

  “Trust me, if I was trying to kill you, you’d be dead.” She fished it out of my shirt pocket and held it in the palm of her glove. The flickering pattern of lights danced in her eyes. She was mesmerized by it.

  I cleared my throat. “Uh . . . Miss Nelson?”

  She held up the index finger of her free hand to silence me. “Hush. D-E-S-T-R . . .”

  I waited a few seconds, then added, “Do you know what it is?”

  “Could you please shut up for a moment for me to figure this message out?”

  Message? A message in lights?

  I thought of the statue in Chinatown, how it had one of these—a complete one—embedded in its forehead.

  Janae abruptly exited to the bedroom, saying, “I need something to write with.”

  While she was away, I resumed my efforts to loosen my bonds. Though she was gone a few minutes, I only managed to get my hands free. I was working on the belt securing my left boot when I heard her returning. I quickly wrapped the neckties back around my wrists and hoped she wouldn’t notice. Fortunately, she was caught up in Sawyer’s device.