Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  I handed her Sawyer’s tinkware. “The pit?”

  She snatched it from me. “Yeah. So the people down there don’t escape to the surrounding Atlantic Ocean, they put in a massive metal trench courtesy of Montague Steel.”

  “You mean the scrapes? So the scrapes will—”

  She struck me, this time with her left fist. It happened so quickly, I barely saw her movement, only leaving the pain as evidence.

  Grabbing her firmly by the wrist, I shouted in her face, “Hey, what was that for? You said no more fighting!”

  She glowered, struggling to get her wrist free.

  I squeezed it hard before letting go. Pointing my finger dangerously close to her face, I said, “Don’t do anything like that again, understand?”

  She offered an unconvincing bob of the head.

  It took a few lingering seconds for the stalemate between us to dissipate. I rubbed my latest ache, grateful she wore no rings.

  Determined to move on, I did my best to pretend it hadn’t happened. “So, what about sending fire down the portals that deliver food down there? Would that be a possibility?”

  “I guess,” she said. “But what’s the point of eliminating the city’s energy source?”

  I thought of Hennemann’s comment about there being a way to be done with all the scrapes. “You’re certain it says ‘I am destroying the Under’?”

  I’d insulted her, and she answered curtly, “I’ve read code since I was ten years old.”

  “Could the Under be flooded with seawater?”

  She began to rock impatiently in the chair. “Impossible. Metal embankments keep the water out. You could fire a dozen cannonballs and barely make a dent.”

  I’d never heard of any embankments.

  “Like I said, if it’s real, it’s gotta be a metaphor. If someone wanted to hurt the people down there, all they’d have to do is . . .” She paused.

  “What? What would they do?” I asked softly.

  “All they would need to do is stop sending food and water down. There are no seeds to grow anything, and the surface is sand and clay.”

  “All right,” I said. “We’ll come back to what the message really means later. For now, tell me more about these embankments.”

  She breathed an exasperated sigh and let the blinking brass cylinder rest in her lap. “Over fifty years ago, when the stilts went up, trenches were dug deep into the bedrock. In order to support the city’s platform, displaced Chinamen dug out a deep pit that runs along the contour of the platform. The people trapped down there live on ground that’s actually fifty to sixty feet below sea level.”

  She paused for a moment, her eyes in a daze. “The ocean doesn’t get in because of the huge embankments that hem the people in. The massive metal walls both protect them and imprison them. Giant shields of tempered and carbon-infused Montague steel.”

  I noted the way she said Montague’s name was different from when she’d used it before. There was a bitter quality in it this time.

  “How appropriate that Chinamen were commissioned to construct it,” she said. “Sorta like Addleton having its own Great Wall of China running six hundred feet beneath the city of stilts.” She gnawed her lip as the bitter words hung in the air like a foul stench.

  I broke the silence. “How do you know all of this about the Under? Is this common knowledge amongst the tink guild or something?”

  She rubbed where the restraints had been wrapped around her wrists for a moment. “Just . . . things I’ve heard over the years. One thing you can bank on is that steel is impenetrable. The only way out is up.”

  “Up the stilts, right? The reason we have Charon to keep scrapes down.”

  She tensed up as she cocked her head at me. “You know, if brains were leather, you wouldn’t have enough to make a saddle for a June bug. Maybe those who are trapped down there are a little more than you give them credit for.” She tossed Sawyer’s device at me as she stood. “Maybe they’re not all trolls and ogres like your Three Billy Goats Gruff fairytale would have you believe.”

  “But the troll under the bridge in that story actually was a troll. Why are you sympathetic to them?”

  She scoffed. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Help you? I never said that. I said that I’d develop the picture of your brother’s body. As for anything else—”

  She dumped the remaining contents of Nelson’s suitcase on the bed. “Know this. I’m going to find those responsible for whatever happened to Jimmy, and when I’m done, they’ll wish they’d spent a week with my Rodger turned to the highest setting.”

  I pictured Montague electrocuted in his steam-powered chair. The notion made me shudder.

  She stormed past me with the empty suitcase into the main room. I tucked Sawyer’s device in the money pouch along with Rodger, grabbed the gun, and followed a moment or so after.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she moved items from the burlap sack into Nelson’s suitcase. She paused at the last item, a high-tink pair of stylized goggles like those a welder might use.

  “What are those?” I asked.

  “These?” she said, turning the thick goggles from side to side. “These are memories.”

  “Memories of what?”

  She placed the goggles in the suitcase and snapped it closed. “That’s not exactly what I mean.” Running her fingers over the length of the case, she sighed. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Something deep within me wanted to comfort her. I gave in to the impulse and moved over and bent to put a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was accepted.

  After much sniffling, she said, “He was everything to me. He’d taken care of me since I was seven.”

  Curiosity about what had happened to their parents would have to wait. I caught myself massaging the soft nape of her neck to comfort her. As I went to pull my hand away, she caught my fingers. In one fluid movement that would make the most studied ballerina envious, she slid around to face me. With her free hand, she wiped her tears with the arm of her long glove.

  “Mr. Kipsey, I think our goals here lie along similar paths. I’ll help you with your case if you’ll help me get in front of those responsible for Jimmy’s . . .” She bit her lip. “Jimmy’s death.”

  “Janae, you can just call me ‘Kip.’”

  To say I was eager to leave Nelson’s was understatement defined. I’m a firm believer that worrying gives small things big shadows, but the fact that Hennemann was still out there somewhere, likely becoming more desperate with every second that ticked by, hadn’t changed.

  Of course, if he did return to Nelson’s home, he’d see the mess I’d made searching for clues. To cover my tracks, I convinced Janae to leave some of her lady things behind to make it look like someone other than me had been by.

  The tradeoff was that she wanted the brooch from the neck brace. She claimed it was the only item she had from her mother. After making certain it was just a jewel with no tink properties that might later fill my lungs with gas, I agreed. Bit by bit, we were establishing trust, and that was good if she was to help me with Sawyer’s tinkware.

  Janae suggested a stop into a local public house on the border of New Gettys and Maker Row for us to collect ourselves. I agreed to it, since it would give me a chance to observe her and determine what this woman was all about—that and I needed time to formulate a plan in case Sawyer’s tinkware was a bust. She said the familiar surroundings would do her good and, at my request, promised not to tell anyone of how Jimmy had left the minority.

  As we entered the overcrowded, working-class pub, some of the tension drained from her. The smell of dense smoke and alcohol, plus the mirth and friendly chatter, seemed to soothe her like a mother’s lullaby.

  Many of the male patrons sitting at the shiny brass-and-oak bar shot lustful looks at her as we moved through the crowd to the back. Either she didn’t see them, or she decided that confronting them right now wasn’t worth her bother.

  We n
avigated to a small, rickety apple-crate-turned-table in the back. With the gaslights primarily around the bar area, this area was left in shadow, which was fine by me. Even so, what little light made it into the corner seemed to know just where to reflect off my companion.

  As she finished her third pint of bitter, Janae indicated she was ready to talk. I lowered the spoon for the final time into my wooden bowl of bland skilly and methodically relayed the particulars of my experience over the last twelve hours. To my amazement, she remained eerily placid throughout, like she didn’t have the morbs at all.

  By the hands of the pub’s large brass clock, we spent the next half hour or so going over the details of the case. I downplayed my escape from Hennemann and barely mentioned my conversation with Montague, choosing to relay only the facts relevant to the case.

  She stirred and welled up with tears when I mentioned Nelson’s charitable donation to the orphanage. When I pressed her for the reason, she only shook her head and said, “Jimmy was like that.”

  In exchange, she told me of William Sawyer’s tink exploits and how his lab was in New York City until he vanished many years ago. I let her ramble on, as it gave me a break to drink my gatter. It seemed to soothe her to inform me that Sawyer had invented electrical safety devices for elevators in 1880, the same year he’d patented the electric switch.

  She was likewise thrilled to tell how, in 1874, he’d made a telegraph apparatus for cable use, and four years later, an electrical engineering and lighting system. The mystery was where he’d disappeared after developing the incandescent light with a tink named Albon Man. I said that he seemed to be under some sort of house arrest when I saw him.

  When the conversation returned to the case, she said that she wanted to see Nelson’s body even if it meant traveling to Montague’s sky compound. She asked me point blank what I thought Jimmy had died for, which I was forced to admit I didn’t know, but I said I was confident the answers were in ledgers in Montague’s study.

  “Then we go up there,” she said.

  I nearly spewed my drink. “Whoa, no. That’s exactly what I’m not going to do.”

  “You don’t have to if you’re afraid. I’ll go alone.”

  “I admire your tenacity, but . . . no, and for the record, I’m not afraid.”

  “Then what?”

  “Look, going up there as bold as the Devil on a Saturday night will certainly get us killed. I believe your brother came across something that someone wants hidden and died because of it. If whoever that is suspects that we know anything about what’s going on, they’ll dispose of us too and never look back.”

  “I can do it. Just give my Rodger back to me, and we’ll part ways right here. I won’t even say I met you. I am Jimmy’s sister, after all. I’ll just go up there and say I’m looking for him.” She extended her hand. “So give me Rodger, please.”

  “I think I’ll keep it a bit longer. Why do you call it Rodger anyway?”

  Her answer was curt enough to show she didn’t like my refusal. “Named it after my father.”

  “Hmph, you must’ve had an interesting childhood.”

  “I named it after him because he was my protector until . . . he went away.”

  I wiped a bit of ale froth from my mouth. “Went where?”

  “He died when I was very young. He protected me until his dying breath.” Her eyes glossed over. “And now Jimmy’s gone too.”

  I felt badly. I’d never known my father, but I imagined having him taken from me would’ve been a worse fate. I produced Sawyer’s blinking tinkware from the pouch and tried to reason with her. “Look, let’s try to transmit a message back to whoever’s sending to this. Once we determine what’s going on, we can decide what to do.”

  She wiped her eyes and leaned in. “Our deal was that I’d help you, and then you’d put me in front of those responsible for Jimmy’s death, whether that be Alton Montague, the Pope, or Queen Victoria herself.” Her stare intensified. “So, we go back to your office, I attach the transmitting component, you send your message, and you develop the photograph of Jimmy for me.

  “If somebody responds to you in the time it takes to do that, fine. If they don’t, that’s fine with me too, but I’m not for standing around waiting for paint to dry when there’s killing to be done.”

  “Killing, huh? You jump right to killing? And how can you ensure that you’ll punish the right person or persons?”

  “Well, that’s where you can help . . . or not, it’s up to you. You can help me avoid ending a slew of wrong people by mistake, but I’ll have you know the time is ripe for justice, and I’m going to be harvesting.”

  This was the oddest negotiation I’d ever been in. Reasoning with her was like throwing paper at fire. “We should visit the device in the statue in Chinatown.”

  “But you told me that one wasn’t blinking, and the one at your office was.”

  I stood my ground. “It’s closer.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Where we were was nearly dead center between the two destinations. Maybe I was a little overprotective, but after a couple of years in my current profession, I was a tad apprehensive about a stranger knowing the exact location of my office. If going there could be avoided without forfeiting answers to the case, it was all the better.

  Janae shook her head. “Doesn’t matter if the sender isn’t transmitting to it there. It’s like waiting at a southbound bassel depot for an eastbound relay—that carrier is never gonna come.

  “Let’s assume for a second that the person on the other end of that transmission is, in fact, Master Tink William Sawyer. It stands to reason that he’s only sending to the one he slipped you, and that’s the one you’ll need to respond from. Plus, it’d look mighty suspicious for you to hoist me up to the top of a nine-foot statue for as long as it would take to send a message and wait for a reply.”

  Despite my reservations about her, I couldn’t argue with her logic. I was already regretting letting her in on so much of the case. I hated to admit it, but there was something about her that was intoxicating without her giving any effort to it, something that made me want to give in—and that was dangerous.

  Her fingers played with a blond curl. “So what’s it gonna be, Kip?”

  “I’ll concede that you make a good point about trying the one in my office. We’ll go by there first, then head to the statue in Chinatown after dark to be less conspicuous.”

  I flagged the barmaid down to order another round and noticed her metal wrist brace. It was a homemade job that extended from the wrist to three of the fingers and the thumb of her right hand, probably to give her extra strength for carrying trays of beer. I’d seen apparatuses like this my entire life, but this one reminded me that Hennemann was still out there somewhere, looking for me.

  Janae brought me back from my daydream. “All right, Detective, but promise that you’ll make the photograph for me of Jimmy when we get to your office.”

  Given the situation, I tried not to be crass, but my question came out harsh anyway. “I already said that I would. Why is it so important to you to see the picture of the crime scene?”

  She lowered her head and stared at the table. What was she ashamed of here? She didn’t even look up when the portly barmaid with the wearable plopped a mug down, not even when the server dabbed the table where some of the foam had spilled over the brim.

  “I can’t explain it. Just know that I need to . . . I need to see, no matter how bad it is.” She fidgeted with her fingers. When she returned her gaze to me, she slowly shook her head from side to side. “I can’t do that again. It’s too much.”

  I separated her restless hands and held them in mine. They were surprisingly warm. “What? You can’t do what again, Janae?”

  She wrangled one hand free to wipe her cheek. “When Rodger . . . when my father died, I didn’t see it. He was there, and then he wasn’t. My mind knew he was dead, but because I didn’t see it, everything seemed like a dream that I’d wake up from someday. For years after
it happened, my mind played tricks on me. I’d think I heard his voice or I’d think I saw him in a crowd.”

  She pulled her other hand away as if to drink her pint, but at the last second opted to caress the side of the mug and stare at it. “But no, in my heart, I knew he was gone. No one could’ve survived that.”

  “What happened to him?”

  She snapped back to the present and downed an admirable swig of ale. “That’s a conversation for another day.” She let out a modest burp or hiccup, I couldn’t tell which. “Kip, promise that you’ll show me Jimmy’s photograph so I’ll know for sure. Otherwise, I’ll go crazy . . . again.”

  I decided the case could wait a bit for me to do the humane thing and offer some closure to this woman’s heart. Plus, I could use a change of clothes. “I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, Kip. I really mean it.”

  She leaned over the small table to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. This was certainly better than being hit. The last time our faces were this close, she tried to gas me.

  The judgments that the heart of a man make in the presence of a woman like Janae make about as much sense as a trapdoor in a canoe. Even in that moment, I was aware of my folly. “Miss Nelson, I can get you to Montague’s. We’ll have to do it my way, but if you’re willing to do what I say, I’ll take you up there. I’ve got a plan, but first we need to get you a nice dress.”

  Twenty

  Though it was nearly dusk on New Year’s Day, I managed to persuade the proprietors of a tailoring and seamstress shop in the well-to-do sector of southwest Huewson to open their doors to us.

  This was the third establishment we’d approached, and being weary of searching for a garment shop willing to take us in, I made a brash move when the shop owner’s wife came to the window. Pressing a fanned-out wad of cash against the glass made the plump woman of about sixty scramble to unlock the latch.

  She and a man of about the same age, who I learned was her deaf-mute husband, Mr. Stoltey, welcomed us in like long-lost relatives—long-lost relatives deciding what to do with their inheritance.