The Map of Time (41 page)

“Let me see if I’ve understood you correctly. Are you telling me this is the only lead you have in this case, Inspector?” Chief Superintendent Arnold said, waving the advertisement for Murray’s Time Travel Garrett had given him. He jabbed his finger at the little illustration showing the brave Captain Shackleton shooting a hole in an automaton with a ray gun.

Garrett sighed. The fact that Chief Superintendent Arnold had not been on any of the expeditions to the future meant he was forced to fill him in on the subject, and so he wasted several minutes explaining in general terms what was happening in the year 2000 and how they had traveled there, until he reached the part that really interested him: the weaponry used by the human soldiers. Those guns were capable of cutting through metal, and so it was not impossible to imagine that used on a human the effect might be very similar to what he had seen on the body in the Marylebone morgue. As far as he was aware, no weapons in their own time could cause such a horrific wound, a fact he could see was borne out by Dr. Alcock in his autopsy report.At this point, Garrett presented his theory to Arnold: one of these men from the future, possibly the one named Shackleton, had stowed away on the Cronotilus when he and the others had traveled back to their time, and was now on the loose in the year 1896 armed with a lethal weapon. If he were right, they had two choices: they could search the whole of London for Shackleton, which might take several weeks, with no guarantee of success, or they could save themselves the trouble by arresting him where they knew he would be on May 20 in the year 2000. Garrett only had to go there with two police officers, and arrest him before he was able to travel back to their own day.

“What’s more,” he added, in a last-ditch attempt to convince his superior, who was shaking his head, visibly perplexed, “if you give me permission to arrest Captain Shackleton in the future, your department will be in line for all kinds of plaudits, because we will have achieved something truly groundbreaking: arresting a murderer before he is able to commit a crime, thus preventing it from happening.” Chief Superintendent Arnold gazed at him in disbelief.

“Are you telling me that if you travel to the year 2000 and arrest this murderer, his crime will be … rubbed out?” Garrett understood how difficult it was for a man like Chief Superintendent Arnold to grasp something like this. No one would find it easy to understand the implications of what he was saying, unless they stayed awake all night as he did, mulling over the paradoxes time travel might give rise to.

“I’m convinced of it, Chief Superintendent. If I arrest him before he commits the crime, it will inevitably change the present. Not only will we be arresting a murderer, we’ll be saving a life, because I assure you the tramp’s corpse will vanish from the morgue in a flash,” Garrett declared, unsure himself of exactly how this would happen.

Thomas Arnold pondered for a few moments the praise Scotland Yard would earn from such temporal acrobatics. Luckily, the chief superintendent’s limited imagination was unable to comprehend that once the murderer was arrested, not only would the corpse disappear, but so would everything relating to the crime, including the interview taking place at that very moment. There would be no murder to solve. In short: they would earn no plaudits because they would have done nothing. The consequences of arresting Shackleton in the future, before he traveled into the past to commit his crime, were so unpredictable that Garrett himself, as soon as he paused to analyze them for a moment, found them dizzying. What would they do with a murderer whose crime no one remembered because he had been arrested before he committed it? What the devil would they accuse him of? Or perhaps Garrett’s journey into the future would also be flushed away down the giant cosmic drain where everything that had been prevented from happening disappeared? He did not know, but he was certain he was the instrument to set everything in motion.

After two hours of discussion, the dazed Chief Superintendent Arnold had ended the interview with a promise to Garrett that he would meet the commissioner and the prime minister that very afternoon and explain the situation to them as best he could. Garrett thanked him. This meant the following day, if no problems arose, he would receive the warrant to arrest Shackleton in the year 2000. Then he would go to Murray’s Time Travel to see Gilliam and demand three seats on the next voyage of his Cronotilus.

As one might expect, while Garrett waited he mulled over the case. On this occasion, however, rather than attempt to solve it by analyzing the various elements, which was pointless as he had already found the murderer, he simply marveled at its extraordinary ramifications, as if he were examining a web spun by a new species of spider. And for once Garrett was not sitting in his office thinking these thoughts, but on a bench on the pavement opposite a luxurious house on Sloane Street. This was the abode of Nathan Ferguson, the pianola manufacturer, whom, unfortunately, owing to his friendship with his father, Garrett had known all his life. Garrett had his doubts whether this odious fellow was in fact largely responsible for the devastating war of the future as that foul-mouthed young Winslow had suggested in jest, but he had nothing against spending the evening enjoying a bunch of grapes while he watched his house to see whether anyone suspicious came prowling around. If they did, it would no doubt save him a trip to the future. But it was quite possible too that Ferguson’s only function in the vast scheme of the universe was as a manufacturer of those absurd pianolas, and that Captain Shackleton was at that very moment stalking someone else’s house. Why else would he have killed the tramp? What could that poor wretch’s life have meant to the captain? Had he been an unfortunate casualty, an accident, or was there more to the cadaver lying in the morgue than met the eye? Was it perhaps a key piece in the puzzle of the future? Garrett was absorbed in these thoughts but was forced to end them when he saw the door to the house open and Ferguson step out. The inspector rose from his bench and ducked behind a tree from where he had a clear view of what was happening on the pavement opposite. Ferguson paused to put on his top hat and survey the night with a triumphant expression. Garrett saw that he was elegantly turned out and assumed he must be on his way to some dinner or other. After pulling on his gloves, Ferguson closed the door behind him, descended the flight of steps, and began strolling down the street in a leisurely way. Apparently, wherever he was headed must be near enough for him not to summon his carriage. Garrett wondered whether to follow him or not.

Before he had a chance to decide what action to take, just as Ferguson was passing the flower beds bordering the lawn in front of his house, a shadow emerged silently from among the bushes. It was wearing a long coat and a cap pulled down over its face. Garrett did not need to see who it was; he knew. He was the first to be astonished that his theory had proved correct.

With a determined gesture, the figure pulled a pistol out of its coat pocket and aimed it at Ferguson as he strolled along oblivious of what was going on behind his back. Garrett responded with alacrity. He leapt out from behind the tree and raced across the street. He was aware that surprise was his strongest weapon against Shackleton, who was twice his size and strength. The sound of Garrett’s footsteps alerted the shadow, who watched his swift approach with visible alarm, while still training the gun on Ferguson. Garrett hurled himself at Shackleton with all his might, grabbing him round the waist, and the two of them fell through the bushes into the garden. The inspector was surprised at how easily he was able to pin down Shackleton, but quickly realized that this was because he was lying on top of a beautiful young woman, whose mouth was within kissing distance of his.

“Miss Nelson?” he stammered, at a loss.

“Inspector Garrett!” she exclaimed, equally nonplussed.

Garrett’s face flushed bright red. He leapt up, disentangling himself from their unseemly embrace, then helped her to her feet.

The revolver lay on the ground, but neither of them hurried to pick it up.

“Are you all right?” asked the inspector.

“Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry,” the girl replied, gasping and pulling an annoyed face. “I don’t think I’ve broken any bones, in spite of everything.” Lucy brushed the mud off her clothes, and let down her hair from the bun it had been wound up in that had come loose during the fall.

“Forgive me for charging at you like that, Miss Nelson,” Garrett apologized, entranced by the lovely golden cascade resting on her shoulders liked honey spilling from a jar. I’m truly sorry, but … if I’m not mistaken, you were going to shoot Mr. Ferguson.” “Of course I was going to shoot Mr. Ferguson, Inspector! I haven’t been hiding in the bushes all evening for nothing,” the girl replied sulkily.

She bent down to retrieve the pistol, but Garrett was quicker than her.

“I think I’d better keep this,” he said grinning apologetically.

“But tell me, why kill Mr. Ferguson?” Lucy sighed, and stared distractedly at the ground for a few moments.

“I’m not the shallow girl everyone thinks I am, you know,” she said in a wounded voice. “I care about the world just as much as anyone else. And I intended to prove it by stopping the man responsible for the war of the future.” “I don’t think you’re shallow,” said Garrett. “And anyone who does is an ass.” Lucy beamed, flattered by the inspector’s remark.

“Do you really mean that?” she said, demurely.

“Of course, Miss Nelson,” said the inspector, smiling shyly back at her. “But don’t you think there are better ways of proving it than by staining those lovely hands of yours with blood?” “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Garrett,” Lucy admitted, gazing at the inspector in admiration.

“I’m so glad you agree,” said Garrett, genuinely relieved.

They stood in silence gazing at each other awkwardly for a few seconds.

“What now, Inspector?” she said at length, her face a picture of innocence. “Are you going to arrest me?” Garrett sighed.

“I suppose I should, Miss Nelson,” he acknowledged reluctantly, “however …” He paused for a moment, weighing up the situation.

“Yes?” said Lucy.

“I’m prepared to forget all about it if you promise not to shoot anyone again.” “Oh, I promise, Inspector!” said the girl, overjoyed. “Now, kindly give me the pistol so I can put it back in my father’s drawer before he notices it’s missing.” Garrett paused, but in the end handed it to her. When she took it, their fingers touched; they lingered for a moment sharing a sense of delight. Garrett cleared his throat as Lucy slipped the gun into her coat pocket.

“Will you allow me to walk you home, Miss Nelson?” he asked, not daring look her in the eye. “It is unwise for a young lady to be out alone at this hour, even if she does have a gun in her pocket.” Lucy smiled, charmed by Garrett’s offer.

“Of course, I will,” she said. “You’re very kind, Inspector.

What’s more, I don’t live far from here and it’s a lovely evening.

It’ll make a pleasant walk.” “I’m sure it will,” Garrett replied.

35

The next morning, in the privacy of his office, Inspector Colin Garrett ate his breakfast with a dreamy look on his face. Naturally, he was thinking of Lucy Nelson, her lovely eyes, her golden tresses, the way she had smiled at him when she asked whether she could write him a letter. At that moment, a constable barged in with a warrant signed by the prime minister requesting he set off for the future to arrest a man who had not yet been born. Suffering from the effects of being in love, which, as you know, more often than not put one in a daze, the inspector did not realize the letter’s significance until he found himself in the cab being driven to Murray’s Time Travel.

Garrett legs had turned to jelly the first time he had crossed the threshold of Murray’s headquarters, clutching the money his father had left him that was to be transformed into something straight out of a dream: a ticket to the future, to the year 2000. This time he did so with a resolute stride, even though he had something just as incredible in his jacket pocket, a warrant that seemed all the more extraordinary considering it was for the arrest of a phantom. And Garrett was convinced that if time travel were to become routine, this would be the first in a long line of similar warrants enabling police officers to make arrests in different eras, provided that the crimes were committed in the same place: London. When he had scrawled his signature on the slip of paper Garrett was carrying in his inside pocket, the prime minister, doubtless unawares, had taken an epoch-making step, blazed a new trail. As Garrett had predicted, science and its amazing creations would beat the rhythm to which humanity would dance.

But this warrant would also allow Garrett certain liberties in space. Like not being forced to languish in some waiting room until that busiest of men, Gilliam Murray, deigned to see him.

Invested with the power conferred on him by the scrap of paper in his inside pocket, Garrett marched straight past the secretaries guarding Murray’s privacy, and, ignoring their objections, went up the stairs to the first floor, then along the corridor lined with clocks, and breezed in to Murray’s office, a bevy of breathless assistants in his wake. Gilliam Murray was lying on the carpet playing with a huge dog. He frowned slightly when he saw Garrett come in without knocking, but the inspector did not allow himself to be intimidated. He knew his behavior was more than justified.

“Good morning, Mr. Murray. Inspector Colin Garrett of Scotland Yard,” he introduced himself, “Forgive me for barging in like this, but there’s an urgent matter I need to discuss with you.” Murray rose to his feet very slowly, eyeing the inspector suspiciously before dismissing his assistants with a wave of his hand.

“You needn’t apologize, Inspector, any matter you deal with must by definition be urgent,” he said, offering him an armchair as he crammed his huge frame into one opposite.

Once they were seated, Gilliam picked up a small wooden box from the table between their two chairs, opened it, and, in a brisk, friendly manner that contrasted with his initial aloofness, offered Garrett a cigar. The inspector refused politely, smiling to himself at Murray’s brusque change of attitude, reflecting how swiftly he must have weighed up the pros and cons of getting on the wrong side of an inspector from the Yard and decided that playing up to him was a far better strategy. It was thanks to this that Garrett was sitting in a comfortable armchair and not on the footstool next to it.

“So, you don’t like smoke?” remarked Gilliam, putting the box back on the table and picking up a cut-glass decanter containing a peculiar blackish substance, which he poured into two glasses.

“Perhaps I can tempt you to a drink.” Garrett balked slightly at the glass of dark liquid Murray was holding out to him. But Murray grinned amiably, encouraging him to try it as he took a swig of his. Garrett did the same and felt the strange beverage sting his throat as it went down, the tears starting to his eyes.

“What is it, Mr. Murray?” he asked, perplexed, unable to refrain from letting out a loud belch. “A drink from the future?” “Oh, no, Inspector. It’s a tonic made from coca leaves and cola seeds invented by a chemist in Atlanta. It’s all the rage in the United States. Some people prefer taking it with a little soda, like me. I expect they’ll soon be importing it over here.” Garrett put down his glass on the table, disinclined to take another sip.

“It has a peculiar flavor. I don’t imagine people will take to it very easily,” he predicted, for the sake of saying something.

Gilliam smiled his assent, emptied his glass, and, visibly eager to ingratiate himself, asked: “Tell me, Inspector, did you enjoy your trip to the year 2000?” “Very much, Mr. Murray,” replied Garrett, in earnest. “What’s more, I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I fully endorse your project, regardless of what some newspapers say about the impropriety of visiting a time that doesn’t belong to us. I have an open mind, and I find the idea of time travel enormously appealing. I eagerly await the opening up of new routes to other eras.” Murray thanked Garrett for his comments with a timid smile, then sat expectantly in his chair, no doubt inviting the inspector to reveal the reason for his visit. Garrett cleared his throat and came straight to the point: “We live in fascinating but tremendously volatile times, Mr. Murray,” he said, reeling off the little preamble he had prepared.

“Science drives events, and mankind must adapt. Above all, if our laws are to remain effective, we must update them to suit the changing face of the world. Even more so when it comes to time travel. We are at the dawn of an extraordinary era of discovery that will doubtless redefine the world as we know it, and whose inherent dangers are impossible, or extremely difficult, to judge.

It is precisely these dangers I came here to speak to you about, Mr. Murray.” “I couldn’t agree with you more, Inspector,” Murray conceded. “Science will change the face of the world, and oblige us to modify our laws, and even many of our principles, the way that time travel is already doing. But, tell me, what are these dangers you wish to speak to me about? I confess you’ve aroused my curiosity.” Garrett sat up in his chair and cleared his throat once more.

“Two days ago,” he said, “the police discovered a man’s body in Manchester Street, Marylebone. He was a tramp, but the injury that killed him was so extraordinary they handed the case over to us. The wound consists of an enormous hole twelve inches wide that goes straight through his chest and is singed at the edges. Our pathologists are baffled. They claim no weapon exists that is capable of inflicting such an injury.” Garrett made a dramatic pause before fixing Murray with a solemn stare, and adding: “At least not here, not in the present.” “What are you suggesting, Inspector?” asked Murray, in a casual manner that did not correspond with the way he was fidgeting in his chair.

“That the pathologists are right,” replied Garrett, “such a weapon hasn’t yet been invented. Only I’ve seen it, Mr. Murray.

Guess where?” Gilliam did not reply but looked at him askance.

“In the year 2000.” “Really,” murmured Murray.

“Yes, Mr. Murray. I’m convinced this wound can only have been inflicted by the weapon I saw the brave Captain Shackleton and his men using. The heat ray that can pierce armor.” “I see …” Gilliam muttered as if to himself, staring into space.

“The weapon used by the soldiers of the future, of course.” “Precisely. I believe one of them, possibly Shackleton, traveled back on the Cronotilus without being noticed and is roaming our streets at this very moment. I’ve no idea why he killed the tramp or where he is hiding now, but that doesn’t matter: I don’t intend to waste time searching the whole of London for him when I know exactly where he is.” He pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Murray. “This is a warrant signed by the prime minister authorizing me to arrest the murderer on May 20 in the year 2000, before he can even commit his crime. It means I’ll need to travel with two of my officers on the expedition leaving in a week’s time. Once we arrive in the future, we’ll separate from the others so that we can spy on the passengers from the second expedition and discreetly detain anyone who attempts to stow away on the Cronotilus.” As he spoke, it dawned on the inspector that if he lay in wait for the passengers of the second expedition he would unavoidably see himself. He only hoped it would not repulse him as much as the sight of blood. He glanced at Murray, who was carefully studying the warrant. He was silent for so long it occurred to Garrett he might even be examining the consistency of the paper.

“But have no fear, Mr. Murray,” he felt obliged to add, “if Shackleton does turn out to be the murderer, my arresting him after his duel with Solomon won’t affect the outcome of the war.

It will still end in victory for the human race, and it won’t affect your show either.” “I understand,” murmured Gilliam without looking up from the document.

“May I count on your cooperation, Mr. Murray?” Gilliam slowly raised his head and looked at Garrett with what for a moment the inspector imagined was contempt, but he soon realized his mistake when Murray quickly beamed at him, and replied: “Certainly, Inspector, certainly. I shall reserve three seats for you on the next expedition.” “I’m most grateful to you, Mr. Murray.” “And now, if you’ll excuse me,” said Murray, standing up and handing him back the document. “I’m extremely busy.” “Of course, Mr. Murray.” Slightly taken aback by the way Murray had abruptly ended the interview, Garrett rose from his armchair, thanked him once more for his cooperation, and left his office. A smile played across the inspector’s lips as he walked along the interminable corridor lined with clocks. By the time he reached the stairs. he was in an excellent mood and began chanting to himself: “Peritoneum, spleen, left kidney, suprarenal gland, urinary tract, prostate gland … ,” he sang.