Jump City: Apprentice Page 39

  “I don’t sell any Fords, just in case you’re wondering,” he said, still some distance from us.

  “Why not?”

  “Henry is a fascist at heart, and an anti-semite. The man’s no better than that Hitler fella.”

  “And you don’t like fascists?”

  “Of course not, though I do feel like I’m in the minority these days.” Grimaldi looked us over. “What can I interest you gentlemen in today?”

  “We’d like to purchase a reliable automobile,” Fynn said.

  Grimaldi smiled and made an expansive gesture. “Take your pick… they are all good cars.” He patted the hood of the closest vehicle. “I can give you a great price on this one.”

  “Hmm,” Fynn said doubtfully. “Clearly we don’t want a roadster. I think we’d prefer a coupe… something with a hard roof and windows, a little less like a buggy perhaps?”

  “Well, I’ve got a nice Tudor Sedan over there.”

  “Anything nicer? Cost is no option.”

  “How about a brand new Pierce Arrow? Oh, hang on, scratch that. I think it’s still in the shop.” Grimaldi hesitated. “I do have the one Graham left.”

  “The Graham?”

  “A Blue Streak… an excellent automobile, unparalleled.”

  “Let’s have a look, eh?”

  “It’s almost new, last year’s model. An eight cylinder engine.”

  “That sounds very promising.”

  “I should warn you though, it’s not blue.”

  “Why?”

  “The previous owner had it painted black.”

  Fynn and I looked the car over while Grimaldi waxed poetically: “Waterfall grill, sloped back for aerodynamics… lower than most cars by six inches… Mohair upholstery. The latest safety features… tail lights, a side mirror on the driver’s side… all the windows close, and there’s a heater for cold nights, though I’d leave the window open a crack… a fuel gauge right on the dashboard…”

  The car was both beautiful and primitive at the same time.

  “Electric starter, of course,” Grimaldi added.

  “I don’t see any blinkers.”

  “Blinkers?” he asked.

  “Turn signals.”

  “No blinkers.” Grimaldi glanced at me like I was out of my mind. “It’s got automatic wipers.”

  “Automatic?” I asked.

  “You just flip this switch, here, like this… The tires are good and there’s a spare if you need it… and a jack…”

  “Seat belts?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “We’ll take it,” Fynn said.

  Back in Grimaldi’s shabby little office, the inspector peeled off nine one hundred dollar bills and let them fall to the table.

  “Wait, that’s Canadian money,” Grimaldi said.

  “Yes, the Dominion of Canada.”

  He gave us both a doubtful look.

  “But, I am a Canadian,” Fynn said as if it were obvious, then peeled off a few more bills and added them to the stack. Grimaldi finally relented.

  “Alrighty then, we just have some paperwork to go through… What about financial responsibility, insurance, registration— all that?”

  “We would need this arranged for us.”

  “Could take weeks…” Grimaldi said with an odd expression.

  “There is no solution to this?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I’m surprised your dealership isn’t a one-stop-shop— you know, registration, insurance, plates.”

  “What, do I look like the government?”

  “I thought most dealerships worked like that.”

  “Which ones?”

  I just shrugged.

  “It’s not a half-bad idea though… might even close a sale or two… hmm, if I could get my cousin to…” Grimaldi started muttering to himself. “Well… getting all this arranged in a hurry will cost you extra,” he finally said in a different voice. “Do you have identification of any sort?”

  “Of course,” Fynn replied. “We are policemen.” He took out papers from his pocket and laid them on the table.

  Grimaldi studied them carefully and then shot a horrified glance at me. “Shouldn’t he be in handcuffs?” he asked Fynn.

  “Not at all. He’s not violent and we’ve come to an understanding.”

  “As long as you can vouch for him personally.” Grimaldi opened a desk drawer and took out a form sandwiched with carbon paper. “Do you have a local address?”

  “Number twenty, Fourth Street, Sand City.”

  The car dealer chuckled to himself as he started filling in the form. “Sand City, eh? You must mean Fair Oaks.”

  “Actually, we wish to avoid the complications of buying a car,” Fynn interrupted his writing. “We’d prefer to hire this vehicle.”

  “You want to rent the car now?”

  “Yes, for the price I have paid, I will rent this vehicle. We need to leave today, now, this very hour.”

  “Hmm… and when would you return my car?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Difficult to say… a week or two, perhaps.”

  “How do I know you’ll ever be back?”

  “You don’t, however, if you’d like, feel free to report it stolen in one month’s time.”

  “Stolen?”

  “That should guarantee its return.”

  “Well…” Grimaldi considered.

  ***

  Once we had picked up our new car I was sure we’d be on our way but apparently Fynn had one final task.

  “We must return to the train station.”

  “Why?”

  “A small errand and I require your assistance. There are some heavy bundles to load into our new automobile.”

  Sure enough, at the baggage area, Fynn claimed three wooden crates that were left in storage. Each one was nailed shut and had rope handles. I’d guess they weighed about forty or fifty pounds as I hauled them into the trunk.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked.

  “Ah, gifts for the library.”

  “What kind of gifts?”

  “Batteries, torches— and some gold.”

  “Gold? Like bars of gold?”

  “No, like coins… sovereigns.”

  “From where?”

  “I brought them with me from Ottawa.”

  “Wait— you knew we were going to the library?”

  “It seemed probable.” Fynn gave me a smile.

  “Golden Canadian dollars?”

  “British sovereigns mostly.”

  “Don’t they use dollars in Canada?”

  “As you say…”

  “Wait, isn’t this illegal now?”

  “What?” Fynn asked.

  “They passed some law about hoarding gold…”

  “Oh yes, I’m painfully aware of that.”

  “Painfully?”

  “A long story… Ah, well, it’s best that we are not stopped by the police.”

  As I pulled out of the train station Fynn turned to me and asked, “Tell me Patrick, what is your view of camping?”

  “Camping?”

  “Yes, with a tent, in the backwoods, hiking, that sort of thing.”

  “Sure, why not?” I replied immediately but then gave it another thought. “Wait a second— Camping, hiking, in the middle of the depression. How can that be a good idea?”

  “Nonsense, it will be fun. We just need to purchase a few things...”

  “There is the whole martial law thing too.”

  “Perhaps you’re right after all.”

  I followed the well paved Post Road out of Fairhaven, grinding the gears a few times. Driving was harder than I remembered. “If it were my car, I’d take it right to the mechanic by the sound of the engine. Seems like metal against metal, like there’s no oil.”

  For at least an hour, I didn’t dare take a turn over thirty-five. Fynn said little. “Are we ever coming back?” I asked after a while.

  “Of course
. We must… We have to find Mortimer and he is expected to return, as you’ve told me.”

  “That’s not exactly what I mean.” I paused to put my thoughts in order. “When we do come back, it will all be different, won’t it?”

  Fynn took my meaning right away. “Yes, most likely.”

  I thought about Elsie and tried to imagine her smile again. A few miles from the edge of town our road started to deteriorate and the jostling began.

  “What did you give Sheriff Durbin as we left?” Fynn asked.

  “Nothing really, why?”

  “He had the most extraordinary expression on his face.”

  I laughed at this. “I gave him a dime that I found in my pocket.”

  “And?”

  “Well, it has a portrait of FDR on the front.”

  Fynn paused to consider. “But why do such a thing?”

  “I couldn’t resist, sorry.” I chuckled to myself. “To Durbin, it’s a dime with a dead president who never served.”

  “There’s hope for you yet, Patrick.” Fynn let go a hearty laugh.

  PART V

  FRIDAY

  * * *

  chapter twenty-seven

  library lapse

  I grew accustomed to the sound of the engine, but driving was far more of a challenge than I expected. The roads were bumpy, barely paved and extremely narrow. Traffic lights were rare as well, but at least obvious. I had the most trouble with stop signs which were neither red, nor octangular— I’m not sure I saw a single one. We had passed very few cars going south; just old, slow trucks, more like covered wagons with engines instead of horses. Our Blue Streak only had a tiny rear window and I was frequently reminded that we had no turn signals nor brake lights.

  Fynn left the driving to me and I’ll admit to being tired. Holding the old car at a steady speed and heaving it around countless twists and turns took its toll. My arms were starting to ache. My ankle throbbed too from all the clutch work. We had crossed the Hudson River at Bear Mountain where we found gasoline for sale at a small way station. They also served a delicious lunch of fried chicken.

  Just before Storm King Highway, the day turned hot and we were happy enough to drive with the windows wide open. Continuing south along a pretty good road, signs announced we had merged onto Route 9W. What the “W” stood for was beyond knowing. We were certainly not traveling west to east, nor east to west. To our left I could see the Palisades Cliffs. The road was lined by a row of granite teeth, a low wall of perfectly placed rocks, a guardrail so to speak. And every ten yards or so the car hit a small bump, the seams between cement slabs that comprised our road. This set the rhythm for our present. I guess it was late afternoon by the time we reached our destination.

  Fynn turned to me. “Slow down a bit, Patrick. I think we are very close.”

  I looked at the speedometer; we weren’t going more than twenty-five or so. I double clutched to grind into a lower gear, but it was the steep hill ahead that made me slow, not so much Fynn’s request.

  “Here,” he called out and pointed to a mailbox; it was marked with just a number: four hundred and fifty-one. A dirt road led into the forest; I swung the car left and into the woods. Almost at once, an iron gate loomed before us and a stone wall barred our way in either direction. Just beyond, I could see a rustic cottage. Fynn hopped out when the car stopped and unfasten the gate. I drove through; he closed it behind him with a persistent creak, and climbed back aboard. He nodded and waved his hand, urging me on.

  We passed a garage or a barn, and the cottage which was much larger than it first seemed, not unlike a guest house. No one was in attendance. On the other side was a cemetery, ramshackle and also unattended, yet there had to be several hundred grave markers. The rutted track went on for nearly a mile, straight through a tunnel of trees, all evenly spaced— planted at the same time long ago, I would guess. They passed like columns on either side during our ascent.

  At the crest of the hill, the artificial forest opened onto a sprawling pasture, a plateau almost, and the whole area was circumscribed by a one lane driveway some few hundred yards in diameter. It curved away to the edge of the cliffs. Not that the meadow was devoid of trees; there were plenty of them scattered about, and what looked like a formal garden tucked away in the western part of the property. I could see the main house now, much larger than the cottage but built from the same sort of local stone. Almost mansion-sized, it was a two story building that reminded me of the Adirondacks. The second floor was punctuated by gables, each with a large window. I admit to being slightly disappointed, expecting a grand library, not just some books in an old house.

  Fynn directed me the long way round to the residence. When we hit the driveway which was paved with a very fine gravel, the car lurched forward at an unpredictable speed. It wasn’t my doing, my foot not even near the pedal. I veered right, following the circle counter-clockwise, crunching along, closer to the main house. As we drove, I noticed that at the exact center of the estate was a pyramid structure about twenty feet high but it was hard to see properly. The ground rose gently from all sides to form a grassy dome, and all I could make out were triangular windows separated by thin struts, brass that had gone green from the weather.

  I guessed we were about four or five hundred feet above the Hudson. I caught a glimpse of the river as we rounded the circular road. I also noticed that the earth seemed to be freshly dug along the inner edge of the driveway, as if recently plowed. Eventually, we came up to the main house.

  The place itself was not monumentally large, built from boulders but masoned cleverly to form a massive facade, all with generous amounts of mortar. It looked like this house would stand forever and perhaps already had. Huge wooden beams supported a sharply peaked second story, shingled in gray slates. The whole place had a curious oblong shape, and it seemed to me, slightly curved walls. I pulled up to the grand entrance, a portico at the far end of the structure that overhung the driveway.

  “Go along through,” Fynn said, standing at the side of the car. He stretched mightily. “I’ll fetch the bags.”

  “Let me give you a hand.”

  “Nonsense…”

  “That’s a lot of luggage.”

  “I’m sure someone will come along to help… I’ll be right behind you… go ahead in.”

  I looked at Fynn. There was definitely a glint in his eye and a small smile on his lips. He was up to something, that much I could tell. Not that I had any say in the matter. He tossed me my new cane. I hesitantly made for the entrance up a steep staircase. I’ll admit I felt a little queasy with each step and clutched the banister for support. I came to giant double doors and rang the bell. It was a long, long wait. A small sign read: Exspectata Viator.

  “No one’s home,” I called back to Fynn.

  “Patience, Patrick. Someone will be along sooner or later.”

  I turned to face the entrance again and this time came upon a singularly odd scene. One of the doors was now wide open and I saw an old woman just standing there. She was close to seventy, slightly stooped, though draped in a flamboyant silk dressing gown printed in a flamingo and flower theme. She reminded me of a flapper, with a cigarette holder, a long string of pearls, and shoulder length white hair cut in a solid line of bangs. She also wore a silky dress with an unnecessary slit in its side, far too short for a woman of her apparent age.

  And she seemed to be yawning, at least intermittently. One hand held her gown close to her breast; the other hand beckoned me inside. I smiled and said hello. She seemed not to notice me at all. I repeated my greeting and tried to make eye contact, and then realized she could not see me at all. She was peering out at nothing, or perhaps beyond me; yet still beckoning to no one in particular.

  I stepped through the door anyway and my stomach immediately left me, sideways. It was a bit like jumping onto a fast moving carousel, but my misstep meant nothing. I wasn’t moving, nothing was moving at all. I was standing inside now, somehow pressed against an upholster
ed wall and peering down a dark hallway. The woman was already a few yards along the corridor facing away from me. It made no sense. She turned with a candelabra in hand. “Yes, may I help you?” she said rather softly, took a few steps closer and gave me a decidedly lascivious glance. I could tell straight away that she was not American and for some reason found that disconcerting.

  “I’m a friend of Inspector Fynn.”

  “Are you now? How can I be sure?”

  The woman held up her candles to my face. She looked at me as if I were merchandise needing inspection, or a slave, a stock animal or something. She examined my features, my hair, my teeth; going so far as to pinch my mouth open. “A strange hatless man steps into my house and claims to be Fynn’s friend. For all I know, you just wandered in from somewhere. It wouldn’t be the first time.” She gave me an inhospitable gaze while raising a single eyebrow.

  “He’s right behind me,” I stammered and turned to look outside. The car was there but Fynn was not to be seen. “He was right there...”

  I was about to step back outside when the woman barred my way with her arm. She peered through the door as well. “I don’t see anyone.”

  I was flustered and unable to offer any explanation.

  “Do you have a book for me?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “The cane, then? Is that for me?”

  “Ah, um…”

  “Well, come through anyway,” she said and held the light closer. “And you are?”

  “Patrick, Patrick Jardel.”

  “Have we met before? You seem terribly familiar.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well then, Patrick…” she began, “Tell me Fynn’s first rule of travel.”

  “What?”

  “Surely, if you know Tractus, you also know his rules of travel?”

  I thought for a moment. “Never go back.”

  “Really? I thought that was his third rule.” She arched her brow again.

  “Sorry, maybe it’s, um... there’s only one timeline.”

  “Close enough, I suppose.” A genuine smile finally passed across her face. “I’m Madeline Nicks.” She held out a free hand.

  I wasn’t sure whether to shake it or lift it to my lips for a kiss. “Shouldn’t we wait for Fynn?”