by C. S. Poe
What the…?
Mr. Robert turned and smirked. “Laugh, boy! It’s a joke. I’m old, but I know I haven’t owned a pussy cat since 1935.” He pointed the pipe at me. “Siamese. Agatha.”
“Lovely.”
He put the pipe back and held the bag out.
“Why did you decide to send it to me?” I asked as I moved forward, took the bag, and set it on the nearest semiclear spot I could find. In this case, a piano.
“Found you on Google.”
“Oh.” I reached inside and pulled out the cans of footage. One had a small dent in the lid. “Do you mind if I open them?”
“I didn’t bring you here for sightseeing! Go on!” He sat down in the now-empty chair.
I reached into my messenger bag, which was slung over a shoulder, felt around, and retrieved cloth gloves. “But why did you give me the Kinetoscope for safekeeping?”
“Ah, well, my grandson, that little brat, has been acting strange.”
I looked up. “Strange like…?”
“He wanted me to give him the Kinetoscope! Where would that boy keep it? He rents a bedroom in Bushwick. I didn’t trust him, so I pretended to get rid of it. Until he calms down.”
Suddenly I was thankful I hadn’t indulged in a falafel over rice on the street corner. My stomach churned uncomfortably. “You were afraid he’d… steal it from you?”
Mr. Robert nodded. “That’s right.”
“The machine itself or the film?” I held up both cans.
“Couldn’t be sure. So the other day, I unspooled it all, packed it into one of those cans, and sent it to you. I knew I had more movies. It took me two days to find where I’d stored them.”
I looked down at the worn, slightly beaten-up cans. “Sir, are you aware that there’s some disturbing footage at the end of the Leonard-Cushing boxing match?”
“The murder?”
“Yes!” I said quickly. I put the cans in the bag and walked to the chair Mr. Robert sat in. I crouched beside him to be closer to eye level. “What can you tell me about that?”
“I was born in 1928. Fuck you if you think I’m old enough to have been a witness.”
“No, I—” I tried not to laugh. “Do you know who it was in the film? The man killed?”
He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully, a cloud of cherry smoke settling around us. “I bought the Kinetoscope from a man who said it’d belonged to his father—Tom Something-Or-Other. His father worked alongside W. K. L. Dickson. Do you know who that is?”
“Dickson was the chief inventor of the Kinetoscope,” I replied. “But who was this Tom person?”
“Oh, who the hell knows. An assistant at Black Maria—lost to history. You know what the Black Maria was, don’t you, kid?”
Again with the “boy” and “kid” shit.
“Edison’s film studio in Jersey,” I answered. “Also designed by Dickson. The building had the ability to rotate in order to utilize the sunlight—” I caught myself from going off the rails. “Sorry. Uh, this long-lost assistant, Tom—was he involved in the murder? What did his son tell you about the footage when you bought it?”
Mr. Robert stroked one out-of-control eyebrow. “Just to keep it safe.”
“Safe from what?”
Mr. Robert looked at me. “Not what, boy. Who.”
My skin prickled, and I felt the hairs on my arms stand up underneath my sweater. “Who, then?”
“Someone who wanted to do harm to Dickson. That’s all I know. Tom supposedly suspected one of their own on the film crew was out to sabotage Dickson. And as long as the Kinetoscope and footage were kept hidden, everything would be okay.”
“Dickson is dead, though,” I stated before standing, knees cracking. “He passed away in the 1930s. In London, no less. If someone was out to hurt him, they never succeeded.”
“Well, of course not. The Kinetoscope was being hidden by that Tom fella!”
Okay.
William Dickson, chief inventor of the Kinetograph camera and Scope viewer. Alongside Georges Méliès and the Lumière brothers of France, Dickson was truly one of the grandfathers of modern cinema as we knew it today. He worked for Thomas Edison, who—because of the media, patents office in DC, and history at large—had been credited for the invention of these wonderful machines. Dickson was more or less ignored. In 1894, the Kinetoscope was all the rage across the country, with parlors opening up in New York City for the everyday man to enjoy this newfangled piece of entertainment.
And sometime between then and whenever Dickson left Edison’s company, someone at Black Maria tried to… kill him? I didn’t see a connection. A conspiracy to take down Dickson in the 1890s was one thing, but how did that tie in with the murder movie and the particular Kinetoscope machine sitting in the Emporium? It could be that the answer to the events of both the past and present lay within these newly acquired film reels. To me it was more than plausible, considering how adamant my assailant had been about obtaining the other movies.
Of course, that would also mean the motive for killing the teenager would be on these movies, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know….
I began walking back to the bag on the piano. “Why’d you want me to view the rest of your film collection?”
Mr. Robert set his pipe on the small table beside the chair. “I don’t remember if I’ve ever watched these two films. But I can’t now because you’ve got the movie viewer. Find out why my grandson wants it so badly. I’ll pay you for your time—just send me an invoice.”
I turned around. “You believe the reason he wants them is going to be obvious once I watch these movies?”
“I think so.”
“Sir, do you…?” I took a breath and asked about the connection I hadn’t wanted to make. “Do you have a picture of your grandson?”
“I got lots of pictures.”
“Could I borrow one?” That sounded creepy. “I, uh… a teenager came in the other day who seemed interested in the Kinetoscope.”
“That little shit. He didn’t bother you, did he? I’ll tell you—he’s gotten real strange lately.”
Oh no.
“I’ll just hold on to the photo until I’m done looking at the film. You know, in case I see him… I can call you.”
Mr. Robert didn’t seem to think the request was terribly strange. He slowly got out of his chair and shuffled to the room’s fireplace. He stared at the mantel for a moment, hand hovering over a variety of framed photos, before he plucked one from the back. He wiped it off with the sleeve of his robe and held it out.
I took the picture and steeled myself to look at it.
Fuck….
I DIDN’T call Calvin until I’d reached Queens.
I’d felt sick to my stomach on the train ride to Astoria. I ducked into the Starbucks just outside of Moving Image. Not that a sugary coffee was a suitable lunch, but it was better than the murder of a misfit teenager churning up stomach acid all day.
I stood outside the coffee shop under the awning, leaning against the railing, with my phone smooshed between my ear and shoulder. Although it was far too sunny for my liking, it was an otherwise balmy, perfect day. The warm weather had caused me to panic at the counter, and like a dummy, I had ordered one of the Frappuccino drinks Max always chose. I ended up sipping on some white chocolate, caramel, java thing that I wasn’t so sure had actual coffee in it. I might have had an insatiable sweet tooth, but when it came to coffee, I preferred it dark and bitter.
No answer from Calvin.
I ended the call. I considered trying Quinn, but was certain she could and would beat the crap out of me for interrupting their job as much as I did. I eventually decided on the old-fashioned method. I called the precinct, requested Detective Winter, and was patched through to his extension.
The phone rang a few times, and then he answered. “Detective Winter.”
“Hi.”
“Seb?”
“I tried your cell first.”
“Sorry. I was grabbi
ng a coffee in the break room.”
“I bet it’s better than the sweet mess I have.”
“I think this was brewed last night. Tastes like burned engine oil.”
“And the mystery behind your fixation with cinnamon mints is finally revealed.”
“You’ve got me worried. You’re not bleeding profusely now, are you?” There was a smile in Calvin’s tone.
Best to just come clean. Fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“I’ve got the name of Dumpster Diver.”
Silence.
“Casey Robert,” I said.
“Sebastian.”
“I was only sleuthing a little.”
“Explain how you’ve gotten the name of the victim before the police.”
“Small World Syndrome strikes again.”
The bandage was off, but it had left that tacky Band-Aid-shaped residue.
“Would you believe he’s the grandson of the Kinetoscope owner?” I continued.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“He is,” I insisted. “I met the owner today.”
“What? Why did you—Sebastian, if this person has been setting you up and had the balls to murder—”
“James Robert is the name of the grandfather,” I interrupted. “And he’s ninety years old. I don’t think the guy can climb stairs, let alone cut the throat of his own grandson and then toss his body in a dumpster. He sure as hell wasn’t the man who attacked me,” I said in a rush.
I could practically hear Calvin silently counting to ten.
“James called me. He suspected his grandson wanted to steal his Kinetoscope, so he’d looked me up on the internet and shipped it to the Emporium for safekeeping. To make a long story short, when he mentioned that, I asked for a photo of his grandson. Minus the fixed gaze and copious amount of blood—same kid from the alley.”
Calvin didn’t respond.
“So… I don’t think the grandfather is involved. I think Casey was definitely looking to steal from him, though. My attacker might be a friend of his. They’re a bit taller than me. I’d also look for someone who likes candy. Red licorice. I’m telling you, his breath—”
“Seb.”
“What?”
“It never occurred to you that the grandfather might have orchestrated this? That he could be involved without being physically involved? Christ, baby. You could have been in serious danger.”
Okay… that hadn’t occurred to me.
“I didn’t—” I frowned and stared at the ground. “Sorry.”
“Where are you?” Calvin asked. “Are you still with the grandfather?”
“I’m in Queens.”
“Why?”
“Moving Image.”
“Is that really necessary anymore?” Calvin asked.
“I really don’t think Mr. Robert was involved at all, not even as a puppet master.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, that’s true. But I’m convinced, now more than ever, the clues are in the past.”
Calvin let out a frustrated breath.
“I swear I’m totally safe. And I didn’t say anything about Casey being dead to the grandfather.”
“Good.”
“Do you want me to text you his information?”
“Yes, please.”
“Will do, Detective.” I said goodbye and sent Calvin a text. Luckily I’d thought to get Jim Bob’s house number before I left.
Jamess Robert
316e 78, reed door
555-23688
Calvin replied before I finished off my Frappiyucko. That phone number has too many digits.
What? Oh. Oops.
1 8
Wait. That made it more confusing.
No.
555-2368
Srry
I tossed my empty drink into a nearby trash can, dug out the photo of Casey from my bag of goodies, and took a picture of it with my phone. I sent it to Calvin.
Now I was ready for some movie magic.
Chapter Twelve
I STEPPED through the large glass doors of the museum and walked to the counter. “Hi. I have a question about your core exhibit.”
A young guy sitting behind the desk began reciting a canned response. “Our Behind the Screen exhibit features fourteen hundred artifacts from the culture of the moving image. It includes cameras, projectors, costumes, props, and more. General admission is fifteen dollars.”
“Thanks,” I drew out. “But my question was, do you have a Kinetoscope as part of the exhibit?”
He laughed. “Oh, I have no idea about any of that old stuff.” He spun in his chair. “Greta! Do you know if there’s a—what’d you say it was?” he asked, twirling to look at me again.
“Kinetoscope,” I grumbled.
“A Kinetoscope upstairs?”
A woman, presumably Greta, joined my clueless friend a moment later. She had at least two decades on me but held herself with more elegance and grace than most people could ever hope for at their youngest and hottest. She was my height, with salt-and-pepper-looking afro hair, glasses, and a sharp ensemble.
“Is there a Kinetoscope?” She echoed before facing me. “Yes, there is.”
“Great,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “What about a curator to speak with regarding some of the artifacts?”
“Museum educators are available for group tours.”
“It’s just me,” I replied.
She looked sympathetic. “Unfortunately the educators are only available for preorganized tours. You’re welcome to call and book a date. Otherwise it’s a self-visit.”
Well, shit.
“My name’s Sebastian Snow, and I own Snow’s Antique Emporium in Manhattan,” I began, holding a hand out.
“Greta Harris,” she said, shaking it. “I’m one of the museum directors.”
“Pleasure,” I said. “I’m actually here for research, which is why I was hoping to speak—”
The guy shoved a business card across the counter. “You can contact our research department,” he offered—trying to be helpful.
I picked up the card.
“They respond to all inquiries within two weeks.”
I handed the card back. “I don’t have two weeks. It’s sort of an… odd situation I’m in, and I can’t provide a lot of explanation,” I continued, turning back to Greta. “I know a fair amount about the Kinetoscope and Graph themselves, but I need details about the man behind the inventions—”
“William Kennedy-Laurie Dickson,” Greta supplied.
“Yes!” I felt myself getting excited and—daresay—hopeful. “And if I could learn more about him and the early films he did for Edison, let’s just say the NYPD would be thankful.”
She looked a bit intrigued. Maybe in pursuit of curiosity she’d killed a cat or two in her lifetime too.
But she didn’t say anything for a long, uncomfortable minute.
I looked down, opened my messenger bag, and pulled out the paper bag Mr. Robert had supplied me with. “I have these,” I said.
“Have what?” she asked.
“Original Kinetoscope footage.”
Greta leaned forward. “Which movies?”
“Honestly? I’ve no idea. I haven’t been able to look at them.” I lowered the bag. “I have a Kinetoscope in my possession, and the knockout round of the Leonard-Cushing fight. But… er… it’s at my shop, which is… inaccessible at the moment.”
“There’s no surviving footage of the knockout round,” she replied.
I smiled. “There wasn’t until this week, when it fell into my lap.”
Greta tapped the counter with a finger. “There’s simply no way we can play your footage in our machine, if that’s what you hoped for. It’s a replica. And the museum cannot be held accountable for any damage done.”
“I just need to talk to someone who knows more than me,” I said, an underlying tone of desperation in my words.
Greta gave me a look of conflicting emotions. I wa
sn’t entirely sure what it was supposed to mean. “I’m sorry, Mr. Snow. The best I can offer is contacting our research department or… a group tour on a future date.”
Sucker punched.
I felt myself deflate a little. “All right,” I finally said. “Thank you for your time.” I turned, walked back to the door, and stepped out into the summer sun.
I moved to stand under the shade of a tree beside the road. If I smoked, I was pretty sure right about then was when I’d be stuffing the entire pack into my mouth.
I looked down at the paper bag and pulled out the canister with the dented lid. There were secrets on these reels. Secrets that would shed light on the break-ins.
The murder.
The attack on me.
Today’s shooting.
And perhaps even the identity of the poor bastard killed a century ago, and why Dickson’s own life was in danger from these films being in existence.
“Guess that’s that,” I said to myself.
“Mr. Snow?”
I turned around, pushed my sunglasses up, and watched Greta Harris come out the museum doors. She had her purse hanging from an arm and walked with purpose toward the end of the block.
“I’m going on lunch,” she stated, passing me. “Do you like beer?”
SO, THE plus to visiting Astoria was the amazing German beer garden only two blocks away from Kaufman Studios and the museum. It had a huge outdoor seating arrangement, with a speaker system for live music and a massive screen for sporting events. Inside, the light was subdued and it was illuminated mostly by the dozen flat-screens playing different soccer and baseball matches. The exception being one television in the far corner of the drinking hall that seemed to have been left on the soap opera channel by mistake.
Steinway Bierhaus definitely made their money off the film and television crowd. This I’d pieced together by the fact that the bar near the door had specialty drinks with names like Rosebud or 123 Sesame Shot, and that every Monday night was Producer’s Night. I figured that was the same thing as ladies’ night, but you had to be a producer…. Luckily for Greta and I, it was the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday, so we shared the communal tables with no one but our pints and two exceptionally large pretzels.
