Empire State Page 18

  "My dear detective! For no fewer than five minutes Byron and myself have been waiting for you to knock." Carson winked at his servant, then gestured for Rad to enter. "Byron had suggested as many as ten minutes. I plumped for five, and I think that means Byron owes me something."

  Rad looked from Carson to Byron, realising that he'd just decided, on his own, to visit the house of two madmen.

  "Don't look so worried, Mr Bradley," said the old man. "I presume you are here for..."

  This kick-started Rad's brain. "A second opinion, yes."

  The Captain shook his head. "An explanation, dear boy. An explanation! Now come in, and wipe your feet."

  Rad followed Captain Carson down the hallway at some distance from his host, who skipped along at a fine pace. Rad noticed white straps tied around Carson's waist, and another white loop at his neck. He hadn't seen it when the door had been opened, as Carson had been peering around the bulk of his servant in the doorway, but the Captain was wearing an apron, long enough to be scuffed by the toes of his shoes as he walked. Although the Captain's arms were being held in front of him – and hence out of Rad's eyeshot – he saw the sleeves of his shirt were rolled at the elbow.

  "Not interrupting anything, am I?" Rad asked.

  "Not at all, dear boy!" Carson called cheerily over his shoulder. He waved one hand up in the air, and Rad saw the bare forearm ended in a tight-fitting glove made out of latex or rubber or something. Also, Carson's forearm was covered in blood to the elbow. Rad blanched, and stopped. He heard Byron's footfalls stop just behind him, and heard a weird ticking from his chest, which was just about at head-height to him.

  "Ah, you sure about that, Captain?" Rad said quickly, eyes wide. A few paces ahead, the old man stopped and turned. He walked back towards the detective, each passing hall lamp mounted on the old wood panelling strobing his face. Captain Carson was an old man, his hair and moustache – and skin – white as chalk. The vivid crimson on both arms, and splashed in some abundance across the front of his heavy apron, was in shocking contrast to the elegant surroundings.

  The Captain stopped by yet another sepia-toned landscape, another mystery fantasy shot showing an empty, flat background, some men, and Carson's own airship. The nearby wall lamp cast a cone of light over the picture and left Carson's face mostly in an angle of shadow. Rad could see the Captain's mouth glittering as he smiled in the semi-darkness.

  "I must apologise for my somewhat dishevelled state, but the truth is you have interrupted Byron and I in what you might call a rather delicate operation."

  Rad nodded blindly, and managed a quiet: "Uh-huh."

  "However, that is not to say your visit is unwelcome or the moment of it inopportune. Indeed, we both saw you approach up the street, and it was Byron that remarked upon the happy coincidence."

  "Yuh-huh."

  The Captain's smile flickered in the shadows, and then he raised his hands up into the light, examining the lurid mess.

  "Ah... hmm..." he muttered, then looked over Rad's shoulder at Byron. "Perhaps we have done enough for one night, Byron. Please show our friend into the study, and I'll go and clean myself up." He turned to Rad. "Please, help yourself to a drink, and if you'll excuse me I won't be a moment. I have something interesting to show you."

  With that the Captain turned and creaked down the hallway, elbowing a door open carefully and disappearing from sight. Rad heard Byron's heavy feet behind him, and he turned.

  "This way, sir."

  "And there we are!" Captain Carson took the minuscule glass of liquor from the tray Byron held, and joined Rad at the wall, where the detective was looking at more pictures. Carson pursed his lips comically as he sipped the deep amber liquid. Rad watched with interest, sniffing his own glass. Carson saw the look and chuckled.

  "They call this 'sherry', my dear fellow. I have a small store of bottles." He paused, waiting. "Go on, try it. Much more flavour than the rotten potato juice you seem to prefer at Jerry's."

  Rad sipped, and winced. It was sweet, like drinking hot sugar.

  "So you know Jerry?"

  "Not in the slightest. But I know where you drink."

  "That so?"

  "That is so, detective. We've been following you for some time."

  Rad's eyebrows went up, and holding his breath he drained the sherry glass. "Uh-huh," he whispered, throat constricting at the unusual, heavy liquid.

  The Captain ignored Rad, and instead walked past him, looking along the wall. More portraits, some paintings, some more of the weird fantasy scenes. Rad found them fascinating, but at the same time they somehow made him feel sick. He felt an emptiness, an ache in his chest, and a buzzing behind the eyes when he looked at them.

  Carson was wearing a linen suit, smart but a dull dun colour. The apron was gone, and there was no blood. When he turned back to Rad, the detective saw his fine white hair was freshly combed and parted and slightly wet.

  "Interesting, aren't they?"

  Rad glanced sideways at the picture Carson was indicating. The Captain's finger was pointing at the weird white landscape, but his gaze remained fixed on Rad.

  "Uh, yeah, very nice," said Rad. "If you like that kind of thing," he added, a best attempt at indicating – politely – how strange he really thought they were.

  Captain Carson sipped from the crystal glass he held delicately by the stem. "You got a good look at my airship, in the old hangar, didn't you? Last time you were here, I mean, with Mr Fortuna."

  Rad frowned. "Ah, yes. Very impressive." What was this? Was the Captain fishing for compliments now?

  The Captain tapped his fingernail against the picture. "Shame it is in such a state. Byron and I are working hard on it, but you know, materials are difficult to get these days. Wartime."

  "Wartime..." Rad repeated, nodding as had become the custom.

  "There's a whole front section missing. An aluminium shell over a magnesium frame. Dashed clever."

  "Uh-huh." Rad had no clue, and couldn't have cared less.

  "You can see it in this picture here. Shame, shame. Lost the nameplate. Hand-engraved, hand-painted. Do you see it?"

  Rad took a tentative step forward. He peered at the picture. Sepia browns swam before his eyes, and at half an inch away the image broke down into smudges. The Captain tapped his finger again, and Rad saw a light brown rectangle with dark brown markings. Frowning, he stepped back, trying to focus.

  And when he could focus, he tried to speak, but found he didn't have anything to say, even if his throat had been moist enough to produce any sound.

  "Yes, detective. Come, I have something else to show you."

  The Captain finished his drink and handed the glass to Byron, who extended a long, thick arm instinctively and caught the glass on his tray. The two of them turned and left Rad at the picture.

  Rad screwed his eyes shut. The buzzing in his head faded. He opened them again, and he felt OK, no, really, he was fine. He looked again at the nameplate of Captain Carson's airship and the dizziness returned.

  Nimrod.

  He needed another sherry.

  The further into the house they went, the stranger Rad felt and the more he thought this had been a mistake. Wood-panelled hallways, winding staircases, hundreds and hundreds of the brown and cream fantasy landscapes. Faces stared down at him from all sides as he walked, strangers in impossible places. Groups of people, more often than not with Captain Carson standing proudly at the centre, the blond man at his side. Carson was younger, hair dark, but the old man leading Rad through the house bore the same broad shoulders and straight back as the young burly man in the photographs.

  This was a mistake. This was just leading to more confusion, more fantasy. Someone was playing Rad, good and proper. He was at the bottom of a deep, dark well, the light of truth nothing but a tiny pinprick in the blackness above.

  No. Rad caught his steps momentarily, falling further behind Carson and feeling Byron looming behind him. He kept walking. Rad was no schmuck. If he was
at the middle of some conspiracy, some plan, someone's practical joke, he wouldn't be the stooge. Nor would he be the fall guy. A week of darkness and rain and nonsense. It ended here.

  "Wait," he said, and stopped.

  The old man continued a few paces, then stopped himself and retraced his steps back across the thick hallway rug.

  "Detective?"

  Rad puffed himself up and straightened his shoulders. He was a big man and, at a guess, probably half the Captain's age. But Carson was anything but old and frail, and even with chin held proudly, Rad only just matched him in height.

  "I came here to get some answers, and by God, I'm going to leave with some." He raised his voice slightly. Carson peered down his nose at Rad, but Rad was sure his mouth flickered into the smallest of smiles.

  "And answers you shall have, detective." The Captain thudded Rad on the right shoulder, twice, with his fist. "You're a good man. Can I take it that you are going to step up and lead this investigation like you should have from the very beginning?"

  Rad was unsure whether Carson's tone was supposed to be condescending or encouraging. He decided it was both.

  "Investigation?"

  The Captain nodded. "Indeed yes. You are surrounded by riddles, so I would presume that if you considered this to be your own personal case, you would be busy finding clues and piecing them together. I will help as much as I can, of course. Byron as well."

  Rad glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure the sevenfoot-nothing servant was behind them.

  "Point," said Rad. The Captain nodded and smiled.

  "My boy, you will go far! Now, shall we continue? As I indicated before, there is something I must show you, but please, we can talk as we go. Begin your enquiry." He turned and padded down the hall silently. Rad and Byron followed, the deep red pile absorbing their footfalls almost completely.

  "This is quite some house, Captain. I figured as much when I... well, when you showed me the hangar. How big is it?"

  Captain Carson did not turn, but kept walking. He raised his voice so Rad could hear clearly, and it echoed dully from the dark oak that lined the passage.

  "Very is as good a description as any," he said. "In fact, I own the entire block, and have over the years interconnected all of the buildings that were of use. Some are not; those are rented out. My family have actually owned this section of the city for some two hundred years."

  Rad quickened his pace, so he was right at the Captain's back.

  "What do you mean? That doesn't make any sense."

  "Is that so?" Then Carson stopped and turned quickly. Rad brought himself up short just in time, then backed off as the Captain leaned in to him.

  "What year is it?" asked Carson.

  "Nineteen."

  "Nineteen?"

  Rad frowned. "You forgotten or something?"

  The Captain ignored the question. "And what year will it be next?"

  Rad's mouth turned upside down, but he decided that wherever Carson was heading with this train of thought, he'd promised to provide whatever answers he needed.

  "Twenty," he said at last.

  "Ah." The old man smiled quickly, then resumed walking. "By my count, next year should be approximately Nineteen Fifty."

  "What did you say?"

  Carson's hand appeared over his shoulder as he walked. He waggled his fingers in the air.

  "Well, it's hard to measure. Byron and I have been working on the equipment, but it's not perfect. But Nineteen Fifty is about it."

  The passageway finally came to an end at a sort of square porch. A wide, somewhat grand staircase rose from the right-hand side, leading up then turning at ninety degrees and continuing above their heads. Below this, a narrower staircase led downwards. The porch itself was filled with a few items of furniture – a chair and a bookcase – and several closed doors led off from it.

  The Captain began to head for the descending staircase, but stopped when Rad laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned.

  "Mr Bradley?"

  "How can it be the year Nineteen Fifty? That doesn't make any sense."

  "Hmm." The Captain looked Rad up and down. "How old are you?"

  "Forty-four."

  "And what year was it, oh, twenty-one years ago?"

  Rad snorted. "Now I know you're crazy. This is only the year Nineteen."

  Carson smiled tightly. It was an expression devoid of all emotion. Rad suddenly felt cold, and felt his heart race as adrenaline pumped through his body.

  Oh, no... no no no no no...

  "How then," said the Captain, slowly, "are you forty-four years old?"

  Rad's mouth moved but no words came out. The Captain patted his shoulder gently.

  "Come," he said. He turned, and walked to the stairs.

  The narrow stairs were lined with more wood panelling for just a short while, before the walls turned to brick. This gave an impression of age – what Rad now knew to be an impossible age – and although he had the feeling the picture would be complete with dripping walls and darkness, he was surprised to find the large cellar quite dry and very well lit.

  It was a laboratory. Rad had given up on being surprised at the contents of Captain Carson's home, but still had the capacity to be impressed. The room was lined with benches holding various apparatus, and above these, glass-fronted cabinets filled with bottles, jars, boxes, and the usual collection of scientific junk. Several large refrigerators hummed, while overhead long strip lights fizzed faintly.

  Carson trotted to the centre of the room then turned back to Rad with an expansive smile, rubbing his hands. He stepped to one side, and Rad then understood what the Captain had been working on when he called at the house, and what he had been so keen for Rad to see for himself.

  Two freestanding tables were spaced in the middle of the room with enough of a gap between them so people – Carson and Byron, presumably – could work back-to-back if needed. The benches were rectangular and wide, with a couple of high stools pushed against them.

  One table was empty and clean, a blank, glossy white ceramic surface interrupted in one corner by a stainless steel sink and tall, curved laboratory tap.

  The other table was covered in a slick liquid, dark and thick at the edges, brighter red towards the centre where it pooled around its source.

  Sam Saturn.

  The girl's body was naked, although it took a moment for Rad to realise this, as her skin was dirty with the grime and filth of the alley and the congealed paste of her own blood. Her chest, her whole torso, had been split down the middle, the two sides folded back like blankets. What had become of her innards, Rad couldn't tell. Sam Saturn's body had been straightened out on the bench, but the twisted joints and shattered bones were still obvious.

  Rad had seen bodies before. Many bodies. It went with the job, especially – unfortunately – when he took on a missing persons case. Some bodies simply looked like still life, a person merely sleeping. Some, especially those fished out of the water after an indeterminate time submerged, hardly looked like people at all. Rad was used to it. No problem.

  But seeing Sam Saturn, the subject of his own case, whose body he thought was lying in a police morgue at the other end of town, Rad felt nauseous. It wasn't the smell – in fact, there was hardly any odour in the Captain's laboratory. The body was wet but cold, and no doubt Carson had some miraculous disinfecting device which cleared the air as needed.

  But Rad felt a connection to this girl. He'd been told he was the centre of a conspiracy, a movement to destroy the Empire State. Nimrod had told him, the faux Skyguard had told him.

  He shook his head. If he was connected, then goddammit she was as well. An innocent – murdered, brutalised, hidden in an alley. There had to be a connection. He felt guilt and responsibility too. Guilty at keeping her body hidden out on the street where she died. Responsible for her death, because if he was the centre of the web, then he was the cause of it all. He held his breath and counted to ten, trying to disperse the unhelpful th
oughts. If these facts were true, then he owed it to her to solve her murder and right this wrong.

  "I can understand your hesitancy, Mr Bradley," said the Captain. He was standing to one side, hands clasped before him. Byron stood at the foot of the stairs, silent and impassive as always.

  Rad closed his eyes. "I had a phone call, from someone who says he... knows you. Said his name was Nimrod. Like your ship," he said, turning the subject from the corpse to the bigger picture Rad felt was hanging over him like one of Captain Carson's fancy landscapes. He needed answers, and he needed to collect them in some kind of order.