Empire State Page 13

  FIFTEEN

  IT WAS LATE WHEN RAD got back to the office, and he heard the phone ringing from down the hall as soon as he hit the top of the stairs. He stopped, drew a wheezing breath and used the air to swear loudly, then thudded down the corridor to his door. His fingers were hot and swollen slightly from the trip up the stairs, and he fumbled at the lock. The phone kept ringing.

  It was always late when Rad got back home. This last week he hadn't seen any daylight. What was that thing you needed the sun for? Photo-whatsit? Vitamin something-or-other? Or was that plants? Huh. He was feeling pretty green himself. He needed light.

  The door opened and the phone stopped, and Rad swore again, even louder this time. He slid his hat off the back of his head and tossed it like a discus onto his desk. Sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep. He glanced at the handsome grandfather clock in the corner, his pride and joy and the only thing that Claudia had let him take without any argument, but he couldn't work out which day of the week the time it showed belonged to.

  There were a hundred questions running in his head. About Captain Carson and his peculiar manservant, about the underwater equipment and the ironclad. He wasn't sure who he could ask. Kane was up to his neck in it too, and now, for the first time in all the years that he'd known the young reporter, he was beginning to have doubts about whether he could trust him. Rad didn't like the feeling.

  No, he was just tired. He needed sleep. Being upset with someone, a close and trusted friend, was a sign of sleep deprivation. That was all.

  But still. How much did Kane know? And Carson's photos. Tall hills, jagged shards of a uniformly white material, the airship hovering over water. Rad wanted to ask the Captain about that. Or... maybe not. He waved a hand to nobody, dismissing the idea for now. Sleep. He closed the front door behind him, and headed for his adjoining one-room apartment.

  The phone sprang into life suddenly. Rad froze, heart beating, then shook his head and darted for the desk. He grabbed the phone and leaned over the desk on one elbow. It wasn't comfortable, but then until he got his forty, nothing would be.

  "Hello?"

  The line crackled. It was bad, very bad. Rad thought of Katherine Kopek and what on Earth he'd have to tell her if she was on the other end of the line. My dear Ms Kopek, he rehearsed in his head. Your lover is dead and smashed to a pulp and we hid her behind a dumpster in an alley. Don't worry, we paid a corrupt cop to take her away before the rats got to her. Say, can you advance me another check?

  The seconds fizzed away in Rad's ear, until he heard a breath being taken from somewhere very, very far away.

  "Mr Bradley?" It was a man, and not a voice Rad recognised, although he couldn't really tell, the line was so bad. The accent was familiar though. It was strange, different from how everyone else spoke.

  "Rad Bradley, private detective." He paused. "Who is this?"

  The voice took another breath and made a sound that, if the line had been clear, Rad supposed might have been an "Ah!" of success.

  "Mr Bradley, we have been trying to get hold of you for quite some time. And time is something that, due to our respective circumstances, we have a great deal of difficulty controlling."

  Rad tapped the top of the desk and then stood up. He knew the voice now, despite the bad line. Deep, melodious, with a slow, clipped accent.

  "Captain Carson?"

  There was a tutting sound which could have been the phone or could have been the caller.

  "My name is Nimrod. We haven't met, although I think you know two of my employees."

  Rad curled around the desk and slumped into his chair. "Sonovabitch. Those goons were yours? You got a lot of nerve." He took a deep breath. "So what is this? The threatening call? The 'back off or the girl gets hurt' warning? The 'don't mess with the big boys' spiel? Standard fare in my game, Nimrod." Rad paused. "What kind of a name is Nimrod, anyway?"

  The tutting came again, and Rad realised it was Nimrod's laugh, distorted by the appalling quality of the phone line.

  "Mr Bradley, this call is indeed a warning, although not of the kind you are used to. Tell me, what do you know of nineteen fifty?"

  Rad sat up and his eyebrows kept travelling. He stared into the empty middle distance of his cold office, remembering his encounter in the alley with the two goons in gas masks. He shook his head.

  "If you sent your thugs to ask me that very same question, why bother calling me about it? Or why bother sending the heavies in when you could just have called?"

  "Calling you is a considerable difficulty, Mr Bradley."

  "That so?"

  "Indeed yes," Nimrod said over a pop and a crackle. His voice matched Carson's perfectly. Maybe they were related. "I would have come personally, but that is not advisable under the current circumstances."

  "That so?" Rad repeated.

  "It is, Mr Bradley. Now, I want..."

  "Oh, now look here, Mr Nimrod, or whatever you call yourself," Rad cut in swiftly. He was tired and had really had enough of mysteries, for possibly one entire lifetime. "Nineteen fifty what? Dollars in the bank? Flowers in the park? Number of times you're going to ask me what I know about nineteen fifty? It's late, I'm tired, and I don't appreciate your calling, and I certainly don't appreciate that little visit from your friends. If you have a job for me, then money talks and I'm all ears. Otherwise it's good night, I think. And don't call again."

  Rad gripped the earpiece. His blood was boiling and he didn't have time for games, but he knew well what nuggets you could pick up on the end of a phone when the other person thinks you've gone. He waited, and as the gap in the conversation grew so did the static in the earpiece, expanding to fill the void. When Nimrod spoke again, his voice cut through the background roar with surprising clarity.

  "I apologise, Mr Bradley, but we had to be sure."

  "Huh," said Rad. "Sure of what?"

  The tutting again. "That we had the right man. And it seems we did. Nineteen fifty means nothing, does it?"

  Rad let a whispered curse slip out, happy for it to be lost across the bad connection. "Criminy... nineteen-fifty what, Mr Nimrod?"

  The white noise grew again, but this time the voice came back quickly. "We must talk, Mr Bradley. Face to face. It will be difficult. Do you understand? Travelling to your city presents certain... problems to overcome. We will need your assistance."

  Rad pressed the earpiece against his hot ear and drew the mouthpiece up until it was almost touching his lips. Finally, someone was talking.

  "I'm listening," he said at last. "Tell me what to do."

  SIXTEEN

  RAD WAS NERVOUS, there was no doubt about it, but it was amazing the difference some hours of sleep made. And a stiff drink. He balanced the delicate teacup between thumb and forefinger, and considered maybe that Jerry's liquor was not the best breakfast beverage. But then it was already six in the evening, and dark outside, and the rain had returned, so Rad considered that maybe this was a pre-dinner drink, and therefore perfectly acceptable.

  He'd slept, and the sleep was the most glorious he'd ever had. Rad was keen on sleep. He was a fan. Not just for the addictive quality of it, the natural means of recharging and refreshing that every human being needed. He was keen on sleep because in his line of work – where days were filled with loose ends and blind alleys, and leads that go nowhere and questions that go unanswered – it fixed things. With the conscious mind, with all its stupid questioning and unhelpful, confusing thoughts out of the way, out for the night, it was the subconscious that took over, the real power behind the throne. Left alone and unbothered by the waking mind, it could spend the sleeping hours collating and crosschecking data, filing memories, analysing observations. The number of times a case had been solved, or at least progressed to an appreciable degree, thanks to nothing more than a good night's sleep, was high.

  Although on this morning – afternoon, evening, whatever – Rad had nothing. The subconscious had been busy, that much he knew, but had been unable to piece anything together t
hat was of much use. Rad tried not to let it bother him. He had a feeling that the case of now-confirmed dead Sam Saturn was going to involve Kane and his captain friend more than it should, but Ms Kopek hadn't called in yet for an update like she said she would, so there was time still to get some answers. The case was going to be handy for paying a few bills, which was a remarkable motivator. As Rad ordered a second drink, he carefully checked the contents of his wallet. With Jerry's open slate, poverty hadn't been as good for the soul or body as Rad had hoped.

  Jerry passed a fresh cup and saucer, and took the spent one away with a tearoom clatter. "You're looking better."

  Rad nodded but Jerry's back was turned. "Thanks, Jerry. Amazing what a little shut-eye is good for."

  Jerry turned back with a smile. "Ain't that the truth? Don't forget I'm clearing the slates on Friday. You've got a few lines there."

  "Ah," said Rad, vaguely, aware that his eyebrows had moved up entirely on their own, pushing his white hat high on his forehead. Jerry's eyes watched Rad's rebellious forehead, then he smiled again and shook his head.

  "Friday, my friend."

  "Ah," said Rad again, this time pushing his hat back down and nodding. "Good call, Jerry. No problem." He glanced down the bar. "You seen Kane?"

  Jerry's lips pursed for a moment. "Yesterday, last night. Didn't you speak to him? He was sittin' right there."

  "Didn't see him." Rad shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

  The last thing Rad had thought of as he had drifted off to sleep in his tiny bed the previous night – morning, afternoon, whatever – was what Nimrod had told him, and the first thing Rad had thought of as he had woken up an hour ago was to grab Kane and tell him all about it.

  But Kane wasn't here, and the more Rad thought, and the more Rad drank, perhaps there were some things that he didn't need to talk to Kane about. Things like Nimrod's little phone call. He ran the instructions over in his head. They were specific and they were weird, but Rad wasn't going to argue.

  Rad drained the last of his drink. That settled it. It was nothing to do with Kane or the Captain or Katherine Kopek or Sam Saturn or anyone. This was a private matter for a private detective. His own personal case, in more ways than one.

  "Thanks, Jerry," said Rad, waving one hand as he slipped from the bar and stole up the stairs to the street above. Six thirty-five. Time enough. He was expecting company, and had some things to prepare.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE EMPIRE STATE WAS AN ISLAND, long and narrow, at the head of which the great naval dockyards lay, from where the great ironclad fleets sailed to fight the Enemy every Fleet Day. What lay across the water was difficult to determine. Most of the time the city was bounded with thick fog that stuck to the sides of the island like sticky cotton candy. Sometimes citizens of the Empire State reported lights in the mist, sometimes even sounds that came drifting over the water, but usually this was followed by a swift arrest for sedition, or breaking the Prohibition or whatever made-up charge seemed most appropriate. This was Wartime, and the Empire State was all, and there was nothing on the other side of the water. Only the brave ironclad crews left the Empire State to face the Enemy, and none of them had yet returned to tell of their journey beyond the fog.

  At its height, tendrils of the stuff left the borders and crept into the city. Mist encircled the Empire State Building, the tallest structure on the island, and seemed almost to spread outwards from it, wrapping around the other skyscrapers and office blocks and civic buildings.

  Above that, the cloud cover was low and thick, lit orange and yellow by the lights of the city at night, dark and heavy with rain yet to fall. Police blimps hugged the underside of the clouds, their distinctive twin searchlights probing the city below. Anything under the clouds was immediately visible. Anything above would be hidden, but nothing ever flew above the clouds.

  The Enemy airship drifted sideways silently, then stopped. At this altitude the Empire State was just a brilliant orange smudge below cloud deck. The police blimps cruised sedately nearby, looking downwards, never thinking to look upwards, where nothing ever flew. The only structure that penetrated the cover was the spire of the Empire State Building, the very tip of its antennae, with the solitary red light blinking a beacon out to the nothingness.

  The airship hovered for a while, safe above the clouds. It had no lights anyway, and was made of black iron, rendering it practically invisible in the night.

  It was rumoured that the Enemy had an ironclad fleet of its own, but not one waterborne, one that sailed through the sky like the police blimps. But not mere patrol craft, a fleet of warships as powerful and gigantic as the ironclads, made of armour plate and piloted by an ironclad crew. But it was just a rumour, a story whispered in the speakeasies and late at night in the bad parts of town, out of earshot of the Empire State. It was impossible, of course. The police blimps were just helium-filled aerostats, a product of science. Anything else – anything like an iron warship that could float in the air as easily as the Empire fleet could float on the water – was just ridiculous, at best a bad bedtime story for naughty children, one that didn't scare but rather amused. Flying ships? Who would believe that?

  The floating fortress, five thousand tonnes of iron and steel, dark and silent, hung in the air above the city, and waited.

  EIGHTEEN

  SOMEONE WAS IN THE APARTMENT. Rad knew it as soon as he got back. He hesitated at the end of the hallway for just a moment, holding his breath, listening. He was expecting company, sure, and he had his instructions, which he now ran through his head in detail, step by step. This wasn't part of the plan.

  From the corner by the top of the stairs, he could see that his door was closed, but not locked. The building was old, and the door cheap, and when the lock engaged it sucked the door to its frame. When unlocked there was a hairline gap. Nobody would know it, unless it was their own door, and they happened to be a private investigator habitually looking for silly details.

  Well, OK. He was expecting guests and he had his instructions from Nimrod, and while he thought they didn't include this, perhaps he'd missed a bit, or misunderstood something, or maybe Nimrod had left a step out.

  Rad started walking down the hallway, and then stopped with a wince as the floorboard beneath the threadbare carpet creaked. He stopped and looked down, watching his shoes as if it would make any difference, and had another thought.

  What if it was Kane? Well, he wouldn't break in, but sometimes he walked in like he owned the place, and the door was unlocked. Except Kane was the last person he wanted to see right now. He wanted to put the strangeness of recent days behind him and focus on his own little problem and his own little meeting that Nimrod had set up. If it was Kane, he'd have to get rid of him.

  Another step, another creak, and another thought. What if it was Ms Kopek? She hadn't got in touch like she said she would, and surely was expecting news of her lover. Not for the first time, Rad wondered what the hell he would tell her. But it couldn't be her, because she wouldn't break in either.

  But he didn't remember leaving the door unlocked, although it wouldn't have been the first time. Goddammit. Rad patted his coat, feeling for the bundle of keys in the pocket on his left breast, like that would make a difference too.

  Breathing again, Rad shrugged, got the keys out – just in case – and moved swiftly to his office. He opened the door and stepped in without breaking his pace, closing the door smartly and quietly behind him before turning back to the room.

  It was empty. Maybe nobody was here and he'd left the door unlocked, again, and maybe he needed to get his sleep rhythms back in check so he didn't have to walk around his own building in the middle of the night hallucinating about burglars and unwelcome guests. His hat hit the desk and his coat found its hook, and as Rad headed for the connecting door that led to his apartment, he remembered he'd used the last of this month's coffee ration just the other day. He swore loudly and began searching the cupboards for something else to drink.

/>   There. Just as he thumped the last cupboard closed, there was another sound in the apartment. Tiny, just a creak, but not a sound that Rad made. He paused, still bent over by the cupboard, before slowly raising himself up.

  OK, it made sense. Nimrod set the meeting up, and Rad had given himself plenty of time to prepare like he was told, but given the circumstances it was logical for Nimrod's people to check the scene out ahead of time. No problem. Which meant Rad was supposed to just get on with it, apparently oblivious to the unseen watcher or watchers. Rad really had no idea where they could be hiding, but who knew what Nimrod was capable of. Maybe making two goons in gas masks invisible was just one of his party tricks.

  OK, relax. Just make a coffee without any actual coffee and then get the room set up. Easy.