Doktor Glass (28 page)

With that, Durham disappeared. Langton ran into the hall. Icy air poured in through the open front door. Langton pulled his Webley from his coat and ran down the front steps.

The street lay empty. Snow and ice gleamed under yellow gaslight. No sound of footsteps or carriage wheels. Nothing except the wind bending the bare tree branches.

L
ANGTON WOKE AS
though no time had passed between closing his eyes and first light arriving. He lay there in the wide mahogany bed with every muscle clenched in fear; he could not remember his second nightmare, but a residue of indistinct, amorphous dread remained, like the afterimage of the sun on the retina.

He forced his heart to slow down and sat up with the sheets wrapped around him. He remembered Durham—or had he dreamed that also? No, the man had been here. The smell of the tunnels still remained.

The luminous hands of the Swiss clock on the bedside table read six twenty. Langton shuffled to the bathroom with the sheets still around his shoulders like a Roman toga. He started running a bath but turned at the sound of knocking from his bedroom door.

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Elsie saw the crumpled sheets and made a point of looking in the other direction, away from Langton. “There’s a visitor.”

“At this time?”

Still looking away, Elsie held out a card:
Professor Caldwell Chivers.
“I put him in the sitting room, sir. Shall I start the coffee?”

“Give me ten minutes, Elsie.”

As he scrambled to bathe and get dressed, Langton wondered what the Professor wanted and how he should treat him. As a suspect? As his main suspect? Would Langton’s reaction tip the man’s hand?

Still buttoning his waistcoat and combing his hair with one hand, Langton clattered down the stairs and into the sitting room.

“Inspector. Forgive the early intrusion.” The Professor set down his coffee cup, stood up, and held out his hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, Langton shook it. “Professor. You’re an early riser.”

“Always, Inspector. I find there are not enough hours in the day to do everything I want. That’s no excuse for waking you.”

The Professor stood before the grate where a new fire threw out little heat; the room still retained its night chill and the traces of stale, stagnant water from Durham’s clothing.

“I must say, your maid looked after me very well,” the Professor said. “She’s obviously a pleasant girl.”

“Elsie is a great help.”

“You have no other staff?”

“Only Cook,” Langton said, wondering why the Professor should be interested in his household.

“Just the one assistant? In such a large, sheltered house?” The Professor sipped his coffee and smiled. “I don’t know where I would be without my staff, the footmen and maids, gardeners and cooks. We get to rely on them, don’t we?”

“I suppose we do.” Langton poured himself a coffee and looked his early visitor over. The Professor, although well dressed and freshly shaved, still exuded that aura of impatient motion, as though caught between two or more important tasks. His body never seemed to be still. His bright eyes reflected the electric light.

Could this really be Doktor Glass? The Professor had the
attributes: intelligent, certainly; scientifically adept, definitely. And the eclectic collection at his mansion confirmed his passionate curiosity.

Had the Professor crossed the line between science and murder?

“You left my reception so suddenly,” the Professor said. “I wondered if we’d upset you.”

“We?”

The Professor smiled. “My friends and acquaintances have their own particular subjects, their own hobbyhorses if you will, and can sometimes be quite…intense.”

“I found your guests very interesting,” Langton said, wondering what the Professor’s real motive might be; he surely hadn’t come to apologize. “I would have stayed longer but police business called me away.”

The Professor hesitated, then said, “The Jar Boys?”

“The same.”

The Professor crossed to the fire and set his cup on the mantel. He watched the flames for a moment. “I fear that Doktor Glass might have been at the Reception.”

Langton stared at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Because of this.” The Professor reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a folded piece of colored paper.

Langton examined the sheet: thick, expensive paper with three symbols drawn on in precise black ink. They seemed to be the images of a dog’s head, a field of wheat or corn, and a boat. “Egyptian?”

The Professor nodded. “The first is the glyph of Osiris, the god of the dead and the resurrected; the second a ripe field of corn; the third is the barque of Amun-Ra, a symbol of rebirth and renewal.”

Langton returned the sheet. “What connects this to Doktor Glass?”

“He is supposed to have a keen interest in Egyptology.”

“You never told me that.”

“I did not think it important. But when I found this in my display case after the reception—”

“One of the cases in your basement room?”

“Indeed,” the Professor said. “Someone had placed it among the scarab brooches, in plain sight. Obviously for me to see.”

Why?
Langton thought. If the Professor was Doktor Glass, why would he concoct such a story? If he wasn’t, why would the real Glass leave the message?

“Do the symbols have any meaning?” Langton said.

“Individually, no more than their basic references to the gods and the afterlife.”

“And together?”

The Professor sagged as though the passing years had suddenly surprised him. “I may be wrong, I hope I am, but together they suggest a great reaping. A harvest of souls.”

*  *  *

L
ANGTON PACED THE
manager’s office of the firm of Irving and Long in Liverpool’s Jamaica Street. He had reached headquarters before eight and given McBride his instructions for the day, without mentioning Durham’s late visit. Then he had taken a hansom cab south through the city’s poorer neighborhoods, where the air had gradually thickened with smoke from dense slum quarters and a myriad of chimneys. A score of factories lined Jamaica Street; heavy steam wagons and carts clattered over the busy cobbles and added their din to the workshops’ roaring and pounding. On his way through the main shop’s flickering, strident red glow, Langton remembered Children’s Bible illustrations of Hades from Sunday school so long ago.

Now, in the cluttered office high above the shop floor, the factory’s activity came through the cracked windows as muffled yells and thuds, the whine of steam-driven belts, the smells of hot metal and burning coal. As he waited, Langton wondered who McBride had started with; which of the three men who had visited Redfers would he question first? And would they admit to anything?

“Here we are, sir, here we are.” The plump manager bustled into the office with an open ledger in his hand. He settled behind his desk and beamed at Langton. “Took me a few minutes, but we found it.”

Langton looked down the various columns: orders taken, monies paid, goods delivered. “Where is it?”

“Here, sir.” The manager rested a blunt forefinger against an entry. “I thought I recognized the coil as soon as you showed me. It’s not often we’re asked for something of such a high specification.”

Langton read the name—Mr. De Verre—thought for a moment, and then almost smiled.
Verre
: the French for “glass.”

The address next to the name was Falkner Square in Liverpool, a select area just off Grove Street in Toxteth. Not too far from the Professor’s mansion. Langton nodded when he saw the telephone number: Exchange five-seven.

The manager continued, “We usually specialize in ships’ equipment and heavy-lifting tackle, but lately we branched out into electric motors, solenoids, and the like. Why, we’ve even supplied some of the switchgear for the Span. Quite a feather in our cap, I may say.”

Langton looked up from the ledger. “The Span?”

“Indeed, sir. Even they didn’t ask for such high-quality wire, nor for the exact tolerances that Mr. De Verre requested. Well, demanded, to be honest. It was all we could do to fulfill his last order.”

“What last order?”

The manager puffed out his chest and smiled. “The biggest induction coil we’ve made so far, sir. Biggest in Liverpool as far as I know.”

Almost afraid to ask, Langton said, “How big?”

“As tall as you or I, sir, and heavy with it. Lord knows what Mr. De Verre plans to use it for.”

Langton glanced at the coil on the manager’s table; part of the machine destroyed by Mrs. Barker, it stood no more than four inches high. If the new coil was intended for a larger version, and the rest of the machine followed the same scale…

It might not be too late. “Can I see it? This new coil?”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” the manager said. “Mr. De Verre collected it a week ago. Even the big hulking fella on the steam cart had trouble lifting it.”

That had to be Jake. “Did De Verre order anything else?”

The manager read down the ledger. “Five hundred feet of braided copper cable…ten of our largest copper spade connectors…and twenty sections of four-foot copper rod. All collected and paid for.”

“But no more coils?”

“No, sir.” The manager closed the ledger with a dusty thud. “Mr. De Verre’s last letter said they wouldn’t need any more.”

*  *  *

A
S THE JOSTLING
cab carried Langton back to headquarters, he stared out the window and asked himself what Doktor Glass could want with the enormous machine. If the smaller versions—the ones Langton knew from the houses of Redfers and of Mrs. Barker—transferred the soul of an individual, then logic dictated that this new, immense apparatus must be intended for a host of souls. A harvest of souls.

As the cab left Jamaica Street and joined the Dock Road traffic, cutting under the dockers’ umbrella elevated railway, the Transatlantic Span reared up from the Mersey. Flags trailed from the towers, waiting for a breeze. Even at this distance the bridge seemed out of place, impossibly huge. Langton tried to imagine the crowds that would converge on the Span the next day. Thousands upon thousands. All packed into one small area.

And he remembered Reefer Jake’s key, the complex design stamped with the Span’s motif. If Doktor Glass really had a plot against the Span, how would he carry it out? Major Fallows said every precaution had been taken: His teams had searched for explosives; river traffic would be halted for the inauguration; even the commercial dirigibles would be grounded. And Fallows’s men would check every visitor, search every man, observe every movement.

Still, Langton worried. If Doktor Glass was involved, then the usual
precautions might not suffice. A madman adept with the new, extreme science might have more imaginative plans. But surely Glass would have to place the immense machine close to his victims? Close to the Span? That would not go unnoticed.

Langton willed the cab forward. The house in Falkner Square must hold the key. He would have telephoned Forbes Paterson from Jamaica Street, but he remembered how easily information leaked from headquarters. A call from there had warned Redfers; others had briefed the newspapers. No, he had to see Forbes Paterson in person to arrange the raid.

As the cab finally wound its way through the streets packed with crowds, and bunting and streamers in cascades of red, white, and blue, Langton hurried up to his office and found McBride waiting. The sergeant looked up from the note he’d been writing. “Just leaving you a message, sir. Didn’t have much luck with the three blokes.”

“You can tell me in a minute,” Langton said, throwing his coat onto the stand. “Come on.”

They found Forbes Paterson downstairs. As succinctly as he could, Langton explained about the house in Falkner Square.

“You’ve caught me out,” Paterson said. “Purcell commandeered all my spare officers for the Queen’s visit.”

“Then we’ll go now, just the three of us.” Langton made for the door, pushing McBride ahead of him.

“Wait. I know Falkner Square. You could hide a regiment in those big old houses. We’ll need men out the back, in the alleys, all around the square.”

“But you said—”

“Give me an hour.” Paterson reached for the phone. “I’ll call in some favors.”

Langton hesitated. He could feel the minutes ticking away. And every moment gave Doktor Glass another chance.

As if he saw this, Forbes Paterson placed a hand over the receiver and said, “Trust me, Langton. If you go there now you’ll only warn
Glass off. And I don’t want to risk that; he’s caught us out too many times in the past.”

Langton nodded his assent and stood outside the office with McBride. He knew Paterson was right, but apprehension churned inside him.

“Where to now, sir?”

Langton weighed options. “The Infirmary, and hopefully news of the ambulance that collected Reefer Jake.”

“Can you give me a minute, sir?”

“I’ll see you downstairs.” Langton collected his coat and searched for Harry, to check for messages. He couldn’t find the office boy, so he dropped down to the front desk and waited for McBride.

“Sorry to keep you, sir.” McBride, red in the face, hailed a hansom outside headquarters and held the door open for Langton to climb in.

“The Infirmary,” Langton called up to the driver, then turned to McBride. “So. The three men who visited Redfers.”

“Not very talkative, sir.” McBride opened his notebook and struggled to read it as the hansom rattled up Dale Street. “I called on Arthur Cameron first: a solicitor with a firm in Harrop Chambers. Unmarried. His maid said he left suddenly, took yesterday’s steamer for Canada. No idea when he’s coming back.”

“A planned trip?”

“All last minute, according to the maid.”

Langton nodded. Something had scared the solicitor. Or someone had warned him. “Go on.”

“I tried David Hemplemann next,” McBride said, staring intently at his own writing. “Businessman, something to do with import and export. Very fine house. Married with two children; wife’s one of those big women, like a ship in full sail. Anyway, he wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t even admit to knowing Redfers. You could tell he was scared, sir. Kept rubbing his hands together like he was washing something off. Pale as a ghost.”