flexing his muscles. “Like… ahem.”
Emeril rolled his eyes. “About eight years back he became obsessed with a street gang that specialized in kidnapping.”
“Extortion, too, no?” Jackson said.
“But it was mostly kidnapping,” Emeril said. “As luck would have it, or lack of luck, they kidnapped the wife of a very wealthy fellow. The crooks gave him the usual bit about not contacting the police. Given the corruption, he had no reason to think the police weren’t involved themselves, so he hired us.”
“Hired?” Carver asked.
Emeril shrugged. “We’re not averse to taking money…”
“…from those who can afford it,” Jackson corrected.
“Anyway,” Emeril continued, “Hawking jumped on it. No leads, no clues. He pulled the answers out of the air…”
“Out of his ass, you mean!”
“Does it matter from where? He got things right. Figured out where she was being held.”
“A warehouse. He went down there with a vengeance. Brought five agents…”
After sounding terribly excited, both men grew suddenly quiet.
“And?” Carver finally asked.
“Turned out the police
were
in with the kidnappers. They also had new pistols that fired off rounds faster and more accurately than anything else at the time. Hawking hadn’t bargained on stumbling in on so much firepower. The wife was killed, along with all the agents. Hawking took five bullets.”
Carver exhaled. He’d imagined the operation was dramatic, just not that it’d also been a tragic failure.
Jackson spoke softly. “He went overseas for surgery, gone nearly a year. Best they could do was return some of the use of his arm. You see what he’s like now. Didn’t want anything to do with the work anymore, handed the reins over to Tudd… and Tudd’s…”
“Not a bad man… Wouldn’t trust him to invest my savings, but he’s a solid detective.”
“Though no Albert Hawking.”
Carver’s new mentor was beginning to make sense. Who
wouldn’t
be bitter and cranky after that?
Tudd’s voice, hollow and tinny, erupted from thin air. “Send Carver in.”
Carver looked around, unable to figure out where the sound was coming from.
“Voice pipe,” Emeril explained. “Carries sound along a tube. Been used on ships for a hundred years. Best offices have them.”
As Jackson reached for the door, Emeril pulled a small rubber hose from along the wall molding and spoke into a brass funnel at the end. “On his way, Mr. Tudd.”
When Carver stepped in, Hawking waved at Tudd with his gnarled right hand. “Give him your letter.”
Carver paused. “What… ?”
“I’ll tell you shortly. For now, hand your precious note over to Mr. Tudd. Maybe in a year or so, when they get to it, you’ll find out you’re the Prince of Wales. Go on.”
Carver reached into his back pocket and pulled out the folded note. So much had happened so quickly. A short while ago this was the most precious thing in his life. Hawking, Tudd, the New Pinkertons—they still felt unreal. The note was solid, real. He wasn’t sure he should hand it over but couldn’t imagine why not. Even though he could close his eyes and still see every blotch of ink, he felt a pang as he relinquished it.
As he took it, Tudd, sensing its importance, gave Carver a sympathetic smile and treated it with the utmost care as he unfoldedand scanned it. “A year? Not
that
long,” he said. “But it will be a while, son.”
“I’m… so grateful…,” Carver said, stumbling over the words.
“Mmm,” Tudd said. He rummaged about his desk until he found a glass tube about three inches wide, stopped at both ends with rubber caps. He pulled one cap off, carefully rolled the letter and inserted it. After resealing the other end, he inserted it into a thicker tube behind his desk. With a sudden
thok
it was sucked in.
“A pneumatic message system courtesy of the gentleman who built the subway,” Tudd explained cheerfully. “They’ve been using a similar system at the
Emeril rolled his eyes. “About eight years back he became obsessed with a street gang that specialized in kidnapping.”
“Extortion, too, no?” Jackson said.
“But it was mostly kidnapping,” Emeril said. “As luck would have it, or lack of luck, they kidnapped the wife of a very wealthy fellow. The crooks gave him the usual bit about not contacting the police. Given the corruption, he had no reason to think the police weren’t involved themselves, so he hired us.”
“Hired?” Carver asked.
Emeril shrugged. “We’re not averse to taking money…”
“…from those who can afford it,” Jackson corrected.
“Anyway,” Emeril continued, “Hawking jumped on it. No leads, no clues. He pulled the answers out of the air…”
“Out of his ass, you mean!”
“Does it matter from where? He got things right. Figured out where she was being held.”
“A warehouse. He went down there with a vengeance. Brought five agents…”
After sounding terribly excited, both men grew suddenly quiet.
“And?” Carver finally asked.
“Turned out the police
were
in with the kidnappers. They also had new pistols that fired off rounds faster and more accurately than anything else at the time. Hawking hadn’t bargained on stumbling in on so much firepower. The wife was killed, along with all the agents. Hawking took five bullets.”
Carver exhaled. He’d imagined the operation was dramatic, just not that it’d also been a tragic failure.
Jackson spoke softly. “He went overseas for surgery, gone nearly a year. Best they could do was return some of the use of his arm. You see what he’s like now. Didn’t want anything to do with the work anymore, handed the reins over to Tudd… and Tudd’s…”
“Not a bad man… Wouldn’t trust him to invest my savings, but he’s a solid detective.”
“Though no Albert Hawking.”
Carver’s new mentor was beginning to make sense. Who
wouldn’t
be bitter and cranky after that?
Tudd’s voice, hollow and tinny, erupted from thin air. “Send Carver in.”
Carver looked around, unable to figure out where the sound was coming from.
“Voice pipe,” Emeril explained. “Carries sound along a tube. Been used on ships for a hundred years. Best offices have them.”
As Jackson reached for the door, Emeril pulled a small rubber hose from along the wall molding and spoke into a brass funnel at the end. “On his way, Mr. Tudd.”
When Carver stepped in, Hawking waved at Tudd with his gnarled right hand. “Give him your letter.”
Carver paused. “What… ?”
“I’ll tell you shortly. For now, hand your precious note over to Mr. Tudd. Maybe in a year or so, when they get to it, you’ll find out you’re the Prince of Wales. Go on.”
Carver reached into his back pocket and pulled out the folded note. So much had happened so quickly. A short while ago this was the most precious thing in his life. Hawking, Tudd, the New Pinkertons—they still felt unreal. The note was solid, real. He wasn’t sure he should hand it over but couldn’t imagine why not. Even though he could close his eyes and still see every blotch of ink, he felt a pang as he relinquished it.
As he took it, Tudd, sensing its importance, gave Carver a sympathetic smile and treated it with the utmost care as he unfoldedand scanned it. “A year? Not
that
long,” he said. “But it will be a while, son.”
“I’m… so grateful…,” Carver said, stumbling over the words.
“Mmm,” Tudd said. He rummaged about his desk until he found a glass tube about three inches wide, stopped at both ends with rubber caps. He pulled one cap off, carefully rolled the letter and inserted it. After resealing the other end, he inserted it into a thicker tube behind his desk. With a sudden
thok
it was sucked in.
“A pneumatic message system courtesy of the gentleman who built the subway,” Tudd explained cheerfully. “They’ve been using a similar system at the
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