Mr Eidelweiss is terribly keen to show me around- I barely have to show him my student pass in the end.
"Welcome, my dear, to the Museum of Inhumation," he smiles, half-way between a kindly grandfather and a seedy lecher; it's not immediately clear which he is. "It's by appointment only, of course, but your Provost telephoned this morning, so it's no trouble at all. Have you travelled far?"
"No, not that…not far," I say, my voice cracking embarrassingly. I am still working on it, and accordingly it fucks up at the worst possible times.
He doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't care- he's really into the sales pitch. "Within these four walls are housed all the known contraptions, devices, and weapons which were put to use by the Cocaina, the Volta, the Silenese, the Merchador…"
I cough, and he gets the point. "…and many other groups to carry out assassinations. Shall we begin?"
I nod, and a smile curdles my cheeks. "Of course, Mr Eidelweiss, sir."
He scoffs at that. "Please, who is this "Mr Eidelweiss" you speak of? Call me Lionel, do."
"Very well then," I chirp. "What's in the first room?"
He smiles, pleased at my eagerness, and ushers me inside. His hand lingers on my shoulder just a little too long, and I catch a whiff of sandalwood mixing with unwashed socks.
The room has a faded beige carpet that would not look out of place in a run-down b and b. The windows are thick with a patina of dust, the cornices beginning to tarnish. One corner is covered in a mishmash of sandbags and plastic sheeting. The main purpose of the room are the four glass cabinets; it reminds me of a taxidermy exhibit my mother dragged me to when I was younger.
Eidelweiss gestures to them. "In here are held what appear to be innocous objects, which hide deadly surprises." He is pulling on a pair of thick black gloves as he speaks. "Take this one, for instance…" He takes out a brass key, unlocks the cabinet, and retreives a small china-doll. The thing is exquisitely hand-made. The dress looks hand-sewn, with lace around the skirt and what looks like painted tin for the buckles; the head is painted, with darling cherub cheeks and a shock of cornsilk hair. I would have killed to own one as a child.
"It looks beautiful," he says, wonderingly. "And yet, within the head is a small lens, which can be precisely attuned to refract sunlight into a beam that can blind in an instant. Then it's a simple matter of bending the right arm…" He does so, and with a thwip, a tiny projectile is fired into the sandbags in the corner, discharging a small puff of dust.
"Coated in a toxin that arrests the heart's function," he explains. "Quite undetectable, too. And who would question a doll so lovely, cradled in a child's arms?"
"You mean to say the children worked as assassins?" I ask.
"Not necessarily, no. Give it as a gift for s visiting dignitary, and his daughter will smuggle in her father's own murder weapon. Not to say, of course, that the likes of the Volta were above training child assassins."
"I see," I say, and he places the doll down reverentially. "I dubbed her Morticia- a sick joke, of course."
"Of course." I nod, and he smiles.
"Over here, we have what I have dubbed the "Chekhov Chess Set," although its true inventor hailed from Romania and was called Dimitri." He snaps the board into place, arranging the pieces with swiftly working fingers. He waves a hand at the ranks of chessmen, then seizes the black and white rooks on opposite ends and screws them together, and adds a bishop on top. The queens slide horizontally inward, the king is pressed into the back, and suddenly.he is holding a tiny pistolette. He picks a black pawn and slips it into the barrel formed by the queens, and levels it squarely at my chest.
"Checkmate, my dear," he laughs. "And possilble in under thirty seconds, with practice. Eight shots available- the white pawns are completely normal."
"Wow, I see," I say. "And the person you were playing against has no idea?"
"None whatsoever. The pieces feel normally weighted, and function fine."
"It's incredible to think of the craft that goes into all this," I say. He is still pointing the pistol at me, and I force myself to breathe normally.
He nods. "Yes, it is, isn't it? The artisans behind these contraptions truly excelled themselves." He seems to finally register what he's doing with the pistolette, and begins to disassemble it. As he does so, I take the opportunity to glance around, at the carriage-clocks and music-boxes and teakettles and jewellery boxes, looking for all the world like harmless bric-a-brac.
"I ought to say," Eidelweiss says, "how refreshing it is to see a young…lady like yourself taking an interest in this sort of thing. So many women today are only interested in fanciful, flighty things, and it is…charming to meet someone who takes an interest in more engaging matters."
I note the pause before the word 'lady,' but I also note the way his eyes are peeking at my skirt, and relax- it's going to make this so much easier.
"Of course, Mr…Lionel, I mean, forgive me…it is all so fascinating." I draw the 'sooo' out a little, syrupy sweet. "Um…so, is everything you have here a matter of public record, as it were?"
"Oh, I suppose so," he says evasively. "Not that we have many visitors. I had intended to expand the gallery, perhaps install a second room…but alas, funding is so hard to come by…"
"Oh, I know," I commiserate. "I thought at one point we were due a turnaround, after the election, but then…"
"Yes, yes, it's been a rather disappointing year thus far," he says. "So, I didn't actually catch your…"
"How does the puzzle-box work?" I interrupt, pointing to the piece on the top shelf of the second case.
"Ah, the fidgeter's bane! A lovely little item, and so usual for crafting an alibi." He taps on the glass with a forefinger. "You prime it with morse code- tap out the word "A-R-M," and it is primed. Then it is left where the idle fidgeter may find it, and when its corners are rotated just so, a needle no finer than a human hair triggers, injecting the victim with whatever toxin is desired. The assassin may be on another continent entirely by the time the target falls.
"A bit indiscriminate, no?" I suggest.
He shrugs. "Perhaps. A decent assassin knows his target's habits well. There are pens and gyroscopes that follow a similar design…"
"And what about the music-box?' I point with one of my encarnadined nails to a small filigreed container.
"Ah…" He pauses. "You are an observant student. How did you know it was a music-box?'
"My father used to collect them," I lie easily. "I presumed it was a Riviera, but I suppose that's just part of the deception."
He nods. "It is based on that model, yes. The Devil's Trill is another masterwork of subtlety. Below its normal tone, it emits a series of sub-sonic notes that induce a kind of mania in the subject it is calibrated to. The stories one used to hear of noblemen massacring their entire houses- or of loving wives strangling their darlings- are likely attributable to this most ingenious little device."
"I see," I say. I brush an imaginary fleck of dirt off of my skirt. "So, am I correct in thinking that these things are no longer in use?"
"Of course! These are all creations of a bygone, barbaric age, my dear. Nowadays assassins are largely a thing of the past, but if any do operate, I am sure they utilise quite conventional weaponry." He sniffs. "There's no craftsmanship any more."
I tap a finger against my chin. "Indeed."
"So, my dear girl," (it comes easier that time), "what did you say you were studying?"
I perk up. "Patterns in forensic analysis."
His eyebrow raises. "I see. And what dfew you to my little collection?"
"Well, it's the strangest thing, Lionel. All over the City, people have been turning up dead, with no apparent cause. Police baffled. Suspicion everywhere. And the University; well, they specialise in analysis. And they spotted two things…two distinctive patterns."
He frowns. "Go on."
"One," I say, "the deceased were all philanthropists, socialists, movers and shakers. The kind of people that end up pissing people with money and power off."
"How troubling!"
"Isn't it just? And two…all of the crime scenes contained an anomaly. An item which none of the families of the departed could identify. It varied, of course- but if you knew what to look for, it told a story as vividly as any splatter pattern."
There's a faint, dry click, and like a magic trick, the pistoletto reappears in his hand. But I'd been expecting this from the start, so before he can even tense his finger on the ersatz trigger my hand is slicing through the air. My nails cut three vertical gashes on Mr Eideleweiss's cheek, and he howls like a maimed horse. There's a concussive whumpf and the glass in the rightmost cabinet explodes outward, a constellation of chaos on the carpet.
He screams, an inarticulate roar of rage.
"Yes, I expect it does burn rather. So start talking. Who were you supplying?"
He screams insults and invective, nothing I haven't heard before. I simply wait him out, and eventually, it transpires he's as bad at keeping secrets as he is at controlling himself around women. So he spills. His secrets first…his blood after that.
The University is very clear about teaching people a lesson. And the crime of trading these irreplacable secrets, for cash…that required people higher than Mr Eidelweiss to learn.
I leave the body cooling in the museum, and head for the dead drop.
Jenkins and Saltmeyer were well-known at the Garrick Club; two gentlemen who were terrible cads for wagers, and who seemed determined to one-up one another in silliness.
One day, Jenkins would enter walking backward, and greet the doorman with, "do-you-do how!"; another day, Saltmeyer would sport a ludiciriously oversized moustache; another might see one or other of the pair dining exclusively upon anchovy eggs; another speaking entirely in Pig Greek; and so on, and so forth. It was really quite tiresome, but, as is the English way, no one was quite brave enough to step in and put a stop to it, until the fateful day of which this tale concerns.
It was, fittingly, Friday the 13th of February, and bitterly cold, when Saltmeyer entered and took up his usual spot by the fireplace. Ordering his usual rum and twist, the patrons of the Garrick absorbed him into their collective unconscious, and he was forgotten about, until some ten or fifteen minutes had passed, when Jenkins appeared, resplendant in his duck-egg suit. He left his fetching Homberg at the front desk, and hurried to join his companion.
"I say, old boy, ripping to see you, what?"
"Likewise, you cursed fool. How's business?"
"The same since Neidermeyer!"
How both laughed. Jenkins ordered gin with "a soupçon of tonic" and the two settled in.
It was scarce a minute before the usual topic emerged.
"So, how did last week's little wager go? Did you manage the entire workday?" Jenkins asked.
" I did indeed!" Saltmeyer nodded. "Spoke as though I'd been born and bred in Barnsley my entire life, in-cluding the quarterly sales report, though I struggled to pronounce "Marquis". The manager thought I'd suffered a stroke!"
"Hah! Well, it seems tonight's drinks are on me, then. Jolly well done."
"Super. Though I have to say, I'm not sure how we'll top it."
Saltmeyer smiled. "Oh, don't you fret. As it happens I have an inkling."
"Intruiging! Do go on."
"Well, it's really rather simple, though quite daring."
"You have me positively on tenterhooks. Do be kind and let me off them, rotten beast."
Saltmeyer smiled, and spread his hands. "A seduction, was what I had in mind. My wager would be that you steal a kiss."
"I say!" Jenkins coughed, the gin had gone down wrong. "That is daring, but it hardly seems sporting to bring a woman into this. They're odd creatures, their heads are rather made of rubber-"
Saltmeyer's expression didn't waver. "Oh, no, you misunderstand. The target I had in mind was Percy Simms."
"Really? You don't mean a Patricia…?"
Saltmeyer shrugged. "As you say, rotten to bring a woman into it."
"A tad rotten to bring any person into it."
"Methinks there speaks a coward. Besides, I didn't complain when you bet me I couldn't aquire the waiter's tie."
"Still, though…it's rather a step up from a silly voice at work, isn't it?"
"Art thou indeed poulet? Must I enjoy another round at your kind beneficence?"
"No," Jenkins conceded. "A gentleman never backs down."
"Then you must arrange some manner of appointment that I might attend, and confirm. Say by next fortnight?"
"Very well. Let's shake on it."
"Let's, indeed. What fun! What super fun!"
. . . .
The trap was easily laid. Percy, it happened, was an aquaintance of Jenkins, and happily seemed to lack many events in his social calender. He was youngish, keenish, a good solid chap at his firm. The sort of fellow who's a solid bet for cards.
Jenkins telegrammed and proposed a night out. He had initially felt odd about the Garrick, but there was no-where else available at short notice. Percy's enthusastic acceptance signalled the first wrong note about this particular wager.
It wasn't as though he objected to the idea of passing time with the chap, but to do so with the spectre of this rather horrid bet looming large over the proceedings make his stomach feel queer.
The feeling only worsened when the set-upon evening came and he walked into the Garrick with half his usual bravado.
Percy was already there, grinning ear to ear, his neatly parted brown hair tucked rakishly behind his ear. He shook Jenkins' hand firmly.
"Jenkins! Thanks ever so for the suggestion- I've been so jolly bored ever since Godfrey slipped and fell into that wretched marriage. So nice to be able to relax!"
"Likewise, dear fellow, likewise," Jenkins said. Out of the corner of his eye, he captured Saltmeyer's smirk as he hid himself behind the Telegraph.
His initial plan had been simplicity itself: meet, smooch, dash, play off any residual awkwardness later as a sort of hazing ritual, such as the ones popular at American universities, and the Navy. But Percy's sweet, good-hearted reaction had made such a plan almost impossible. There had to be another way.
"So, how are things? I heard your firm is rising up the ranks," Percy said. "Doesn't surprise me, I've wanted to work with Gusson and Gunderson since I was a dot, but I doubt they'd be interested in the likes of me."
"I wouldn't do yourself down," Jenkins said kindly, "you've the right sort of look about you, and you dress companionably well."
"Gosh, thanks. You know they say in all the magazines that you ought to dress for the job you want," Percy said. "Of course, I suppose I'm a bit the new bug. Got to earn my stripes, or in this case my bootstraps I suppose."
It was true- truer than he knew. Jenkins knew Saltmeyer would never have tried this with Leonard Prosser or Albert Kyneston or even Gunther Hans- those were long-established names, who'd been with the firm a long while. Percy, however, was no-one. His reputation could be ruined without fear of rebuke.
"Everyone starts somewhere, Simms," Jenkins said gently. "Now, let's leave off the work talk, eh?"
It was beginning to dawn on him that he had no idea- no idea whatever- of how to seduce a man. Women were easy: one simply listened, laughed, and made them feel important. He supposed the same strategy might be workable.
Percy ordered drinks, and was rather insistent about paying. Jenkins accepted a Picardy Bloomingdale with good grace, as Percy seemed rather taken with it.
"So sorry I was early, by-the-by," Percy said. "Been a dreadful habit of mine from school. I was once fully fifteen minutes late to Matins, and the house-master really laid into me- in both senses of the word- and it rather left a scar- in only one sense. Now I simply can't be late. I start having palpitations if I am."
"No apology needed. Being early is something all the firms like, as long as you stay late as well, of course."
Percy sighed, and his nose wrinkled. "Ugh. No. I'm not quite that keen."
"Blast, we're on to work talk again, aren't we? Why don't we discuss something lighter? What's your hobby?"
"Hobby? Does a chap need to have one?" Percy said.
"Well, of course! Without a hobby it's all work, no play, isn't it? A chap grows awfully dull."
"What's yours, then?"
"I…" Jenkins bit back the sentence, "I make silly wagers with a chum," only to later reflect that it would have made a fine segue. "Actually, I paint." The lie slipped out easily.
"Oh, really? How super. You must show me some sketches sometime."
"Oh, it's not quite that simple," Jenkins said awkwardly. "They're rather clumsy canvases, and I'm no Barquentino-"
"Oh, posh, everyone says that when they start something new," Percy said sensibly. "I expect Barquentino himself sat in some squalid little taverna and said, 'Oh, woe is me, I shall never quite get those violets correct."
"Well, perhaps, perhaps. Do you, er…"
"Oh, I don't have time for much," Percy admitted. "I'm afraid my evenings are quite taken up, what with one thing and another. I've Jasper to see to."
"A dog? A cat?"
"Dog. A beagle, actually."
"Ah. I'm more a cat man, myself."
"Oh, that makes sense I suppose!"
This was becoming truly unbearable. The longer and longer this went on, the worse and worse he felt. Percy was being so kind and understanding and clearly suspected nothing was amiss. This was appalling, and he felt appalled.
When, at length, Percy repaired to the bar to order a second round, Jenkins gestured to Saltmeyer.
"Hey! Psst!"
"What on Earth is the matter? You two seem to be hitting it off swimmingly," he said, a.seedy smirk playing about his lips.
"Oh, pack it in. I'm calling it all off. I knew it didn't feel right to bring someone else into this, and you-"
"Oh, so you really are welshing? How utterly disappointing."
"You're just doing this to get back at me, aren't you?"
Saltmeyer shrugged. "What? Me? Never. I told you already, the thing with my sister is dead and buried, rather like that abhorrent ex-lover of hers. This was simply a new frontier to surpass, is all; and it was a frontier you have proved quite inadequate for. You can just admit defeat, you know."
"This isn't a defeat," Jenkins insisted. "I am calling a foul. I think you have deliberately perverted the rules, and furthermore…"
"Who's a pervert?"
Percy had come back, and was looking blithely at the two.
"He is," Saltmeyer said quickly. "But only in a financial sense."
"Ah, of course. Do you two, er-?"
"A chum of mine," Jenkins said quickly. "I' afraid I need to cut our evening short- um, an urgent call from head office."
Percy's face visibly fell. "Oh, really? What rotten luck!"
"Yes. Look, I'm awfully sorry to have wasted your evening…"
"Oh, but it wasn't a waste. It's been jolly nice just conversing. Well, if you must run…I suppose you must run."
"Yes. Thank you for understanding."
"I look forward to a fine evening at your expense, dear friend," Saltmeyer grinned. "I'll see you Tuesday week?"
Grumpily, Jenkins pulled on his coat, ready to venture forth into the wintry night. He went out to the foyer and dialled a cab.
As he replaced the reciever, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Percy was standing shyly.
"That friend of yours really is a boor,' he said.
The doorman on duty heard the faintest sound, a smoothing of fabric, but it registered so little he didn't even bother to turn his head.
trump made it so that you didn't have to fill in your race on any drop down forms. Instead you just wrote it down on a blank under a rainbow symbol, looked sort of like a color wheel, and I thought, I actually like this idea
Ma tipo scoperto che per motivi tecnici nell'opera musicale, il pezzo di Lucio Silla ora fa si che Cecilio,canonicamente maschio bianco etero cis, venga interpretato da una donna (perché credo sia un po' illegale la castrazione ai bambini ora)
