Empire State (17 page)

  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.

 

 
 

 
 

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.

 
 

 

 
 

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.

  The drink was foul, a mix of hot water and something which Rad had thought was loose leaf tea in the back of another cupboard, but which he really wasn't sure of now he was actually drinking the stuff. But it was warming, and if he stopped breathing through his nose as he swallowed, he could pretend it was tea. He sat on the edge of the bed, and regarded his wardrobe through the haze of steam from his mug. Double doors, which opened out and folded back almost completely. Good. He set the mug down on the bedside table, flicked the side light on and then stood and killed the main light. The room went from hard white to soft yellow, the overhead strip light giving way to the shaded incandescent bulb of the table lamp. That was the first part. Minimise reflections. Rad checked this off on his mental list as he skipped over the single bed and closed the curtain over the large window that looked out over the night outside. Another reflection quenched.

  Rad didn't have much stuff. Well, actually he did, but until he signed Claudia's papers they were held "in trust" by the Empire State. A nice insurance policy, or perhaps outright bribery. Rad had given up worrying about it, happy that he had his grandfather clock at least. For the moment he was also pleased he didn't have to rearrange things in the small room so much as he rolled the thin rectangular rug up to reveal old, worn, and quite wonderful floorboards. Rad paused, smiling, and thought perhaps the boards were much nicer than the rug itself.

  Step three. He clomped over to the wardrobe, his footsteps percussive in the small room and reminding him why he had the rug down. He unlatched the doors, and swung them open. A few minutes later he'd cleared the items – ties, suspenders, belts; all old and ratty – that hung from racks affixed to the backs of the doors and dumped them on the bed. The doors, and their two mirrors, were clear.

  Rad walked backwards and sat on the bed as soon as he felt its edge against the back of his knees. He picked up his mug, checked his watch, and waited. There were twenty minutes to go.

 

Rad woke up with a jerk, and knew at once the biggest mistake he had made was the eight hours of sleep he'd treated himself to yesterday. They were sheer bliss, and when he'd gotten up he felt revived and invigorated and very happy. But sleep was like a drug. It was a physical addiction, and now Rad had fallen off the wagon. Now his body wanted it more than ever, and at every opportunity it would tug his consciousness down under the blankets to where it was soft and warm and dark.

  And now he had a stiff neck from lying awkwardly on the bed. His legs were still bent at the knee, hanging off the edge of the bed from where he had been sitting, what, ten minutes ago? Rad didn't remember falling asleep. He sat up slowly and painfully, his body made of lead and his head made, conversely, of something approaching sponge. His fingers dragged his eyelids around as he rubbed them dry. He sighed, and looked at his watch.

  "Hell in a handbasket!" He came to his feet even as he drew breath to curse, and looked wildly around the room. The wardrobe doors, so carefully cleared of random, musty business attire, were closed. Rad had slept for an hour. He had missed Nimrod's appointment.

  Rad swore again, and paced the room looking for something to kick. With the few items of furniture neatly tucked away according to Nimrod's instructions, there was nothing within reach, so after a few seconds Rad settled for throwing the bent roll of rug down onto the floorboards. It hit them with a satisfying
woof
, sending a surprisingly large cloud of dust up into the middle of the room. Rad coughed; his eyes closed as he waved the stale particles away.

  "Good evening, detective."

  Rad opened his eyes and almost sneezed. Framed in the doorway connecting the back room to the main office stood a black shape with shining white eyes. The intruder filled the doorway almost entirely, shoulders rubbing on the jamb and the tall helmet leaving just half an inch to spare. When the figure turned his head, there was a creak of thick leather and a rattle, something metallic like chain mail. His cloak pooled across the floor like a small, dark lake.

  The Skyguard. Rad's shoulders tensed. He'd tried to forget about his rescue in the alleyway, now knowing that the two goons were in the employ of Nimrod. Maybe there hadn't been any connection between his mysterious caller and the city's deceased protector. Maybe someone had just taken up the Skyguard's mantle and arty mask thing and had just interrupted Rad's mugging by chance.

  But having slept an hour, having missed Nimrod, and with the wardrobe's twin doors shut (and it sure wasn't Rad who had shut them), and with the Skyguard as large as life in his office, Rad knew there had to be a link. Nimrod and the Skyguard, with Rad in the middle. This complicated things.

  "Detective?" The Skyguard took a step forward, cloak swimming silently across the floorboards. "You don't seem surprised to see me. I apologise if I interrupted your plans. But you don't want anything to do with Nimrod, trust me." His voice was a hoarse, metallic whisper.

  Rad laughed. It was an unhappy sound, and as he sat back on the bed he was shaking his head.

  "What is this? The 'Second Appearance'? You gonna pop up three times and grant me a wish? Or is there some mystic prophecy to fulfil?"