Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium

by Robert Rodgers

  "Is something wrong, Mr. Daffodil?"

  Fearing he might be going mad, William shook his head.

  "No. Not at all. Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfectly rational and fine," he said, and then he marched right back into his office and locked the door.

  ~*~

  Mr. Tweedle was waiting for Eddington in the Steamwork administrator's office.

  "This is a disaster," Mr. Tweedle said, pacing back and forth over the expensive rug. "A catastrophe! He'll discover what we're up to. And then we'll go to prison!"

  "We're not going to prison," Mr. Eddington said.

  "I hope that they give me a cell with a nice view," Mr. Tweedle said, worrying away at the corners of his boring hat.

  "Perhaps with a tree. Do you think they have trees in prison? I hope they have trees."

  "Be quiet," Mr. Eddington snapped. "No one is going to prison."

  Mr. Tweedle grew quiet, watching Mr. Eddington with a look of desperation. The administrator sighed and reached into the bottom of his desk for a flask of spirits.

  "Let us assume that, for the sake of argument, that you and I are engaged in some... 'questionable' activity. Merely for the sake of argument," Mr. Eddington continued, pouring out shots for Mr. Tweedle and himself. "Whatever that activity might be, it is not the target of the Count's investigation."

  Mr. Tweedle was so eager to drench his worries in alcohol that he slopped the liquor over the front of his coat. It was not long before he was thrusting the glass out for a second helping. "But they'll blunder upon it, no doubt. You would have to be incompetent not to see what it is we're up to."

  Mr. Eddington supplied the refill with a smile. "Yes," he said. "You would, wouldn't you?"

  “Who on earth would be—”

  “Are you familiar with a detective by the name of Mr. Watts, Mr. Tweedle?”

  Mr. Tweedle was given a start. “Jerome Watts? The mad inspector? The one with the pigeons?”

  “I think he would make an exceptional investigator for this case, don't you?”

  Realization hit Mr. Tweedle with a start. "I see! But still, it seems all so delicate, Mr. Eddington. I’m just worried—"

  "Leave the worrying to me, Mr. Tweedle," Mr. Eddington said, suppressing the desire to roll his eyes. "So long as you abide by my instructions, everything shall go according to plan."

  "But what of that 'government consultant' fellow? That sounds a bit troubling, doesn't it?" He almost sounded hopeful; as if the thought of having it all found out brought the man some degree of comfort.

  "Oh, yes, that," Mr. Eddington said, chuckling derisively. "I have every bit of confidence that the matter of this consultant will be solved swiftly and decisively."

  ~*~

  The government bureaucrat’s waiting room had long since passed ostentatious, strolled beyond elegant, and waded through a pile of money back to ostentatious again. Long rows of books with impressive titles threatened to crush the many shelves beneath their weight. The upper walls were choked beneath framed diplomas and awards all clambering over one another to heap countless honorifics upon their owner, while the lower walls were crowded with extravagant panel moldings of flora and fauna. The area was illuminated by a gilt-covered gasolier and several windows lurking high out of reach, as if placed in a direct attempt to prevent the room's occupants from escaping.

  Present were four figures of note:

  Kronan the Butcher; a solid block of muscle wrapped in a cheap suit and topped off with a battered cap. He was known both for his affinity for violence and his artistic sensitivity; his most recent work had received rave reviews. Entitled 'Corpse Poetry', it was a method of expressive corpse arrangement, allowing the artist to convey a variety of emotions and concepts. When he wrote a rather conservative piece using several critics who had treated his previous work harshly, the art community as a whole suddenly discovered a newfound respect for his unappreciated genius. He sat upon a comfortable armchair, remaining perfectly still.

  Taz the Burr; a contortionist with a constant smile fixed to his face and an affinity for aggressive property redistribution. He had reportedly broke into the Royal Treasury with nothing more than a rusty nail and his cheerful grin, then slipped on out the front door—tipping the guard on his way. He sat upon a lovely side chair, remaining perfectly still.

  Durden the Knife; a mysterious foreigner who wore a hooded robe that sharply contradicted the stuffy coats and jackets of his contemporaries. He preferred the pearl-lined hilts of his razor-edged scimitars to the cool grip of a pistol; according to the rumors, he had once dodged a bullet. He sat in an open cot, remaining perfectly still.

  And finally, the man in black. He possessed all the lethargic grace of a long-toothed alley cat, with the scars to match—and his head was shaved as smooth as glass. He wore a pitch-black long coat and stood at the back of the room, rolling a cigarette. His nose was made of bronze and hooked like a vulture's, attached to his face by glue and several crude looking bolts.

  The door opened. A slender gentleman with over-sized spectacles stepped in, reading off a clipboard. "Now, I believe we're ready to discuss the matter of your payment, gentlemen—"

  Something was wrong. He leaned forward, inspecting the scene. There was far too much perfect stillness. Reaching for the nearby gasolier valve, he turned it up and bathed the room in an orange glow.

  Kronan the Butcher was currently slouched back over his chair, a dozen knives emerging from his ribcage like the back ends of tacks stuck through a notice. His jaw had dropped, his eyes wide and glazed.

  Taz the Burr was still smiling, but his head was all that was left of him. He had been smoothly decapitated and pinned to the chair with a knife through his hair; there was no sign of the body.

  Durden the Knife had been shot in the mouth; fresh trails of smoke trailed up from his nostrils. Someone had taken the additional liberty of breaking his scimitars and forcibly jamming the hilts down his smoldering throat.

  "Excuse me," the official began, stifling an uncomfortable cough. "Might I ask what has transpired here?"

  "Cancer," said the man in black.

  "Cancer?" This took the official by surprise.

  "It's a silent killer."

  "You are telling me that your fellow assassins died from cancer?"

  "Can't beat cancer, can you?"

  "Can you explain, then, why they look as if they have been victims of violence? I do believe that one's body is, in fact, missing."

  The man with the metal nose finished rolling his cigarette and lit it with a flick of flint and steel. The tip unraveled into threads of fragrant smoke. "Very dire cancer."

  Absolute silence.

  "Huh. I suppose that means there's only the matter of your payment, then."

  "Funny thing. They left explicit instructions for their share to be given to me in the unlikely event of their deaths," the man announced. He drew a rolled up contract out of his coat and tossed it the official's way.

  The official snagged the document and unrolled it, looking it over critically. "All three of them, while dying—"

  "From cancer," the man in black reminded him.

  "—found the time to write out and sign a document bequeathing their portion of the reward to you."

  "Heroes to the last." He drew a deep and hungry breath, soaking his lungs in the smoke's bitter tang. "Examples to us all."

  "I see. Well, then."

  "Well?"

  The official smiled meekly. "Everything looks to be in order. This way, please."

  ~*~

  "I must admit. I've never met an assassin as—as—"

  "Pay me."

  "As direct about things," Bartleby confessed.

  The bureaucrat's office was a typhoon of paperwork, books, gifts, trophies, and other meaningless detritus that had apparently gathered around him not through any conscious work but merely by his sheer magnetism when it came to useless junk. The assassin was sure that if he spent hours digging through the piles of self-
important knick-knacks that surrounded him, he'd never find so much as a functional bottle-opener.

  The assassin relished his cigarette like others might enjoy a fine meal, allowing the smoke to languish across his tongue and throat. When he spoke, he was sluggish and calm, but beneath every drugged syllable lay the threat of cold steel.

  "Speaking of direct. Pay me."

  "Oh, yes. Your payment. My employee told me you'll be accepting the shares of your companions. They died? Very tragic."

  "I'll send flowers. Pay me."

  "Of course, of course." Bartleby swelled up to his feet, wobbling about. The man wasn't just overweight. He had long flown past the boundaries of polite obesity on a rocket-propelled sled, making a rude gesture on the way. The man was an amorphous blob. He waddled to the far side of the room, shoving aside a few trophies to get at the safe. "I must admit, it's been an exceptional thrill to have a legend working for me."

  The man in black amused himself by imagining how Bartleby would look as he tumbled out of his own office window.

  "Oh? You've heard of me?"

  "Of course I've heard of you! Who hasn't? You're a downright legend around these parts, sir!"

  "Good to know."

  "In fact," Bartleby continued, fiddling with the safe's lock.

  "I have all your books. I must say, they're quite good. Do you write them yourself, or does someone else write them for you?"

  "Books?" The man's eye twitched. His mouth began to spasm. Oh, God. Please, no, he thought to himself. Please make him shut up. Make him shut up right now.

  "Yes. I've read them all. I'm quite the fan. Although I always I thought you'd be taller, in all honesty..."

  The assassin turned around in his chair, staring at Bartleby's back. If the city bureaucrat could have seen him, he would have recognized a look of such pure murderous sociopathy that it might have killed him on the spot.

  The safe clicked open. Bartleby reached inside, fishing out a bundle of cash. "Well, anyway. Truly, it's been an honor to have the legendary Von Grimskull working for m—"

  One moment later, people on the street looked up in surprise as a window on the top floor exploded. A screaming fat man soon emerged, flailing his arms for a good second before slamming into the ground with a sound best described as

  'incredibly moist'.

  ~*~

  Bristling with weapons, the guards kicked down the door and stepped into the room.

  The assassin makes it clear he will have no more of this 'Von Grimskull' guff.

  Present were three details of note:

  Bartleby, their employer, was missing.

  The very large window behind Bartleby's desk was currently broken.

  In Bartleby's place was a very angry man. An angry man currently holding a pair of fully loaded pistols and wearing a sinister bronze nose.

  "Cancer," the assassin croaked.

  "Holy mother of pearl," one of the guards yelped. "Do you know who that is?!"

  "Eh?"

  "That's Von Grimskull!"

  The assassin sighed, drawing the hammers back with a swipe of his thumbs.

  ~*~

  Several minutes later, the assassin emerged from the building and stepped out into the busy street. He made his way to the post office, heading straight away to the mail box he had rented. As he pulled out the key to unlock it, he found one of the men who worked there sliding an envelope into the slot.

  "Good morning, sir," the courier cheerfully sang.

  "Mm." The assassin edged his way past the mail-man, opening the box and drawing out the envelope. He tore it open with a finger. Inside was information on his next target—a small-time crook and current escapee by the name of Arcadia Snips.

  "Hope you're having a pleasant day," the courier said. "By the way, has anyone ever mentioned you have the same nose as that fellow from those books? I think his name was Von Gri—"

  Never lifting his eyes from the document, the assassin drew his pistol from the holster under his coat. The hammer slipped back with a sharp and punctuated click.

  Suddenly overcome with a wave of wisdom, the courier snapped his mouth shut and went along his way.

  ~*~

  CHAPTER 7: IN WHICH WE MEET MISS PRIMROSE, MR. WATTS, AND THE ARCHITECTURALLY FELONIOUS STEAMWORK

  ~*~

  Snips observed that the front hood of the train was curved into a quarter of a rusty snail's shell, segmented with plates of bolted and tarnished brass. A telescopic periscope popped out its armored side, swiveling with a hiss of pneumatics; the aperture of its scuffed lens blinked and narrowed its gaze on her.

  Dusty, scraggly, and looking like something the cat would not drag in for fear of being labeled a sadist, Snips stepped forward and presented her ticket to the large and intimidating contraption that hovered over the train's doorway. It swallowed the slip of paper, nibbled on it, then spat it back out. Snips stepped inside and followed the ticket's directions to her seat.

  She was surprised to find that, rather then walking back to the third class compartment, she was expected to head straightaway to the front of the train. She arched an eyebrow and made her way to first-class.

  The lobby that Snips stepped into was comfortably wide and lavished with opulence; a coffered ceiling swept over her head, with a midnight indigo divan framed with burled rosewood and trimmed with gold laid out besides a mahogany long table. The table had an extensive needlepoint of gears and cogs contained beneath a glass frame—a silver platter was placed on it, with complementary tea and crumpets provided. Somewhere, Snips could hear a phonograph playing a scratchy arrangement of stately violins.

  Sitting on the divan was a graying pear-shaped gentleman who was enjoying a cup of tea with a short heavy-set lady. The man wore a deerstalker cap so absurd that Snips had to fight the urge to swat it from his head. At once, he turned to Snips, inspecting her through a set of rimless spectacles sitting on his nose.

  "Oh, hullo. Are you the fellow they sent to bring more lumps of sugar?"

  Snips looked down at herself—dressed in the tattered hand-me-downs of a vagrant. She then looked back up to the old man.

  "One lump or two?"

  "Two, please," he responded with blissful ease.

  "Mr. Watts, if I may." The lady stood. She was a brute of a woman built with all the functional craftsmanship of a stone outhouse. Her jaw was herculean, and her face full of stern scowls and disapproving stares—with a tangled mop of wheat gold curls and corkscrews bound up atop her head. Her evening dress was so conservative that it could have made a pastor's daughter look questionable in comparison. At her feet lay a large coal black medical bag. "I am Miss Maria Primrose, and this is Detective Jacob Watts. I assume you are our consultant, Mr. Snips?"

  "I most certainly am," Snips agreed. "Although I'm actually more miss than mister."

  Miss Primrose's expression slipped from stern authority to shock and embarrassment. "I beg your pardon, Miss Snips! Count Orwick’s man failed to inform me that you are a woman."

  "I've forgotten a few times myself," Snips said, rolling her hat off and tipping it. "I assume you two are the detectives?"

  "Detectives? Are we detecting something?" Mr. Watts asked. "Oh, excellent! I do love a good mystery. What is it we're detecting, Miss Primrose?"

  Miss Primrose shot an angry look at Watts, then sighed in reluctant surrender. "We're solving a crime, Mr. Watts. The recent death of Basil Copper."

  "Oh, he sounds like an interesting chap. When do we meet him?"

  "We're not meeting him," Miss Primrose said, struggling to maintain her composure. "He is dead."

  "Oh. How dreadfully dull," Watts said.

  Miss Primrose turned to Snips. "My apologies for the confusion, Miss Snips. As you have no doubt already guessed, we are with the Watts and Sons Detective Agency."

  "Pleasure to meet you," Snips said. "Arcadia Snips, professional lock enthusiast."

  Miss Primrose frowned sternly, looking down at Snips'

  attire. "
May I ask, Miss Snips, why you are wearing such an odd assortment of clothes?"

  "Oh, you know," Snips said, shrugging. "Dangers of the profession, that sort of thing." She walked forward, draping herself down on the far-end of the divan. "So, what do we do now? Trade recipes?" She took one of the crumpets, tossing it into the air and leaning back to catch it in her mouth.

  Miss Primrose reached forward and snatched the crumpet before Snips could bite down. "Explain yourself. Why are you dressed in such a crude fashion? And exactly what is your specialty? Why were you assigned to our investigation?"

  Snips crossed her eyes. "Oh, come on now. What's wrong with my clothes?"

  "Your current manner of dress would cause dark alleyways to avoid you for fear of soiling their good reputations," Miss Primrose said.

  "I think she's dressed quite cleverly," Detective Watts piped up. "It's likely a disguise—get into the minds of the insane and homeless—"

  "I'm a professor of escapology, with a minor in chicanery,"

  Snips said.

  A grim expression swept over Miss Primrose's face. "You are a thief."

  "Well, I don't like to brag—"

  "Count Orwick assigned us a thief."

  "—but I am pretty good with sleight of hand," Snips said, taking another bite out of the crumpet.

  "I should have known he would attempt some form of sabotage. I cannot believe that—" Miss Primrose stopped and stared, looking from her now empty hand back up to the crumpet Snips was eating. "Oh, for goodness sake. Give me that!" She snatched the crumpet back, placing it aside.

  Snips licked the excess butter off her fingers. "So, what is it that we'll be up to?"

  "'We' will be up to nothing. You are to accompany us as we investigate this death as thoroughly as possible."

  "And I'll be doing what, precisely?"

  "Keeping quiet," Miss Primrose snapped.

  ~*~

  Cobbled together from a pastiche of styles, the Steamwork looked as if it had suffered an assault at the hands of a roving pack of mad Victorian architects. 'Something stylish and elegant,' the first had said. 'With Corinthian columns and a Greco-Roman motif.'