Time After Time (19 page)

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Authors: Karl Alexander

BOOK: Time After Time
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“Wait.” He grinned. Of course! They were employed to assist the city's populace. That explained it.
He turned and started for the door, then stopped again. If they were good samaritans, he postulated coldly, then why did they carry weapons? He entered the building with a foreboding sense of melancholy.
He made his way to the Homicide Division with relative ease, correctly surmising that employees who directed him assumed that because of his conservative attire he was either a government official or a barrister. Once there, however, he became embroiled with a bureaucratic desk sergeant who wanted to know his name, address, telephone number, the nature of his business and to see his identification before he would consider arranging an appointment with the lieutenant. Annoyed and ruffled, H.G. refused on all counts, then argued with the man, but got nowhere. So, he sat on the bench opposite the desk and decided to wait. He read through the newspaper and became knowledgeable of the political shenanigans of a certain Jerry Brown, governor of the state of California. The man was a master of gerrymandering and the red herring, he mused as he put the paper down, then resumed glaring at the desk sergeant.
Three hours later, H.G. sighed and decided to relent. He told the desk sergeant that he had information concerning the identity of the “massage-parlor murderer.”
“Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?”
Within minutes, H.G. found himself seated on a red-leather couch inside an office. The walls were lined with plaques, degrees, photographs and other sundry milestones of one man's long career of public service. Behind a desk and staring out the window was Lieutenant J. Willard Mitchell, a graying but trim twenty-seven-year veteran of the force. Occasionally, he would drink from a large mug
and puff on a cigarette. His ashtray was overflowing. So were the stacks of papers on his desk. So was the number of telephone calls that came into his office, making the electronic box beside his chair light up like an electric Christmas tree. As he regarded Mitchell, H.G. quickly understood that he was in the presence of a man who had seen it all, who had done everything, but didn't have the time to reflect upon one iota of it.
Mitchell picked up his telephone and pressed a button. “Ruth, hold the calls, will you please?” His voice had a slow and pleasant quality, making it seem like his thoughts were detached from the frenetic activity around him. “And tell Sergeant Ray to step in here, if he's got a minute.”
Moments later, a man came into the room. He wore his hair shoulder-length. He was dressed in jeans and a colorful shirt open to his abdomen. Incongruously so, thought H.G.; first, he was a detective, and second, his face resembled that of a wise English bulldog. No doubt he, too, had had his share of experiences.
Ray took a chair across the room and regarded H.G. with a suspicion normally reserved for representatives of the mayor's office. He pulled a pen and note pad out of his pants and waited.
“Mr. Wells has some information on the murder last night, and I thought we should both hear him out. For the record.”
“Which murder?”
“The one in the massage parlor.”
“Oh, yeah.” Ray made a note.
“Are you a U.S. citizen?” Mitchell asked H.G.
“No,” H.G. replied. “As you can obviously tell, I'm from London. I'm here on a visit.”
“First time in the States?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you have information concerning a murder in the city of San Francisco?”
“Yes. You might say that I'm a citizen of the world,” he added weakly.
Mitchell leaned over his desk, folded his hands over a mass of papers and forced a grin. “Fine. Now why don't you tell us what you came to tell us?”
H.G. cleared his throat. “I happen to know that the person responsible for the death of the Chinese courtesan is a man named Leslie John Stephenson.”
“S-t-e-v-e-n-s-o-n?” asked Ray, furiously scribbling.
“No. Step-hen-son. The man resides in London. He is a Harley Street physician, approximately thirty-one or -two, six feet tall, one hundred eighty pounds I would guess, dark-brown hair and deep-set eyes.”
“Check it out, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” Ray left the room.
Mitchell turned back to H.G. “How do you know this, Mr. Wells?”
“That's a bit hard to explain. As a matter of fact, it's impossible.” His hands felt clammy.
“I see.” The lieutenant thought a moment. “Are you a psychic?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have spiritual powers? I'm curious as to the source of your information.”
“I have no supernatural gifts, Lieutenant! If I could reveal my source to you, I would do so gladly, but I can't. I've told you what I know.”
Moments later, Ray returned and handed Mitchell several large, folded sheets. Then he excused himself and left the office. The lieutenant briefly studied the information before smiling tactfully at H.G.
“Well, I appreciate you coming in and sharing your insights
with us, Mr. Wells. Where can we reach you in the event we need to ask you something else?”
“Is that necessary? It's rather awkward … . I've been staying with a friend. Must we involve her in this?”
“Only if we have to contact you. We're very discreet, believe me.”
“Very well. I'm staying at 92
1/2
; Green Street and my friend's name is Miss Amy Robbins.”
Mitchell nodded and put down his pencil. “Thanks for your time, then.”
Suddenly, H.G. realized what was happening. He straightened up and spoke indignantly. “You're not going to do anything, are you?”
“Mr. Wells, you're asking us to arrest a man for murder because you say he committed a crime. If we worked like that, half this town would be in jail.”
“Are you doubting my word?”
Mitchell frowned, picked up the information, and began to read. “U.S. Customs has no record of a Dr. Leslie John Stephenson entering this country, but he could have entered illegally. The British Government has no record of ever issuing a passport to a Leslie Stephenson, but he could've forged one. The London police have no record of a Leslie John Stephenson, and neither do Scotland Yard, the FBI, CIA, MI-5, Interpol or the Sûreté.” He paused to light another cigarette. “Finally, the United Kingdom's Bureau of Vital Statistics has no record of a Leslie John Stephenson.” He scowled at H.G. “Yes, Mr. Wells, I am doubting your word.”
H.G. was so impressed that he did not realize that Mitchell had called him a liar. “How did you get all that information so quickly?”
“Computers, Mr. Wells.” He got up and went to the window. “We have them just like everybody else.” He turned and gestured at the door. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm a very busy man.”
“You're asking me to leave?” H.G. was astonished.
“Let me put it another way,” he said kindly. “I've tried to be nice to you because you're a foreigner. Still, I don't appreciate publicity stunts or receiving false information. If I didn't have to deal with your consulate, I'd have you locked up and held for seventy-two hours.”
H.G. stiffened. “I have not given you false information, Lieutenant!”
“The computers don't lie!” Mitchell replied sharply.
“My good man, do you mean to say that you would trust an electronic device more than the word of a gentleman?”
“Wouldn't you?” Mitchell grinned and held the door open for him. “And please, Mr. Wells, don't ever let me see you in this building again, okay? Cheerio.”
Shaken, H.G. left and hurried for the exit. He bit his lip, disillusioned, his optimism shattered. Oh, certainly, these 1979ers had cars and airships and telephones and television and an entire potpourri of electronic wizardry that did everything from drying one's hair to thinking for him. And yet, the technology had not freed mankind from crime; rather, man's inhumanity to man appeared to be on the rise. Why, if Lieutenant Mitchell's implications were accurate, crime was increasing faster than the police could control it.
He left the building, deep in thought. Was man incapable of keeping pace with science? Or had anyone bothered to find out? Or was it that the marvels of science did not serve all mankind, hence some reacted against it and committed horrible crimes? Or could it be that technology created its own form of alienation?
H.G. would have to answer those questions before he left 1979. For a moment, he wanted to cry. Would he have to warn people about the dangers of progress? Would he have to write that the future was a brilliantly lit, clean yet poisonous environment where one had nothing to look forward to? He clenched his jaws and turned his back to a sudden gust of cold wind. Face it, H.G. Recognize
it. You will write whatever is the truth and you will remain a champion of the intellect and the rational, no matter what.
He began walking away from the police headquarters, head down, soberly looking at weeds that grew out of cracks in the concrete. All right, he thought, so there was no Utopia. So man couldn't handle technology right now. Who was to say that resilient and clever human beings of 2079 wouldn't straighten things out? Or 3079! He smiled. Perhaps he would take another flight along the fourth dimension and find out.
So, the San Francisco Police Department intended to do nothing about Leslie John Stephenson. He straightened up and threw back his shoulders. Then he would jolly well have to catch Jack the Ripper all by himself. And by so doing, he would teach them a lesson from the past, no doubt forgotten. He would show them—specifically Lieutenant Mitchell—that they should never take the word of a gentleman lightly.
 
 
Stephenson got off a cable car at Hyde and Beach streets after a most unpleasant ride. Despite the laughter and gaiety of the tourists, he hated the awkward little conveyance. The car was antiquated! A buggering relic of the past. Slow and uncomfortable and inefficient. The experience reminded him of the many nights he had ridden the District Line and breathed the horrible fumes while crouched on a hard wooden bench, wondering if he would be accosted by the police. Yes, the cable car was nineteenth century, and it made him angry.
He paused to spit on the rear window of the car, then hurried away. He strolled along Beach Street, but did not appreciate the remarkable view of the Pacific, the graceful sea gulls or the brisk salt air. He wished for the fog and the night, disliking intensely the bright winter sun. The incident at the bank had left him deeply concerned. True, the fact that he did not exist in 1979 had put him in an ideal
position. He could murder at will and not have to worry about leaving evidence behind. But the reactions of the young woman at the bank had been too obvious to ignore. H. G. Wells knew that he was alive, and that was a problem. Granted, Wells had always been inept when it came to physical confrontations, but the little man was clever and brilliant. He was a foe not to be taken lightly.
Stephenson found himself in Ghirardelli Square surrounded by small, exclusive shops that had once been part of a chocolate factory. So Wells knew he was alive, did he? Certainly, he would have to rectify that. True, he was reticent to kill a male human being since murder was by definition a sexual act. Maybe there was another way to deal with Wells. He didn't have to avoid the little scientist. He didn't have to worry about being tracked down by the man. Quite the contrary. He didn't even have to kill Wells. All he had to do was find him.
He remembered the large, heavy book in his Jack Tar Hotel suite that had been beside the telephone, then found a telephone booth. He went inside and opened the directory that was chained to the shelf. What was the girl's name? The one who knew Wells? Robbins. Yes, that was it. He found the “R's,” scanned the pages, then grinned with satisfaction. There it was. He memorized her address. He left the booth, strolled back into the square. He had absolutely nothing to worry about, for now he could resolve the problem of Wells. Perhaps tonight. When the city was dark and thick with fog. Late tonight after she had gone to bed. If he felt so inclined.
He swaggered into a clothing store named (tastefully so, he thought) “The Body Shop.” He saw the establishment was empty, a fact that surprised him. There was an abundance of contemporary haberdasheries; and the decor was mainly chrome and glass. Unseen speakers played modern music that made him want to dance without inhibitions. Indeed, this was no refuge for tails, top hats
and waltzes; this shop felt like the future, and he was thrilled to be within its mirrored walls.
He selected seven colorful silk shirts with wide collars, balloon sleeves and fabric-covered buttons. He grinned. Perfect plumage for the here and now.
Then he saw her come into the room with a long curvaceous stride, tossing her head so that her hair flew like a thoroughbred's mane. She wore tight, bleached-muslin pants and a matching jacket-blouse left unbuttoned six inches below respectability. She had a pleasant face that was not beautiful; her mouth was a touch too wide, her brown eyes a little too trusting. Perhaps that was why he sensed that she lacked confidence. Then again, he could be wrong, for she stopped directly in front of him, placed her hands on her hips and did not shy away from his gaze.

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