Irregular Verbs by Matthew Johnson

Incidentally, are my reports not to go to Commandant Trudeau?”
    “To him through me. Public safety is my responsibility, and I must respond quickly to any threat.”
    “We have almost twenty days,” Louverture said mildly.
    “If whoever wrote that letter is being truthful. Have you often known criminals to be truthful, Louverture?”
    “Why bother to give us the letter and then lie in it? If he wanted to avoid detection, wouldn’t it have been better not to alert us at all?”
    Clouthier coughed loudly. “It’s nonsense to expect him to be logical—if he were a rational man, he’d know better than to be a criminal.”
    Louverture nodded. “As you say. I’ll make sure my report is on your desk before you go—how much longer were you planning on staying tonight?”
    “Never mind,” Clouthier said. “Just have it there before I get here in the morning.”
    “Of course. Is there anything else?”
    Clouthier seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head, turned to leave. “Just keep me informed.”
    Louverture waited until Clouthier was out the door, then called to him. “Oh, Officer Principal, I forgot to ask—did your canvass turn anything up?”
    With a barely perceptible shake of his head, Clouthier stepped out into the hall. Though he could not help smiling, Louverture wondered whether that had been a miscalculation. It was no secret that Clouthier did not like him, a situation caused as much by his coming from outside the local Corps hierarchy as by his mixed blood. It would be best, he thought, to leave off further teasing of the lion for now. Resolving to restrain himself better, Louverture returned to his desk and began writing his report.
    The next morning Louverture was reading over his notes, trying to get them to make sense. He had taken the omnibus instead of his velocipede so that he could read on his way to work, laying the pages on the briefcase on his lap, but the heat and vibration kept him from concentrating. His cap was damp with sweat, but he refused to take it off; he knew from experience how people reacted when they saw his dark, kinked hair emerge from under an
officier
’s hat. Not that there were many people to react this morning, the omnibus being only half-full.
    He forced his mind to return to its task. If his theory was right, the second man was undoubtedly the key, but he had not found anyone in the Rogues’ Gallery that fit the profile. Could a man with such a need for attention possibly have hidden it all these years? Perhaps he had had another outlet until recently—an actor, for instance, put out of work by the theatre closings. . . .
    A sudden jolt interrupted Louverture’s train of thought. He looked up from his notes, saw that the omnibus had stopped in the middle of the street; the driver had already disembarked, and the other passengers were filing off, grumbling.
    “Excuse me,” he said to the man in front of him, “what has happened?”
    “It broke down again,” the man said. “Third time this month. I’d do better on foot.”
    Louverture followed the queue onto the sidewalk. A few of the passengers had gathered to wait for the next omnibus, the rest hailing pedicabs or walking off down the street. The driver had the bonnet open and was looking inside; Louverture tapped him on the shoulder. “What is the matter with it?”
    The driver turned his head and opened his mouth to speak, closed it when he saw Louverture’s uniform. “It’s corroded, sir,” he said. “Do you smell that?”
    Louverture took a sniff; a sharp smell, like lemon but much more harsh, was emanating from the omnibus’ hood. “That is the engine?”
    “The battery, sir,” the driver said. “That’s sulphuric acid inside; eventually it eats away at the whole thing.”
    “This happens often?”
    The driver shook his head. “They break down sometimes, but not usually like this. The scientists think it may be the heat.”
    “And they’re sure it’s a natural phenomenon?