The Sleuth let his response sink in and then smiled. “Ahh, I see. Touché.”
Wickham reached up and felt his whiskers. They hadn't been peeling off at all; he had simply been outsmarted. “But for all the indignities I've suffered today, I'm still no closer to finding out who it was who killed Dennis Darby.”
“I can give you the name of his killer. The Bomb Lance is a man named Martin Murphy. He lives on the top floor of a tenement building on Allen and Grand.
“But you must have already deduced that there is more going on here than simple revenge. If you want to find out the reasons behind the assassination of your friend, then you'll need to know more than the name of the thug who pulled the trigger.”
“Like the whys and wherefores behind the Children of Eschaton…” The Sleuth reached his hands high up into the air and felt some satisfying pops run down his spine as some of the bones and muscles fell back into place. Perhaps it would only take a couple of days to recover….Even so, there was a painful catch in his back that spoke of pains to come. Perhaps he would treat himself to a massage when he got home.
Anubis watched him quietly for a moment before replying.”I need your help. There are things I can't find out by myself. I'm already under suspicion.” The Sleuth thought he could sense a note of annoyance in the man's voice.
“I can only imagine what they'll do to you for rescuing me.”
“I can handle Jack Knife and his crew. Jack may like to pretend that I'm an errand boy, but Lord Eschaton trusts me more.”
“And how do I know I can trust you?”
The Sleuth noticed that Anubis's gloved hand tightened around the metal pole. “Because I am going to tell you something that is absolutely true. It is asomething that you may have, up until now, only suspected.”
“And what is that?”
“One of”—As the second word came out of Anubis's mouth, the pieces that had been so jumbled inside of Wickham's mind slid into place. He knew the rest of what Anubis was going to say to him, even before he said it. “—the Paragons is a traitor.”
“So I was right….” It came out in a whispered croak. “But who is it?”
“I don't know, but I'm trying to find out.”
Wickham shrugged off his coat. The cold bit into him, even through the padding of his disguise. He needed to know more from his friend in black than words alone would tell him. “Don't know, or won't tell me?”
The Sleuth took a quick, aggressive step toward Anubis, and his motion was matched almost exactly by a step back. Wickham was impressed. The man's reflexes were lightning fast, totally smooth, and utterly practiced.
He took another step forward, and this time found himself chest-to-chest with the other man.
“I don't know,” Anubis replied. He was almost a foot taller than the Sleuth, and tilted his head down to look at him.
From this close vantage point there was nothing more disconcerting to Wickham than the way Anubis's mask completely hid his eyes from view. He could only see darkness and shadow behind the holes in the mask. “Is it worth it?” he asked.
“I am not lying to you!” Anubis replied with obvious anger in his voice. The intensity had put something into his words—a trace of something identifiable.
“And I'm not accusing you of lying,” he replied. “I'm simply wondering if you think it's worth obscuring your vision to hide your identity.”
The jackal mask leaned closer to him. “You won't find the answers you're looking for that way.”
“Fine,” replied Wickham. “Then let's try this.” He kicked the rod out of Anubis's hand, sending it clattering across the tin rooftop.
The figure in black reacted immediately to the attack, dropping backward and crouching defensively.
Wickham wasted no time in pressing his assault. He pushed forward, his hands chopping the air in front of him in short, hard arcs. He no longer had the reflexes it would take to defeat Anubis, if he ever had, but that wasn't what he was after. He'd unlock this enigma one way or another, even if it meant that his joints would scream at him for the rest of his days.
After easily deflecting a few blows, Anubis shot back with a series of punches. The old man danced away, his fists held high. Even with the difference in their ages entirely to his advantage, Anubis could not seem to find his target.
He tilted his head to one side, the snarling black jackal in his mask giving him the appearance of a curious, if still demonic, puppy. “Are you testing me?”
Wickham laughed and danced closer. “In a manner of speaking. I'm sparring with you, old chap.” Slipping underneath the clenched fists, he reached up and smacked his opponent on the silver ankh on his chest before slipping away. “And it appears that I'm winning.”
The man in black let out a short laugh. It was a strange sound to hear coming out from underneath his grim visage. “All right, old man, if that's what you want, it seems you've given me no choice but to teach you a lesson.” But under the serious words there was a clear loosening in his posture. Realizing he was no longer in genuine danger, Anubis had settled into a sparring pose.
“Have at!” the Sleuth yelled, and danced toward his opponent. In a matter of seconds they had traded a flurry of blows, each attempting to find an opening and being immediately batted away. Their feet blurred as they stepped in and out of each other's way.
Simultaneously, as if the entire thing had been choreographed, they both backed off, sinking into similar stances.
Wickham smiled and nodded at him respectfully. “You've studied the martial arts.”
“If you say so,” Anubis replied.
“Gung-foo…from northern China…I'd say.” He was wheezing slightly with each breath. “I hope you won't take offense when…I say that I find it…very doubtful that you have actually…visited the Orient.”
Without another word, Anubis jumped forward, pressing the attack for another round.
For a few moments it appeared as if they were equally matched, trading blow for blow. But after a minute of dancing with his opponent, Wickham's breathing was far more ragged, his feints sloppy and slow, and his counters coming fewer and farther between.
“Kai ya!” Wickham shouted as punched. But the blow went wild, sending him off balance, and his wrist ended up caught in Anubis's grasp.
He waved him off with his free hand. “I…yield,” he said, gasping for air. “I yield!”
Anubis nodded and let him go. “That's very impressive, Mr. Wickham—doubly so for a man your age.”
Wickham leaned back against the chimney, pulling in air through his nose. “You should…have seen me…when I was…in my prime.” He paused for a long inhalation. “I might have…even beaten you!” He felt nauseous. He'd pushed himself beyond his limits for the third time today, and once again his reward was that he'd landed on his backside instead of his face. Still, it was nice to see that he could hold his own for a few seconds, even if it was only play-fighting.
Wickham felt the sweat trickling down his skin underneath the padding. Anubis was breathing heavily under his leather mask, and Wickham could only imagine how hot it must be inside his black leather skin. “I'd love to meet the man who trained you how to fight like that.”
“He's dead,” the man in black replied, his voice once again disturbingly neutral.
“I'm sorry to hear it.”
“Perhaps by working together we can still save some lives.”
“Did Lord Eschaton kill the man who trained you?”
“No…” He paused and stared away for a moment. “But someone very much like him did. Lord Eschaton's intention is in his name. The word is Latin; it means—”
“‘The end of the world.’”
“He's a madman, and a genius—smart enough not to challenge the Paragons directly until the time is right.”
Wickham frowned. “What would you call killing Darby on top of the Brooklyn Bridge?”
“A diversion.” Anubis walked toward his metal staff, pointing at Wickham's jack
et as he went. “Do you have a pencil and paper in there somewhere?”
“I should.” The Sleuth followed him and picked up his coat, trying to ignore the twinges and shudders of pain shooting up and down his back. He pulled at a frayed edge of his jacket, tearing away threads specifically designed for that purpose. From a hidden pocket inside the lining he removed a notebook bound in embossed black leather. He pulled out a pencil from its loop.
Anubis took the objects from him, opened the notebook to the first blank page, and began to scribble something inside. “This is the address to a warehouse. It is one of Lord Eschaton's secret factories. What you will find inside will disturb you, and it is only part of his plan.” He finished writing and held the page out for Wickham to look at. “Can you read it?”
Wickham stared at the string of numbers and letters. “Yes. But your handwriting is poor. You didn't go to a very good school.” He squinted and looked closer, bringing the book up almost to his nose. “In fact, I'd say that you might not have gone to school at all, although you're educated enough.…”
“Mr. Wickham.”
“Since you're wearing a mask, you can call me the Sleuth.”
“Sleuth, if we are going to work together I need to ask that you please stop trying to uncover my secrets.”
He felt a blush rising to his cheeks. His insatiable curiosity was his greatest gift, but it had also cost him numerous friends and lovers over the years. At least Anubis was willing to give him a second chance. “No, I'm sorry—it's me….It's the way my brain works. I'm sorry.”
“We all have secrets, Mr. Wickham.”
“Yes, we do.” There was something in that voice, even under the emotionless tone. If he could just place it…
He tried to stop it from happening, but the pieces simply fell into place. He gasped with the realization. “Of course! You're—”
“Nothing!” Anubis bellowed back, wiping out his next words before the old man could even say them. “I asked you to leave my secrets alone!” There was a touch of desperation in his voice.
He turned and walked toward the building's edge with unsteady steps, his confidence clearly shaken by the Sleuth's realization.
Holding up his staff he fired the tip into the chimney, a wire rope trailing behind it. “Uncover what's inside that building, and we'll meet again. But whatever it is you think you know…”
“I'll take it to my grave,” Wickham replied, still shocked by his discovery.
Anubis jumped over the edge, slipping off into the shadows. A few seconds later there was a metallic click as the tip of the rod retracted its metal spines and then fell away.
Wickham had been standing there thinking to himself for almost five minutes when he realized that he still had no earthly idea how he was going to get himself down from the roof.
The idea that it would take only thirty-five years for the full urban force of New York to roar northward and completely envelop Darby Park would have been laughable to anyone present at the mansion's groundbreaking. But during those three short decades the city had grown relentlessly northward, and over that time the park had been transformed from a proud estate to a defiant oasis, and finally to its current status as a curious anachronism in uptown Manhattan.
But if the estate was going to war with progress, at least it was well defended. The mansion itself was placed well back from Fourth Avenue, sitting on three-quarters of a city block, kept out of sight from the street traffic by a tall stone fence, trees, and rows of manicured bushes.
Soon after arriving in New York, Dennis Darby's father had purchased the entire block. The area was, at the time, well beyond “uptown” in the city.
Clinging to the righteous naïveté that had driven him across the Atlantic, Christopher Darby had intended to build an estate that would be a part of his family's future for generations to come. He had even involved young Dennis in the home's design in an attempt to bridge the growing divide between father and son.
But whatever legacy it was that Christopher Darby had hoped for, it was certainly not to be found in the city that New York had become in the fifteen years since he'd passed away. Although there were still a few other stately homes that survived in the neighborhood, none of them inhabited such a vast, unspoiled swath of land. And with the endless amount of wealth and investment that were flooding northward as the city grew, few owners remained who could resist the vast sums of money that were being offered for their homes. But even if the old world was crumbling under the weight of a wrecking ball, for now at least, Darby Park still stood on this snowy February night.
It was already well past ten, but the gas lamps in the gardens were still lit. Their yellow lights flickered bravely against the cold, tinting the snowflakes gold as they fluttered toward the ground. A few inches had fallen already, enough to smooth over the world in a soft cover of solid white. The corners of the windows were painted with swooping patterns of frost as the moisture settled into the glass panes and froze where it touched the cold glass.
Inside the house the Automaton reached down and picked up an abandoned top hat from one of the stairs on the main staircase. The mechanical man brushed off the lint from the rim with a series of quick and efficient back-and-forth swipes. He climbed the stairs slowly, and when he was almost at the top, he found a pair of white gloves that had been hastily dropped on the floor. He grabbed them and placed them into the hat.
On the landing, flung over the polished wood of the banister, was a fine black wool coat with fur lapels. It was slowly slumping downward, and clearly would have jumped from the balcony to the floor below if Tom hadn't rescued it.
Coat over his arm, he entered one of the upstairs bedrooms, placed the hat on the dresser, and hung the coat on a rack by the door.
On the other side of the small space Nathaniel Winthorp lay unconscious and sprawled out across his bed. His eyes were closed, a soft snore rising up from his loosely parted lips.
One foot lay on the floor next to a puddle of congealed wax that had dribbled down from a burning candle onto the floor. His other leg was still on the mattress, the boot still on, sitting in the middle of a damp, brown ring that had formed when the slush had melted and soaked into the sheets. The tail of his white shirt was half tucked into his underpants, and all the buttons were undone except for the top two, still hidden under a yellow silk cravat that was twisted around the heavily starched collar.
The Automaton reached down again, this time retrieving a dinner jacket that sat perilously close to the candle while doding Nathienl's right arm. The limb was stretched out over the floor, his hand resting loosely around the neck of a bottle of Kentucky Club whiskey that was a bit more than half empty.
The young man cracked one eye and used it to glare at Tom. “Get the hell out.”
“I am sorry…Nathaniel. I was simply trying to assist you.”
The young man's other eyelid opened, and he rotated his head to stare straight at the ceiling. “I feel like hell.”
“I'll get you a packet of…headache powders.” He gave the jacket a good shake, getting it mostly back into shape. “You have consumed a great deal of alcohol.”
The young man rolled his head to the right, then groaned. “Yes, I still have the bottle right here, in my hand. So thank you for stating the mostly obvious.” He lifted it up, balanced it on his chest, and pulled out the cork. “Now if you could be so kind as to follow my previous order and close the damn door we can both get on with our business.” Lifting up his head slightly he poured a good portion of the brown liquor into his mouth and then swallowed, managing to dribble only a small bit down his chin. “Although, in your case, I have no idea what that would be, nor do I care.”
“As I understand it, it is now my business to take care of this house and also to help you.” He walked a few more steps into the room. “Perhaps I can help to remove your…boots.”
Nathaniel sat up on his elbows and waved the bottle at Tom. “What would help me the most from you is your absence. Get
out.” The bottle slipped from his hand, slid down his chest, caught the edge of the bed, and flipped over as it dropped to the floor with a thud and a bounce. Landing on its side, splashes of whisky gurgled onto the rug until the level in the bottle slipped below that of the mouth. “Damn.”
Tom stopped moving. “Please…Nathaniel, I…”
“And damn you too, machine! Do what I ordered you to!” The words came out in a slurred shout. “Get the hell out!”
He swung his left leg onto the floor, sat up, and shoved the flat of his hand into Tom's chest. “Now!”
Tom nodded. “I apologize…Nathaniel. I was told that my new…task was to take care of the…mansion. I simply wish to do that in the most effective way.”
Nathaniel laughed. It was a throaty, sarcastic sound, punctuated by a drunken rasp at the end of it. “You're thick, aren't you? No one cares what you do anymore, Tom. They just want you out of the Paragons. Out of the way! Locked in the basement where you can't cause problems, or do any more harm. They just lacked the will to turn you off, and it turns out you're cheaper than hiring real help.
“I told them they should have sold you for scrap.” He picked up the bottle from the floor and shook the mouth of it at the Automaton menacingly. “So what do you think would happen to you if I drowned you in whiskey?”
Tom paused for a moment before speaking. “It could, given enough time, jam my gears and impair my efficiency. No doubt that would be similar to what has happened to you, although the damage to me would be more permanent.”
His cheeks flushed red. “Are you making fun of me?” He flung the bottle at Tom's head.
“I heard shout—” The Automaton's left arm jumped up and snatched the bottle out of the air just as Sarah Stanton's shocked face appeared in the doorway it was heading toward.
Her eyes went wide. “Nathaniel Winthorp!” she said in a tone of anger and shock. “What in the name of God do you think you're doing?” She had taken off her hat and coat, but her long white gloves were still on her hands. “Is this more of your childish abuse?”
The Falling Machine Page 17
