Addleton Heights Read online

  To my lovely Sabrina,

  whose love of the printed word

  inspired me to fill up

  several novels worth of them

  in hopes of capturing her heart

  all over again

  PART ONE

  One

  With a name like Thorogood Kipsey, you might be inclined to think that I got into a lot of fights as a boy.

  You’d be right.

  Dustin’ my knuckles across the pimply face of some plump schoolboy was commonplace for a scrawny lad like me growing up. The fact that I lived in close proximity to one of the portal shafts to the Under didn’t help matters much either.

  Through it all, I got pretty good at holding my own against the endless procession of schoolyard bullies and their ilk. In time, those lessons would be as valuable as anything I read scratched across a classroom chalkboard, skills that continue to serve me well in my current line of work.

  If it’s a fair fight, I usually win.

  However, since the fight I was engaged in at the moment was four against one, it was anything but fair.

  The pummeling I’d taken from their fists would heal, but the big oaf twirling the wooden truncheon might have done some damage I couldn’t come back from. He moved to where I lay on the floor and playfully tapped my head with the shiny, black thwack of wood.

  The noxious smell of cheap gin preceded every syllable. “My brother asked you where the photographs are, Detective.” He said detective as if spitting out a mouthful of scorpions.

  From my vantage point on the ground, I could see the bottom two-thirds of the other three men rifling through my office. Discarded files and papers fell haphazardly to the wooden floor, kicking up plumes of dust. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, and every inch of my body cried out in pain.

  Deciding that I couldn’t take much more abuse from these thugs, I answered, “Cabinet . . . There’s an envelope on the top of the cabinet.”

  It didn’t matter. I had the negatives. I could make as many prints as I needed. These buffoons were obviously unaware of the photographic process.

  I was rewarded for my helpfulness with a swift kick to the ribs by the man with the club. “You mother-lovin’ scrape!”

  Fighting back the urge to vomit, I crawled to my desk. If I could make it to the bottom drawer that held my revolver, I might be able to turn this around with unbroken ribs. I sensed the man preparing to kick again—better another kick than being struck with the wooden club.

  In that moment, I decided if I made it out of this alive, I’d find a new line of work—no job was worth this.

  “Found it!” one of the thugs shouted from across the room. The distraction granted me a brief reprieve from the kicking, for which I was grateful.

  Still determined to inflict a little hospitality from my revolver, I continued scooting toward the drawer. The four men must’ve had an inkling of my plan, because they clustered in a semicircle around me.

  “You should learn to mind your own business, Mr. Kipsey,” said a man who sounded as if he were nearly out of breath. His wet boot pressed against my head, halting my advance to the desk drawer.

  It’s peculiar what one notices under duress. For me, at that moment, I took note of how cold the wood floor was as my cheek pressed against it. The pressure of his heel digging into my face made speaking clearly difficult. I made the attempt anyway. “Samuel Densmore, I presume?”

  There was a pause as he spit. “Yeah, that’s right.” He mashed my face with his boot for emphasis.

  Now, there’s something you should know about me right up front: when confronted with an extraordinary level of stupidity, I tend to react with an equally high degree of disdain. It’s always been a shortfall of mine, though I’ve never made any real effort to curtail this tendency. Barefaced stupidity ignites my contemptuousness faster than a lit match on gunpowder. My office was currently occupied with four of the thickest sludgeheads that I’d encountered outside of a tavern in a long time.

  With that in mind, it’s no surprise that I responded, “None of my business? Your fiancée’s family, they made it my business when they hired me.”

  Densmore’s voice teetered on madness. “Virgil, a change of plans. Do me a kindness and finish off this son of a scrape. We got what we came for.”

  The oafish man’s boots made a heavy shuffling sound as he moved in. The eagerness in his voice was unsettling. “Gladly, Sammy.”

  Samuel repositioned himself, grappling my flailing legs. It only took a second for me to understand that this was to give his brother a clean swing at my skull.

  The other two men moved to secure my arms behind my back. Trapped with no way of escape, I closed my eyes. I awaited the blow from the large man’s wooden club, the strike that would usher me out of this world into whatever was next.

  The swing didn’t come.

  Instead, I heard the sounds of a struggle. Looking upward, I could see the club in the grip of a massive, gleaming clockwork fist. Something had overtaken Big Virgil and kept him from delivering my deathblow.

  There was a sharp crack, and then the club exploded into a shower of large splinters hitting the floor near my face.

  “Happy New Year’s, gents,” a deep, cheerful voice boomed. “Happy 1901. Now, I’d very much appreciate it if you’d let Mr. Kipsey there go.”

  There was hesitation—the men no doubt struggling with the same confusion that had overtaken me.

  The newcomer belted, “Now!”

  The men holding my arms reluctantly pulled away, but Densmore tightened his hold on my legs. I tried and failed to wriggle free.

  To my astonishment, Big Virgil began floating a foot or so above the ground. The brute with the clockwork hand had lifted him off the floor by the scruff of his coat. Since Virgil topped twenty stone, this was no small feat.

  I think one of the brothers rushed the stranger. There was a pained grunt, and the brother fell to the floor. Through it all, Big Virgil remained suspended in the air.

  The newcomer had made his point: he was in charge. The fake friendly tone returned to his voice. “Oh, you boys are such a tough troop of rowdies. I’d love to crack each of your soft skulls to find out if there’s anything inside, but I’m on the clock, you see, so I must be prompt.”

  I tried again to shake loose of Densmore’s grasp.

  The stranger’s baritone filled the room with bravado. “The name’s Hennemann, and the good Mr. Kipsey is in Mr. Montague’s employ; therefore, he belongs to me.”

  Though it was a false statement, I didn’t refute it. Alton Montague was one of the few names in Addleton Heights that still got respect.

  Densmore released me and stood up, pleading, “Mr. Hennemann, we didn’t know any of that, but this man aims to mess up a good thing for me.”

  I scooted out of range and leaned against the bottom of the desk.

  Hennemann effortlessly returned Virgil to the ground. I got my first good look at the stranger in the pale blue-yellow flicker of the room’s gaslight. He was a big man, his frame topping seven feet. He wore a bowler and a coat with a bow tie.

  After his enormous size, there were two distinctive features of the man. First was the red-tinted night scope strapped over his right eye like the kind Charon wear. Second was the mechanical arm that dominated the left side of his body from shoulder to fist. The jacket sleeve had been removed to accommodate it.

  Born and raised in Addleton Heights, I’d seen my share of mech grafts, but never a full arm. It must have cost a fortune. The arm was a show stopper, and it had just done exactly that.

  Samuel helped up the unnamed brother who’d taken a punch. Virgil sheepishly slunk away, taking his place along the wall near the other three men.
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br />   Hennemann leaned over to hand me his handkerchief. “Take this fogle and clean yourself up.” The points of his teeth showed as he grinned. “Don’t worry, it’s clean—mostly.” His face was a mixture of wrinkles and scars that couldn’t be hidden by his thick peppery-grey whiskers. I placed his age as mid-sixties but couldn’t be certain in the dim light.

  I reluctantly dabbed at my busted lip, which had already swollen to clown-like proportions.

  Densmore nervously said, “Uh, Mr. Hennemann, sir?”

  The men to the left and right cautiously moved away from Densmore as if moving beyond Hennemann’s striking range.

  After a respectful pause, Densmore sheepishly continued. “Mr. Hennemann, we have a bit of unfinished business with the detective, sir.”

  “Is that so?” Hennemann daintily folded the silk handkerchief and placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat. “What unfinished business might that be?”

  I swear that I heard Densmore gulp from across the room. “Uh . . . well, sir, you see . . . Mr. Kipsey sorta found me in a . . . compromising situation earlier in the week . . . and, well, you see, I need to . . . well, it’s like—”

  I couldn’t take any more of his stammering. I blurted out, “Madame Perdue’s. His future brother-in-law thought he saw him coming out of Madame Perdue’s in the Huewson sector.”

  I stood, despite the aches in my chest and head. “He stands to gain quite a dowry, provided the wedding goes through in a couple of weeks.”

  Hennemann chuckled and shook his head. “The crosshatch girls in Perdue’s brothel on Stamford Avenue? I would have figured that old bat would have closed down that wasp’s nest long ago on account of all of her patrons pissin’ pins and needles by now.”

  “No, she still turns a fair amount of coin.” I dusted myself off.

  “What’s in the big envelope?” Hennemann asked the man to the far right of Densmore.

  The man immediately presented the crumpled folder. “Pictures. Pictures of Sammy with a . . . one of the—”

  Hennemann held up his right hand—his flesh hand—to silence the man. He thumbed through the file with an unsettling, lecherous grin. “Ah, yes. I can see how your fiancée might find these photographs disquieting. This one”—Hennemann waved one of the pictures—“this one here . . . really captures your best side.”

  Densmore’s head slumped. “Sir, I implore you.”

  Hennemann slid the photo back into the file. As he folded the folder in half and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, he asked in a less friendly tone, “Can the four of you toughies write, or are you like those scrapes in the Under that can only make an X?”

  Virgil was quick to respond. “Uh, no, sir. We’re all writing, reading folk.”

  I leaned against my desk, abandoning the idea of getting the derringer from the bottom drawer. This stranger—Hennemann—had things under control.

  He pulled a small burgundy booklet and a stubby pencil from his waistcoat pocket. “So, you boys are going to scrawl your names and sectors down one by one here in my little book. And don’t try and play wise, because if I find out that you’ve lied to my little book, I’ll be very disappointed.”

  He put it down on the desk next to where I sat and addressed Densmore. “You first, loverboy.”

  He reluctantly stepped forward.

  Hennemann shoved the man forward with his clockwork hand. Densmore nearly hit the desk face first.

  My tongue ran over my busted lip.

  Violence begets violence. I wasted no pity on him.

  As the other men followed suit, Hennemann announced with bravado, “So here’s how it’s going to play: Mr. Kipsey will report back to your fiancée’s family that his findings were inconclusive.”

  He looked over at me with my two-handed camera in his mechanical hand. The device made a horrible screeching sound as he crushed it into an unrecognizable heap.

  Before I could stop him, his right hand pressed against my chest where I’d been kicked. It hurt like hell. But what really stopped me was what I saw in his one-eyed stare, the truth behind the jovial mask he’d presented to us. I recognized the look. I’d seen it a dozen or so times before, especially on the faces of Confederate soldiers near the end of the war before they’d whipped the North. It was the look of hatred.

  Not expecting to see that here, I pulled back in shock.

  This man was dangerous.

  The carnival-barker smile reclaimed his face. “I’ll make you a deal. You scrogs get out of the people-bashin’ business, and Mr. Kipsey here will get out of the photography business.”

  He let my camera fall to the ground with a crash. I knew instantly that what the giant hadn’t crushed in his fist had been shattered by the fall.

  With his smile bigger than ever, he informed me, “Don’t worry. After tonight, you won’t need it anymore.”

  He checked the burgundy book. Apparently satisfied with their entries, he said, “Now, the four of you get out of here unless the idea of forking coal in the Under for the rest of your puny lives seems like a brilliant career change.”

  Densmore and his brothers scattered like roaches.

  Two

  Hennemann stood in the open doorway with his back to me. He was a statue as the clamor of the Densmore boys fleeing filled the hallway. No doubt I’d get a note from my mot, old Miss Talbot, about all the ruckus in the morning.

  Some things you can just count on.

  Finally, Hennemann asked, “What kind of a name is Kipsey?”

  “A lot easier to spell than Hennemann.”

  When he glared at me, I abandoned the humor for a straight answer. “It’s Irish, but friends call me ‘Kip.’”

  He closed the door. “If it’s all the same, I expect I’ll stay with Kipsey. You should consider installing better locks.”

  “Fire escape,” I answered, already hating that I felt the need to explain myself. “They climbed in through the fire escape. I was asleep in the other room.”

  Hennemann nodded. “Asleep on New Year’s Eve, huh?”

  Who was this oaf to insult me? “Oh, I had a hundred people in here a few hours ago celebrating the new century.”

  “Your sarcasm is wearing thin.” The way he looked around the room made me uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, well . . . it’s an acquired-taste thing,” I said, wondering what he was searching for.

  “I’m surprised that a clever Jack like you doesn’t have a hiding place or something for when . . . less desirable guests show up.”

  “Yeah? Well, I guess I’m full of surprises, then.”

  He took a small picture frame from atop the file cabinet.

  “Hey, be careful with that,” I said and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  “Who’s this in the photograph?” he asked, turning it in the light for a better look.

  “It’s my mother.”

  “She live on the city platform?” he asked, studying the image as if to memorize it.

  “She’s passed,” I answered. “Pneumonia . . . a few years ago.”

  “Hmph,” he said. Instantly disinterested, he clumsily shoved it onto the shelf.

  His carelessness with the picture irritated me.

  Who was this boor to handle the image of her so flippantly?

  The woman was a saint if there ever was one. After my father passed when I was six, my mother raised me alone. She toiled from before dawn until after sunset in a drafty garment factory. The fact that this gorilla here handled my picture of her like a used tin of sardines made me red under the collar.

  My proudest moment was when I presented her with my officer’s certificate from the Addleton Heights Police Academy. She was thrilled that I’d made it out of the slums of East Dolan and gotten a respectable position in the heart of the city.

  In her eyes, the job allowed me to help people. Though it was true I was able to serve others, in my heart, I was secretly serving her all along.

  She often joked that at the rate my career was goin
g, I’d be a junior member of the Commonwealth before age thirty. Of course, that hadn’t happened. If there was any consolation in her untimely death, it was that she didn’t live to see the day that I got kicked off the force.

  It’s said that life is a series of doorways. The door that I’d stupidly walked through two and a half years ago seemed to have led into a dusty broom closet.

  Hennemann haphazardly removed books from the shelf, thumbed through them for a second, became bored with the text, and then crammed them back out of order.

  I decided to ask some questions of my own. “You told the brothers I worked for Montague. Do you really know him?”

  “Indeed I do,” he said, peering into the side room. “What’s in here?”

  “Darkroom, for developing film. Look, if you’re needing the water closet, it’s a communal out in the hallway—three doors down.”

  He waved off my answer. “Why is there a hammock in your picture room?”

  “Darkroom,” I corrected. “I sleep in there.”

  His large frame disappeared into the small room, but his boisterous voice was still clear. “So you work and live here? A hammock instead of a bed, I guess that’s one way to do it.”

  “I pride myself on being frugal.” A sharp pain shot across my ribs as I raised my voice for him to hear me. “Times are tough for the type of services I offer.” I was explaining myself again. My voice weakened due to the ache in my chest. “Hey, look, I really appreciate your help with those guys, but it’s late and I—”

  “What’s this?” He emerged holding two half-gallon jars filled with sloshing liquids.

  “Hey, careful with those. They’re chemicals for developing photographs. They’re highly combustible.”

  Hennemann gave each a curious sniff followed by a grimace and then moved to place them on my desk.

  “Mr. Hennemann, I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  “Then don’t,” was the curt reply as he returned to the bookcase. “Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here, Mr. Kipsey. I’ve got a job to do, and you are simply a part of that equation. Don’t mistake the fact that I rescued you from those dunderheads as an offer of friendship. I am not your friend, your buddy . . . your confidant.”