The Dust-driven engine clanked and hummed, its wheels
churning up the tracks a good bit faster than Lappeus was comfortable with, but
he affected a pose of nonchalance in the club car. While the three-car train
with its specialized engine certainly made travel between the city and the
mining towns far easier, the tall pines zipping past the windows troubled the
former constable more than he would ever admit. Not so his boss. Herr Founder
Villard lounged in a vast easy chair, swirling his scotch in a crystal glass
before having another swig of it, as if before his own hearth in the parlor of
his mansion on Pittock Hill.
Villard Hill, Lappeus
corrected himself silently. Though all Concordians older than the Cataclysm
tended to use the original designations for places, after the fire and the
rebuilding, their generous benefactor was persistent in encouraging people to use names which better reflected the city’s
rebirth. Lappeus remembered when it had been the Pittock Mansion, but when the
City Council decreed the grand castle of a home the official residence of their
newly elected leader, Villard renamed it almost as fast as he’d moved in.
Lappeus smiled, recalling that election. First
one was easy. Everyone loved him, the grand old bastard, investing so much in
rebuilding the city. After that, all he had to do was pay for the booze and the
muscle. Lappeus had been instrumental in directing the many voting press
gangs in subsequent elections.
“Vat causes such an enigmatic smile, James?”
Lappeus glanced over at his employer. Villard’s white
mustache stretched ear to ear in a cheerful smile, his eyes bright, cheeks rosy
in the lamplight of the car. Damn if the
sumbitch don’t always look like Santa Claus without his red hat, Lappeus
thought, and his own smile turned to a grin. He tossed back the last of his
glass and held it up for a refill. The coolie attendant plucked the glass from
his fingers and in seconds replaced it full of smooth scotch, then stepped back
to stand at the ready by the bar. Traveling with Villard on the Goldline route
did have its perks. “Oh, just thinkin’ about election season comin’ up soon,”
Lappeus drawled. The car jostled a bit as he drank, and he pulled a silk
handkerchief from his pocket to dab his graying beard.
Villard chuckled. “Indeed it is. Do you haff sufficient
men to attend ze polls zis year?” He beckoned for a cigar, giving Lappeus a
questioning look.
Lappeus held up a hand to indicate he was fine, and
carefully pondered the query. “I believe so. Are we runnin’ the Voting Train again
this year?” Giving the loggers the day off, and a train with fully-stocked open
bar to transport them to the city, had proved immensely successful. Lappeus
hadn’t even needed the ballot-counters he’d hired at the office next to the
depot; the drunken louts had unanimously voted to retain their liquorous
benefactor as the Chief Officer of Concordia.
“Vy not? It seemed popular last time.” Villard puffed the
rare tropical tobacco and watched the cloud slowly dissipate in the closed car.
“I haff been remiss in thanking you, James. Vere it not for your keen
attention, Humbert might have swindled me far more.”
Lappeus inclined his head. “Well, the Oro Fino didn’t get
to be the finest variety establishment in Concordia through inattention to the
books.”
Villard laughed. “You are a man of many talents!
Saloonkeeper, theatre impresario, gambler und pimp...und now ze best lieutenant
I haff ever had.”
Lappeus pretended to be insulted, pointing the hand
holding his drink at his boss. “Henry, you wound me! I far prefer the term
‘consort coordinator.’” He grinned at Villard’s continuing chuckles, then
turned serious. “I am glad you’re
gonna take a look at the books. I’m not entirely sure I estimated the whole
dollar amount of the little bastard’s perfidy accurately.” Less than a week
ago, Lappeus had confirmed his suspicions of embezzling in the St Helens camp,
when he’d compared the various ledgers detailing the operations of both the
logging and mining efforts run by the Columbia Concordia Venture, major funnels
of cash flow for the Northern Pacific empire. The regional accounts manager,
one Berthold Humbert, had been skimming profits before turning them over to the
monthly collection agent. Lappeus was still annoyed that the agent, Smythe,
hadn’t noticed any discrepancies. He suspected Smythe had been bribed. Ah, well, he’ll talk soon enough. Been hung
up in the trees for, what, fourteen hours now? He checked his watch. Fifteen. I’ll have Fitzit and Groom haul him
down tomorrow morning and see what he has to say for himself. Of course, it
was possible the agent simply wasn’t bright enough to catch on, and in that
case, he ought to be replaced anyway.
Villard nodded. “Ze Helens mine is our top producer right
now. Of course I am happy to take a look.” He puffed thoughtfully on the cigar.
“Vat did you do vit Humbert?”
Surprised, Lappeus shrugged. His boss rarely asked for
details after an order was given to “take care of” a business matter. “Took him
by kraken over the smokin’ crater atop the mountain an’ dropped him in.”
Villard seemed keenly interested. “Did he break, or
burn?”
“Looked like he burned afore he even hit the magma.”
“Vitnesses?”
Lappeus grinned again. “Of course. His secretary.”
Villard nodded, satisfied. “Goot.” The terrified clerk
would be extra careful in his daily tallies from now on, and might even whisper
warnings to whomever Villard appointed as the new accountant. Noting his
lieutenant’s shifting in his chair, Villard said, “Ve vill pause to inspect ze
engine bearings at Yale Camp. Time enough to stretch your legs there before ve
head up ze mountain.”
Lappeus agreed with a nod. The conversation turned to
whoring. Villard enjoyed stories from the back rooms of the Oro Fino Variety
Hall almost as much as Lappeus enjoyed telling them. It was one of many mutual
interests. Lappeus had stashed some prime flesh in the servants’ car, knowing
Villard would want a bedwarmer or two during their stay at the lodge.
When the train slowed for its scheduled route inspection
at the tiny station at the south end of Yale Lake, Lappeus noticed a clerk
running up to the car door even before it stopped. He joined the Northern
Pacific guardsman at the door, one hand gently touching his six-shooter on his
hip beneath his coat. Dust-pistols might be all the rage, but the former
professional gambler preferred the accuracy of his old Colt. The young man who
breathlessly asked to speak to Mr Villard wore a telegraph operator’s cap.
Lappeus relaxed, and stepped down from the car, forcing the clerk to back up.
Villard disembarked, and took in the scene at a glance. “Vat is ze matter?”
“Oh, sir, Mr Villard, sir – there’s an urgent telegraph
for you from Concordia!”
“Let me haff it.” The clerk immediately placed a small
note in the Founder’s broad hand. Lappeus waited, amused by the clerk’s nervous
wringing of his cap. Poor kid’s probably
never even spoken to his boss before. That’s right, kid. You’d best be
respectful.
Villard frowned, eyes still on the paper. “What’s the
problem?” Lappeus asked.
Villard answered slowly. “James...I zink perhaps best if
you stay here.” He looked at the telegraph clerk. “Send word to Rubgelt. Tell
him Lappeus vill deal vit it. Und send an order to ze railyards, to at once
ready ze Goldline Number Two und come vit all speed here to pick up Mr Lappeus.
Go.” The young man mangled a salute, not sure whether to do it with his cap off
or on, then ran stumbling back to his office.
Lappeus glanced around at the tiny station, displeasure
growing in his belly. Get off here?
Return to Concordia? Christ, that’ll be another three hours hangin’ about this
Nowhere Depot ‘til the next train arrives. The sky appeared more overcast
than usual, portending chilling rain, and the Yale Camp Station was barely a
log cabin and a plank platform.
Villard took him by the shoulder and they walked
alongside the cars while the engineer supervised the Dustcrafter mechanics
checking the moving gears of the burner array. “I know vee vere looking forward
to some good steak by ze fire at Helens Camp, my friend, but I fear zis is important
enough to send you back.” Lappeus waited, chafing at the thought of less
pleasant orders than showing his boss the crooked ledgers in the comfort of the
mountain lodge. Villard glanced around once to make sure no one was within
hearing, and said quietly, “You recall zat matter of ze missing element from ze
Crater?”
“I thought we’d decided it was lost?” Lappeus asked,
surprised.
Villard cut the misty air with one hand. “Nein. My operative returned to ze city
a few days ago. He reported zat ze Krakenpilot of ze expedition vas unnaturally
close to Autumnson...and ze last
sighting we had of ze kraken, it vas badly wounded but flying nort’vest. Since
ze element vas not recovered from ze
crash site at ze Crater...”
“How in the hell did they lose a kraken?” Lappeus
muttered, disgusted.
Villard shrugged. “Their orders vere to examine ze
remains of ze expedition fully. Vit hostiles in ze area, zey did not haff
resources to pursue ze wounded beast, vich vas spotted during ze journey out.
However, its description matched zat of ze expedition ship, und since Autumnson
may haff been alerted by some misstep of ze agents vit him...”
Lappeus snorted. “Never figure how anyone can tell the
damn monsters apart. Just a bunch a’ wigglin’ tentacles and ugly eyeballs, all
of ‘em.” He considered the possibilities. “You really think it made it home?
Without anyone noticing?”
Villard began counting items off on his fingers.
“Autumnson vas perhaps, shall ve say, involved
vit ze Krakenpilot, who is also missing. Three days ago, ven I visisted
Autumnson’s sister to see if perhaps her brutter had tried to send her ze
element by Carrier, who should I find zere but Dr Vonken. Vonken vas several
times seen in ze company of Autumnson before ze expedition departed.”
“Vonken...the surgeon Coldspark. He started that petition
for factory safety standards,” Lappeus recalled. His dark brows bunched in a
deep scowl. His men had persuaded the other major backers of the reform drive
to let it die, but Vonken had thrown out the agent who’d attempted to bribe
him. “Yeah, I remember him. Didn’t know he was involved with the element
thing.”
“He may not be. But someting is afoot. He has been
visiting ze Autumnson home. Last night I had Rubgelt search his laboratory. Zey
had Letriver vit zem but found nutting.”
Lappeus nodded, his thoughts following his employer’s
easily. “You think maybe Autumnson sent the element to his house, and Vonken is
working with it there to evade detection?”
“Possibly. He has erected a quarantine. Unfortunately,
zat may not be a bluff.”
Lappeus shook his head, partly in admiration. “Coldsparks
don’t catch plagues, do they? Slick. Very slick. But what about Autumnson’s
family? A sister, you said? Have there been any sightings of the kraken or the
Pilot?”
“Someting
killed vun of my best spies at zat house,” Villard said grimly, “und neitter
Vonken nor ze sister vere zere at ze time. Possibly it vas vun of Vonken’s
constructs, but who knows? No vun has seen a vounded kraken or any sign of its
Pilot, so zey may simply haff just gone to ground, or died on ze way home. But
I vant you to look into every
connection to Mikael Autumnson. Every angle. I do not trust Vonken.”
Lappeus nodded. The engine whistle blew. “I’ll take care
of it,” he assured Villard.
The old man smiled and patted his shoulder. “You alvays
do. Thank you, James.” They walked back to the door of the club car, passing
the bunk car where the steward could be seen through the windows, making up the
sumptuous beds in one of the well-appointed compartments. Lappeus grimaced.
Dusk was near, and he’d much rather have spent the hours afterward rolling in
his bunk with one of the young ladies he’d brought along especially for this
trip. The thought of Villard spending his energy atop the little lotus flower
instead of him soured the taste of fine liquor remaining on his tongue, but
there was nothing to be said about it. Villard needed him to go take care of
what might be a serious situation, and Lappeus excelled at such assignments.
There would be other little Chinese girls. Hell, they were practically a dime a
dozen in Chinatown. He shook his boss’s hand as Villard paused at the steps.
“If there’s aught goin’ on in that house, Henry, I’ll root it out.”
“I haff every confidence in you, old friend.” Villard
smiled. “Zis should not take me more zan a few days to sort out. Oh, und
James...” He looked back from the doorway of the train car. “Draw yourself an
extra bottle from ze storeroom. I vill telegraph from Yale Camp to autorize
it.”
Mollified, Lappeus nodded, and tapped his hat in salute
as the train pulled out. In mere minutes it accelerated to cruising speed,
disappearing up the line, into the thick forests of the mountain’s lower
slopes. Lappeus strode into the station, plopped into a seat by a broad plate
window, and called loudly for service. A barmaid rushed from the back area, and
in broken English asked what he wished to drink. Lappeus ordered a shot and a
beer, eyeing the shapely rear of the young woman and the pretty way her long
black braid swung when she hurried off to fulfill his request.
Maybe a few hours’
wait isn’t such a bad deal. Idly, he fingered the badge upon his vest, the
colors of the Northern Pacific Concordia Division recognized anywhere in
Columbia as signifying its wearer was authorized to do, or take, whatever was
needed.
James Lappeus knew exactly what he needed right now, and
felt no guilt in taking her.
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