Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  The area was quaint and smartly decorated, but not in a way that rubbed one’s nose in the fact that their business had been lucrative for them. I’ve always enjoyed the scent of cedar, and it was in large supply, like it was being piped in.

  I explained what we needed for Janae, and the shopkeepers bustled away into a side room. Moments later, they returned holding three dresses each. I looked to Janae for approval, but she couldn’t have been more disinterested.

  Plucking an oxblood-colored dress from the deaf man’s stack, I held it against my new companion.

  “Are you sure about this?” she asked between clenched teeth.

  “This one,” I told the dressmaker, who quickly unloaded the garments she carried onto her husband.

  “Yes, sir. What about you, son? No offense, but you could dandy up a bit too.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, but my clothes will do me fine for what we’re doing.”

  Her disappointment only showed for a second, and then the smile returned. “All right then. We’ll be out in a jiffy.”

  The two left again, prompting Janae to whisper, “I’ve never worn a dress in my life.”

  This made me smile. “Well, that’s about to change.”

  “What, you don’t like the way I dress?” She put her gloved hand on her hip. “Listen, a new broom might sweep clean, but the old one knows all the corners.”

  “You look fine, but in order for us to get past Montague’s security, you’re going to play the role of his niece, and nobody will ever believe that the niece of the leader of the Commonwealth dresses like a tink, broom corners or not.”

  The answer seemed to pacify her if only for the moment. “Niece, huh? Do I look like her?”

  “I’m not sure he even has one, but I’m hoping that his ground security doesn’t know either and will let us by.”

  “We go to your office first, though, right?”

  “I promised, remember? Plus, I want you to look at the other half of Sawyer’s transmission tinkware.”

  The couple returned, and the woman ushered a reluctant Janae into the back room. The mute husband motioned for me to sit in one of the three waiting chairs in the shop lobby. Uncertain how long this would take, I made myself comfortable, using Janae’s suitcase as a footrest.

  The silent tailor took the seat across from mine. He pointed in the direction of the back room and nodded approvingly with a big grin and a wink. He’d mistaken us for a couple—a reasonable conclusion, given the scene.

  I nodded and returned the smile before he retreated into the text of an Addleton Gazette. The quiet fitting area gave me time to formulate the details of the plan. Admittedly, a major part of my scheme hinged on Trudeau’s schedule. If we arrived at the guard post and it wasn’t his shift, we could encounter some obstacles. Not that persuading another guard was impossible, but it’d make things easier if we dealt with someone who recognized me.

  Another wild card to consider was whether Hennemann had returned to the compound or reported my escape. At this point, I had to trust that his pride and lust for advancement within the Montague organization would keep him quiet.

  I played the plan over in my mind. To avoid alerting Montague that we were coming up, I’d tell Trudeau that the magistrate’s niece wanted to surprise him. We’d rent a nice horse carriage. If I sensed that the guard saw past the ruse, we’d have the driver carry us away before getting caught. Assuming the guard did fall for it, he’d telegraph Reginald Bailey’s post, clearing us to ride up to the compound’s top level, an area that had no discernible security.

  It would only take a few minutes to retrieve the ledgers and ride the bassel back down to street level. Once I had them in hand, I’d turn them over to Commissioner Davenport like Jim Nelson had intended in the first place.

  Janae would hold off on confronting Montague until I was safely on the sky lift headed down. What she’d do at that point was anyone’s guess, but at least my hands would be clean.

  Mr. Stoltey’s face was buried behind the paper facing me. A bold headline proclaimed that England’s Queen Victoria was not well on the Isle of Wight and that she’d sent for her son and successor, King Edward VII.

  With the tailor preoccupied, I took out Sawyer’s blinking tinkware. It had stopped blinking. I shook it in hopes of reactivating it, but nothing happened. I contemplated giving it a quick jolt from Rodger to see if it’d start up again but decided against it, since I’d never actually used the device and could do without shocking myself in front of a stranger, deaf or not.

  The man’s wedding band caught my attention as he turned the rustling pages of the gazette. The peacefulness of his spirit engrossed me. My mind wandered from the case to what his life must be like. I imagined days filled with creating garments for people and repairing frayed material, all in the presence of someone who genuinely cared for him.

  In my thirty-three years, I hadn’t found this peace. I wondered if I’d forfeited it by holding out for a bigger prize, but what was there? My so-called career was crap—the Montague case was my first decent detective work since leaving the force. There’s not a lot of skill to catching a man in a brothel. It’s like catching flies circling honey. This wasn’t where I’d wanted to end up. How is it that the world chooses who is allowed to get what they want while the door is shut on everyone else?

  I thought of the tickets to Connecticut. Once whatever was going on with Montague was over, I could climb aboard that sky ship and sail away to a different future, find a different me, shed the past, and live again.

  But would I finally do it? I’d had these thoughts so often before.

  Mrs. Stoltey returned to the sitting area with a proud grin. “I think you’ll be very pleased, sir. She’s a very lovely girl.”

  The soft sound of the immense dress ruffling against the threshold announced her arrival. I stood as she entered. She was breathtaking.

  The deep red fabric shimmered in the light as she self-consciously advanced into the sitting area. Sensing movement in the room, Mr. Stoltey lowered his paper.

  The high-waisted bodice of the ankle-length skirt forced Janae’s back straight while showing off her strong, slender neck. I noticed she’d discarded her rubber gloves, though pink indentions from the straps remained on her forearms.

  Mr. Stoltey joined me in gawking at how the tight button-trimmed bodice offered a delightful showcase of cleavage. This indulgence earned him a disapproving look from his wife.

  Janae removed the whalebone hair clip from the back of her head. Her golden hair fell to her shoulders like a curtain at the conclusion of a stage play. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stoltey,” she said. “I can’t wear my hair like that. It’s tight enough in the dress. I can’t have my hair pulled too.”

  She caught me staring at her. “What? Does it look stupid? I told you this was a bad idea.”

  “No,” I said, suddenly struggling to swallow. “Stupid is hardly the word for it.” I forced myself to turn to the seamstress. “Do you know where we can get some ladies’ shoes?”

  “We won’t be needing any shoes,” Janae butted in. “I can barely move about wearing this tent as it is. No offense, ma’am. It’s a fine dress and all, just a little different for me.” She turned back to me. “It’s not like anyone can see my feet anyway.”

  Mrs. Stoltey offered me a friendly shrug and smiled.

  “This will do fine,” I said.

  I settled accounts while Janae hurried to change back into what she referred to as her “real clothes.” I suspected that we were overcharged, but I didn’t mind. It was a dead man’s money. When life gives you scraps, you make a quilt, and Jim Nelson wasn’t able to spend it where he’d gone.

  On the other hand, I suspected that had Janae known I was using her brother’s cash, she would’ve shocked me ‘til Rodger rusted.

  On our way out into the moonlit street, Mrs. Stoltey thanked us for what must’ve been the tenth time, this time asking us to remember their shop when it came time for a wedding dress.
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  Janae paused and began to turn as if to say something to the woman in the doorway, but then she shifted the long, rectangular dress box to her other arm and resumed walking.

  The bassel ride to my office only had two other passengers. Being seated on the opposite side of the carrier from them allowed me to quietly convey the details of my plan to Janae.

  We needed a contingency plan in the event that everything went dogs to puddles. We agreed that if we became separated, we’d meet up at a public house in the south sector called Scuff & Bib. I explained that though it wasn’t an official pub for policemen, its proximity to the main station meant it always had plenty of rozzers just getting off duty—or going on duty—looking for a stiff one. I bet it was a place any Montague man would want to avoid if they could.

  She took it a step further, saying if the pub didn’t seem safe for any reason to meet at the factory that she worked at in the Krupp sector and gave me the address.

  I showed her how Sawyer’s receiver had stopped blinking. She assured me that we should still be able to transmit back to the source once we had the missing component at my office.

  Feeling a little like a shamefaced schoolboy, I informed her that we’d have to enter my office through the second-story window. My mot, old Miss Talbot, still had a rule about unmarried women in her building after dark. It’d be easier to sneak around her. She knew I had no living kin, so Janae being my niece or cousin wouldn’t plumb.

  Luckily, Janae was thrilled by the prospect of breaking into my office through the fire escape.

  I gave Rodger back to her and said, “You are one strange bird, Miss Nelson.”

  We did a cursory search around the block for Montague’s steam carriage and then climbed up, me going first in case of trouble inside. The Densmore boys had done a number on the window latch—it wouldn’t lock at all. Making a mental note to repair it when all of this was done, I slid the window up—with gun drawn, of course.

  We entered the warmth of my office, and I told her to watch her step. I apologized for the mess of papers flung about, explaining that there’d been a disagreement with the dissatisfied spouse of a customer. It was silly to be self-conscious about the space, but for some inexplicable reason, I was. Janae didn’t seem to care. She tossed the dress box and suitcase on the desk next to the two jars of photo-developing chemicals.

  After checking my back room, I was able to relax and turn up the gaslight.

  Though I’d been in the spot mere hours before, it was different to my eyes now. For the first time, I noticed how small it all was, how small I’d allowed my life to become—incrementally shrinking every day. I’d always considered life a series of trades, so what had I traded my days and nights for? What had I exchanged for this?

  I must’ve been standing there a while for Janae to ask me, “Are you all right?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah . . . just thinking.”

  I went under the desk for the other half of Sawyer’s gadget. It, too, had stopped blinking.

  She took both pieces from me and went to work. I moved over to the bust of Aristotle and poured us both a drink.

  After a few minutes of concentrated effort on her part, she exclaimed, “All right, I think I’ve got it!” She rewarded herself with the drink I’d made her, gulping it down in one swift swallow. “So, what do you want to say?”

  “Say?” I asked.

  “What do you want to send to whoever’s on the other end of this thing?”

  “Oh, ask them what they meant by destroying the Under. Wait . . . ask them first who they are and how they know William Sawyer and if I can meet with them. Ask them what their affiliation is with Montague Steel.”

  She waved a frustrated hand at me and moved the suitcase and dress box to the floor. “Too much. You’ve got to keep it simple, like a telegraph. Give me something to write with.”

  I scooped up one of the scattered sheets of paper at my feet and placed it on the desk. “Pen and ink reservoir are in the drawer.”

  She sat in the chair, and I came around the side of the desk to see her write the words, “THIS IS DET. KIPSEY, PLEASE REPLY.”

  “Yes, that’s a good start,” I said.

  Under each letter, she marked a series of long and short dashes and dots. “Jimmy can do this in his head,” she explained, “but I have to write it out.”

  She froze, and I knew her own words had hit her. I placed my hand softly on her shoulder as she breathed in deeply. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “I know. We’ll send this message, and then I’ll develop the photographs for you.”

  She nodded and resumed converting the letters into code. Her voice broke slightly. “I’d appreciate that.”

  To show good faith, I moved around the desk and took my hat from where I’d left it in my guest chair. Snapping the cartridge out of the secret compartment, I showed it to her. “See, here it is.”

  She held it up to the light between her fingers. “You said this only makes five or six still images?”

  “Five,” I said, embarrassed.

  She handed it back, saying, “No . . . no, five images is good. That’s really good. That’s some nice tinkware you’ve got there. You do that?”

  “No,” I answered, feeling I was being patronized. “The idea was mine. A former neighbor actually installed it.”

  “Clever idea.” She picked up the transmitter. “We’re ready. Keep your fingers crossed.”

  With astonishing intensity, she mashed the tiny notches on the side of the device while speaking each letter aloud. Her eyes darted to the paper at the completion of each character to send the next group of starts and stops. When she was done with the series, she placed it on the desk between us.

  I hardly breathed.

  A minute or so passed, and she repeated the cycle, this time more slowly to ensure accuracy.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried the sequence again, and we both waited.

  “Would it help to open the window?”

  Putting the device down, she looked me over. “Earlier today, this thing was receiving a message all the way out in a sector near the southern edge of the Addleton platform in a room on the first floor of a four-story building. I’ve never seen anything anywhere close to this, but whoever constructed this made it to go great distances and I’d guess through steel and stone and mortar . . . so no, opening the window won’t matter.”

  I felt heat in my ears. “Look, I was just trying to be helpful. I don’t know how these things—”

  She knew she’d overdone it. “Hey, Kip, I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I’m frustrated with it, that’s all.”

  I collected myself. “It’s still working, though, right?”

  “As far as I can tell, everything seems to be in order.” She wrote “HELLO” and the corresponding lines and dashes beneath it. “I’m going to try a shorter send.”

  I sensed that my hovering over her was making her more frustrated than she already was. I took the jars of development chemicals from the table. “I’m going to get started on the photographs. Just tap on the door when there’s a reply.”

  She grunted without looking up from her work.

  I made it to the doorway before she called out, “Kip?”

  “Yes?” I turned slowly so as not to spill the sloshing contents of the jars.

  She looked at me warmly. “Thank you.”

  I nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  Twenty-One

  There was something therapeutic about being in my darkroom again—the area bathed in the soft red glow of the gel light, the rhythmic sloshing of photographic paper in fluids, even the familiar smells of developing chemicals—all of it put me at ease. It was as if the events of the day were a distant dream, and now I’d retreated to the warmth and safety of my cocoon.

  I’d make two sets of prints, one for Janae to keep and one to turn over to the Commonwealth with whatever I found in Nelson’s ledgers.

  As I followed the process I’d pe
rformed countless times, my mind wandered to Montague’s study and all of those wonderful books. For some reason, I found myself thinking of that ridiculous cicada he had in the jar. I recalled him saying it was one of his prized possessions, how it represented change to him. It amused me that a man of unimaginable wealth was transfixed by a bug in a jar. Who could fathom the mind of the ultra-wealthy?

  Janae mumbled something from the main room, probably repeating whatever she was transmitting through the device. If she needed something, she knew to knock on the darkroom door.

  I looked the prints over for clues that I might’ve missed at the scene.

  She said something again.

  “Just a minute!” I hollered at the door.

  More muffled speaking, this time accompanied by another voice, a deep, male baritone.

  I toweled off my hands, wondering what potential client would have a case so urgent as to visit me after hours.

  Then I heard her yell “Kip!” followed by the sound of breaking glass.

  I emerged from the darkroom and froze when I saw him.

  “Well, lookee here, it’s Addleton Heights’ slipperiest detective,” Hennemann said mockingly.

  He was positioned directly behind Janae and had her bent over the desk, pinned beneath his clockwork arm. She coughed and squirmed. He had her pressed down on the desk with her hands trapped beneath her chest. “I see you haven’t bothered to clean the place up from the other night.”

  “Get off me!” she screamed, trying to wriggle free of his hold.

  He slammed the mechanical arm harder against her back and let out a satisfied laugh as the move knocked the wind out of her. “Feisty one here, Kipsey, just the way I like ‘em. Remember what I said when I saw her photograph?”

  Her trousers were bunched up around her ankles, and Hennemann was working on loosening his own with his right hand. I couldn’t fathom how he’d managed to get the jump on her. Where was Rodger?

  Whatever happened, it was up to me to talk him out of this madness.