Chapter 2
Before the man in goggles could reply, the shrill sound of a whistle sent a wave of unrest through the clientèle of Bromsky's. It was unmistakably a police whistle, and everyone in the pub had heard those things often enough to recognise that. "Coppers," someone said needlessly.
The speaker was right. There were seven policemen outside Bromsky's, deciding how they would all be able to go inside. The place was just too crowded. One of the constables made his way in and started sending people outside. Some went willingly, others needed some physical encouragement. The more people left the establishment, the easier it became for the remaining law enforcers to enter.
"Hey," a coarse voice sounded from behind the bar, "they still have to pay!" Bromsky was rather ticked off as he saw how his valued customers quickly disappeared outside, urged on by the police.
"Don't worry," one of the officers laughed, "all these are honest and law-abiding people, they told us often enough. Surely they'll come back to pay you when we're done."
Bromsky snorted loudly.
Finally the pub was empty. The policemen formed a line around the far table, where the man in goggles stood. One of the constables helped him to put the man on the table, after writing down how they had found the person: very dead. The fact that he had not resisted or grunted while being moved had made that rather obvious. The large red spot on his chest was an additional indication.
"Good of you men to come so quickly," said Goggles as he peeled the sticky vest from the dead man. It revealed a blood-stained grey shirt with a large hole in it. Goggles nodded to himself. "Yes, straight through. I already feared that. Don't touch." The last words were directed towards one of the constables who had picked up the dead man's overcoat.
"What do you mean 'straight through'? There's no hole in the coat," the constable said as he quickly put the coat down again. Goggles shook his head, muttered something and continued examining the man.
Bromsky had left his station behind the counter and, pretending to clean some tables, made his way to the corner. That was well lit now, as some constables had gathered lamps so Goggles could actually see something. Before the owner of the pub had reached the corner, Goggles put away the things he had taken from his bag.
"Nothing more I can do here," the thin man stated. "We have to get this body to the morgue. I will share my findings with the people there, so they can confirm."
One of the policemen went to fetch a sheet in which they could wrap the body. "The honest and law-abiding people stole the lamps from the carriage," he announced. "Again." His words were taken in by his colleagues in silence; a silence that allowed Bromsky's snicker to be heard. Two policemen picked up the packaged body and carried it out of Bromsky's, surrounded by the others. Goggles, ungoggled now, followed them, his big bag in hand. Bromsky was left to clean the table and the chair.
-=-=-
The next morning life came to the street in its normal way. Men carrying satchels left their houses and formed groups. Among these men were Martin Phelps and his friend Bass, whose official name was Sebastian Crowler. When all were more or less accounted for, through some unseen social mechanism, they made their way to the yard where they worked; the same yard that they had been chased away from the day before. The men went through the mostly silent streets like a small and deformed battalion. Discussions went back and forth among them, until they reached the factory.
The wall around the factory was built with red bricks, but the lack of morning light overcame the cheerful intentions of the architect. The iron portcullis-like gate was already open. It looked like a gaping mouth, its metal teeth threatening everyone who dared enter. Over it, a huge sign informed anyone interested that they had reached the Aeroparts Factory. The legion of men that came in through the gate fell apart once inside; they formed smaller groups that would scatter over the various areas of the yard to do their work. At Aeroparts, parts were made for the large airships that were assembled in huge halls and factories not far away.
Martin Phelps walked along with three others. He hadn't witnessed how the accident had actually happened, but rumour had it that one of the automatons that handled the cranes had malfunctioned. Apparently it had released the metal rib of an airship too early, a rib that had to be painted. It had been painted red now, Martin grimly thought. He wondered if the automaton really had been at fault. After all, these metal men had been going for years without fail.
"Hello, you men." The four stopped their slow walk as their foreman, Mr. Masterson, addressed them. "You'll be working painting again today. Production there was delayed yesterday, so you'll have to put in a few more hours. Now get a move on."
Martin looked at his fellows. Fat Burke did not seem to mind, as usual. He could be an automaton, for all Martin knew, except for when it came to eating and drinking. Ratty Matty Jones scowled at the foreman but said nothing. Bass shrugged. "Are you sure it's safe out there, sir?" Martin asked Mr. Masterson. "I mean, with what happened there yesterday."
Mr. Masterson dropped his hands into his pockets without losing the roll of paper that was under his arm. "Of course. Today's not yesterday." The tone of his voice made it clear that this was the last word he had for them, so the four men shuffled off to the paint pit.
The four high cranes seemed more threatening than usual. A big rafter hung from one of them, lightly swinging in the breeze that blew through the enormous open doors. The automatons that handled the cranes sat on top of the high constructions, not moving and not caring...
-=-=-
"I swear it, the automaton looked at us as if it wanted to kill us," Martin said, later that day at Bromsky's. Every chair around the table was occupied, even when there were still many tables vacant at this hour.
Nothing bad had happened at the factory that day, but Martin and his fellows had not had a relaxed day. A few times they had been ordered to leave their workplace, while policemen and folks in suits had swarmed over the area all over again, examining the crane. Martin was reasonably convinced that also the automatons had been checked, although he could not be certain. And one of the pieces they had been coating had been pushed around and thereby ruined, so they'd had to polish it and start all over on top of the extra hours.
"Anyone here by the name of Martin Phelps?" a sudden voice asked over all the talking people who promptly fell silent. Martin looked up. "Who wants to know?" A man in a long black coat, wearing white gloves and a hat, looked over at him. "I want to know. I need to speak with Mr. Phelps." There was a cane in the man's fingers, it's tip pointing at Martin. The strange visitor looked painfully out of place.
Martin frowned and looked at his mates. They looked back as much in wonder as he did. "I'm Phelps," Martin then said.
"I suspected so much. Would you please step outside with me?" The voice of the gentleman sounded as if it was wrapped in silk.
Martin grabbed his beer and gulped that down. After all, he thought, he did not know when he'd be back. "Right back, I hope," he told his friends as he stood up.
Once outside, the man introduced himself as Sir Hillary Baldwin. "Here is my transport," Sir Baldwin said, pointing at a carriage propelled by a spluttering steam engine. The carriage was black, void of any ornament or marking that could give away its origin, or the identity of its owner. On top of the contraption sat a man who was so plain he defied any description. "Would you please get in, I have urgent matters to discuss with you, Mr. Phelps."
"Urgent matters, eh? At this time of day? And why can't we talk in there?" Martin asked, nodding his head at the pub.
"Mr. Phelps, the matter at hand is rather serious and delicate. I would prefer to discuss this somewhere more private. If you'd please..."
With a shrug Martin got into the carriage. The blue upholstery was a surprise to him. He had expected the usual red that was so loved by the uppity classes. It looked expensive though. Perhaps there was some good coin in it for him.
Soon they were away from the streets he knew. Far away
. "So when are you going to bring up them urgent matters?" Martin could not hold back his curiosity.
"Soon, Mr. Phelps. Soon." Martin half understood why the talking had to wait: the engine of the carriage was so loud that a decent conversation wouldd not be possible.
Finally the ride was over. The workman had noticed they were in a part of town where mostly businesses were housed. They were standing in front of a building two storeys high and built of grey stone. Sir Baldwin and Martin left the shaking car with its noisy engine. They were silently greeted by a man in a doorman's uniform. He let Martin and the strange gentleman into a building without a word. Two skinny pillars guarded the door they went through, and soon Martin found himself in a small room lit by two large oil lamps. Sir Baldwin sat down on a chair and pointed his cane at the other one that was in the room.
"You were at the factory today." It almost sounded as an accusation.
"So? It's my job, I have to be there," Martin responded.
"I know," said the man in the black coat. "Which is why I have to talk with you. First though, I want you to understand that this meeting should remain among us."
Martin frowned. "And if it doesn't?"
Sir Baldwin leaned back in his chair. "In that case, you will find that accidents can happen in the strangest places, Mr. Phelps."
Martin jumped up, making the chair fall over. The sound of the wood scraping over the floor reverberated loudly in the otherwise empty room. "You're not threatening me, are you?"
The smile of the gentleman was calm and cold. "No, of course not, Mr. Phelps. I make promises, no threats. Now if you would please sit down."
Martin picked up the chair and sat down. He did not feel at ease.
"Mr. Phelps," Sir Baldwin said, "yesterday there was an... unfortunate accident on the workfloor of the factory. It was not part of the original plan."
"Not part of..." Martin stared at the gentleman. The hairs in his neck started tickling. "What plan?"
This time it was Sir Baldwin who got up. "We planned to drop the rib from the crane. Alas, something went wrong in the timing, but it did add to the drama." The tip of the cane suddenly rested on Martin's chest. "We are in need of someone who is able to invoke a few more of those accidents."
Martin stared at the cane, then in the calm face of the man holding it. "What? Who are you? I'm not having anything of that." He slapped the cane aside and got up for a moment. Before Martin knew what the man opposite him was up to, the cane hit him hard against the temple. The inside of his skull lit up in a most painful way.
"Mr. Phelps. Please. Do sit down again, it will make things less hurtful." Sir Baldwin then explained, with his silken voice, that he was a member of a group that wanted to eradicate the automatons that were working in the factory. "They are dangers on metal legs, Mr. Phelps. Many things can go wrong with these metal men around. As you have seen. And we need your assistance to prove that these things will indeed go wrong..."