Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on May 29, 2013 11:07:55 GMT -5
The Case of the Fallen Man
A Maximilian Fox Adventure
A Maximilian Fox Adventure
Chapter One
Maximilian Fox slipped a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time as the clatter of hooves on cobbles, and the voice of Detective William Armitage, formed a steady drone around him. It was nearing supper, and Fox was in a carriage on its way to a murder.
Or so he presumed, at least. Frankly he hadn’t listened to a single word Detective Armitage had said since they entered the carriage, miffed as he was at being interrupted from a rather stirring game of snooker at the Demosthenes Club. But history showed that the older detective only swallowed his pride and engaged Fox’ services for the most heinous and bizarre of crimes, so off to a murder they almost certainly would go. You hardly had to be the finest private investigator in New Alexandria to form such petty deductions.
The carriage rumbled thunderously across the planks of the Levinson Bridge, and Fox unconsciously formulated a few dozen hypotheses on their likely destination. A quick jaunt Reachward up Pinmaker Street would deposit them in the wealthy burb of Charlotte’s Hill, among whose gated compounds many a lovers’ quarrel and political dispute had ended gruesomely.
But no, the coachman was now angling around a slowly trundling milk cart in anticipation of a turn in the opposite direction. That would send them towards Angler’s Wharf, the site of numerous disreputable dispensaries; or possibly down Agnew Boulevard onto Cobbler’s Row. Maximilian briefly entertained the image of what a murder by shoes would look like, exactly. He suspected it would not be quick.
But no again, another turn had been made, and the Wharf was clearly their target. Fox discreetly removed the silver cufflinks from his shirt sleeves, and tucked his calfskin wallet into a more secure inner pocket. Even with the city’s most notorious policeman at his side, it did not do to be careless in the lower quarters.
The building which the carriage drew to a halt in front of was a privately-owned riverside warehouse used primarily for the storage of unremarkable grains, textiles, and brassware. It was widely known in the city, however, due to the unusual addition of a clock tower to its aging stone façade. Tall buildings were rare in New Amsterdam--due to the simple vanity that they must inevitably be measured against the incomparable bulk of The Reach--and the warehouse’s inclusion of such an oddity had earned it the nickname “The Dockman’s Watch.”
Fox exited the carriage ahead of Armitage and surveyed their surroundings. The air was crisply autumnal, but the sky was clear and bright. Several municipal carriages identical to the one Fox had arrived in were dotted about, and a pair of uniformed officers stood near the door to the warehouse. There were more than the usual number of civilian rubberneckers hanging about as well, but they stayed well back from the building itself, lounging half hidden in alcoves and alleyways. Many were simply locals displaying an equal mix of curiosity and trepidation, but more than a few bore the grim look of hard men with easily negotiable virtue. Together, the reactions of these groups revealed the shape of whatever crime had occurred within The Dockman’s Watch: It had been strange, it had been public, and it contained the future potential both for great profit, and for great danger.
Around this time it was decided by Maximilian that he should begin listening to what Detective Armitage was saying.
“—a bloody great asshole, Fox.”
Fox blinked. Perhaps the opportune moment to begin listening would have been several seconds prior.
“Pardon me, Detective,” he said. “Come again?”
“I said,” Detective Armitage replied. “That I know bloody well when you’re tuning me out, and that you’re an enormous, gaping asshole for doing it.”
“I’ll admit I may not have been devoting my entire attention before, but I’m fairly certain that ‘enormous’ and ‘gaping’ were not included within the original epithet,” Fox replied drily.
“I upgraded your status. I’m allowed to do that, because I’m carrying a gun.”
“Ah yes, your firearm. The gleaming caduceus of asshole-severity-adjudicators everywhere, I’m sure. Remind me to speak to Dean Viceborn at the University; we’ll have a faculty devoted to your new profession ratified within the week, no doubt.”
“An echoing rectal abyss. That’s what you are.”
“You’ll be receiving a pair of callipers and a slide rule for your birthday. How does Professor of Anal Phrenology sound as a title? No wait, Associate Professor. It would be unreasonable to expect a fully tenured commission so soon.”
“… Arsehole.”
The pair entered The Dockman’s Watch through its front offices, Armitage nodding to the attendant officers as they passed, who replied with casual salutes. The stone-walled offices were charmingly antiquarian, and made cozy by the presence of several large fireplaces and the burbling kettles which hung over them. Although no one was immediately visible, Fox could hear a faint voice in an adjacent room which carried the level intonation of a policeman conducting an interview. Most of the office’s desks were covered in sheaves of documents abandoned mid-filing.
“Were there witnesses?” Fox asked, already knowing the answer. “Even for the Wharf, a murder in broad daylight isn’t exactly typical.”
“You really didn’t listen to a single word I said in the carriage, did you?”
“It’s a matter of objectivity, Detective. How can I formulate conclusions of my own when I already have a gaggle of yours gumming up the works?”
Armitage fumed redly beneath his bowler hat, but merely grunted, and gestured for Fox to follow him down a narrow hallway. The floor was of rough wooden planks, and a window set high up on the far wall brought pale light slanting through the whorls of dust, which moved in Brownian perpetuity upon the air.
They emerged onto a small walkway of green-painted wrought iron that overlooked the warehouse proper. It was a large building, not especially high, but long and broad enough to compensate. The roof overhead was slightly curved, and reinforced by crosshatched steel beams. The walls were unadorned, save for the periodic interruption of wide sliding doors, and a line of paned windows encircling the perimeter, just below the level of the ceiling. Row upon row of wooden crates lay stacked upon the floor, all in different proportions, interlocking in three dimensions like the pieces of a Rifter skill puzzle.
From where he stood, Fox could see the epicenter of whatever calamity had brought him here: a cluster of sundered containers some short distance away. Splintered spars of wood thrust out in a haphazard palisade, and garlands of foreign goods spilled forth like entrails. As Armitage began to descend a staircase, Fox puffed out an indignant breath.
“Really, Detective, is this another industrial accident case? I thought we were past such banal nonsense.”
Armitage reached the floor below, and Fox followed after. The crates rose up on either side like a pinewood canyon, and the meandering path they followed quickly revealed that whichever flimsy organizational system dictated the floorplan was distinctly ascientific.
“Even assuming foul play,” Fox continued. “Which is by no means guaranteed, the motivations and implementations of such a situation are hardly difficult to deduce. One would imagine that even the most dullardous of your constables could derive the equation which has as its output ‘a man drops heavy things onto another man.’”
Armitage silently hung a hard left, and Fox had to take several quick, skipping steps to catch up the policeman’s rapid, rolling stride. They passed two uniformed officers, with just barely enough room to squeak by. Both men were white as sheets, but Fox was hardly in the mood to notice such trivialities.
“Granted, in terms of sheer efficiency, I am clearly still the vastly superior option. No mere street level enforcer of the public trust could be expected to solve even such a trivial case with the breakneck speed that I no doubt could.”
“Maximilian …” Armitage began, but Fox’ continuing speech washed right over him.
“And that is not, of course, to imply, that my respect and admiration for the Metropolitan Service is anything less than absolute! On the contrary my dear detective, I hope you realize that I count among your organization’s most fervent and devoted supporters. It is simply a matter of variables in expertise and resources; and there is where we find the crux of my complaint!”
“Maximilian,” Armitage pressed, but Fox’ finger rose in the silhouette of an experienced lecturer, and he bowled onwards.
“You police are many and powerful, but I am only one man, with naught but my intellect to rely upon. An extraordinary intellect, I think we can both agree, but alas, singular in its distributions, and beholden to the frailties of mortal flesh.”
They rounded the last corner of the roughshod maze, and started down a long straightaway which led to a sort of terraced valley, amidst the topography of riches and timber. A cluster of officers and investigators lollygagged about the clearing’s entrance, seemingly reticent to proceed any further, and obstructing any view of what lay beyond.
“Fox!” Armitage attempted more forcefully, but was once more overblown.
“Though my faculties may be vast, their execution is restricted. Like the mythical genie, there exist in me a finite collection of miracles which can be fulfilled. You must cherish me, detective, as you would a newborn babe, or a particularly fine vintage of Andolavian brandy. Not squander my talents willy nilly! I exist only to serve at your pleasure, of course, but can you honestly believe that this foolishness would be the fullest use of my time? This child’s play? This drudge’s work? This …”
The meandering crowd parted as Fox and Armitage approached, and the duo stepped forward into the clearing. Fox’ trailing words wheezed into oblivion, like the flatulent last note of a bagpipe whose air bladder has been punctured. The legendary investigator stood with mouth agape, flabbergasted at the sight which confronted him.
Armitage turned. He wore a smug smirk at Fox’ discomfort, but there was little joy in it, and beneath lay deeper strata of conflicting emotions.
“This what, Fox?” he asked. “Because I certainly haven’t ever seen this before.”
Some fundamental core of Fox’ being—the gentlemanliest portion of his soul—asserted itself in the face of Armitage’s derision, and extruded a measure of dignity and self-control. He closed his mouth with a slight click, and haltingly cleared his throat. Then slowly began to kneel in the faithful execution of his duties.
It was a body. Of course it was a body, this much Fox had expected. It lay, spotlit by a ray of sunlight, atop piles of flattened wood and sundry goods; the wreckage of a terrible accident, again, much as Fox had surmised. What was shocking was the precise configuration this body took.
It was ten feet tall, and this alone was enough to account for much of Fox’ unease. Crouching near its head, the bare feet seemed a dreadfully long distance away, and there was the unsettling impression that there was almost nowhere you could stand where the slightly too-long arms could not reach. Its shape was human, but many of the proportions were slightly off; for the most part, these peculiarities of form tended more towards beauty and grace rather than disfigurement, but there was still an aura distinctly of the alien.
Its skin was silver—not matte and mottled, like that of the painted buskers who sometimes performed in Leeuwenhoek Square—but perfectly and reflectively silver. Like a statue, only there had never been a statue so perfectly cast, so free of tarnish and roughness. Its eyes, half lidded in death, were slits of purest obsidian black. One felt a terrible gravity upon looking into those eyes, as though they actively drank of the world, rather than observing in passivity.
Most striking of all were the wings. Their span was immense—easily double the being’s height—and they lay in an ungainly carpet across the floor. They were silver as well, but nuanced; a silver which contained upon closer inspection a rainbow of nested hues, like the iridescent scales of some fish. Many of the individual pinions were bent and ruffled out of place, but the overall shape of the wings seemed perfectly intact, despite the violence they had sustained. Rather than true damage, they conveyed only an impression of tidy untidiness, like a selection of lightly crumpled origami.
In examining the body, Fox detected nothing noteworthy (more noteworthy than the body itself, that is) save for a slight discoloration on the left breast and right arm, and a braid of translucent cable that dangled from the left wrist. Looking up, he traced the path of the illuminating sunlight to a ragged hole punched in the tin roof.
“Well Fox, what does your oh-so-superior intellect tell you?” Armitage attempted levity once more, but it quickly crumbled beneath the aura of alien dread which surrounded the body. “What the bloody hell is this thing, and what killed it?”
Fox tilted his head to look up at the Detective, and his eyes flicked a little higher, to encompass the hole in the ceiling.
“Presumably the fall,” he replied. “That would be the most logical and obvious answer, for a being of modest deductive means.”
Armitage rocked back on one foot, and crossed his arms across his chest. “That’s great, Fox. I’d noticed the giant hole in the ceiling as well. I was hoping for something a little more detailed. Like where it fell from.”
Fox straightened slowly and adjusted his tie. “I think we have both come to a rough conclusion about the answer to that, Detective. Even if we wouldn’t particularly like to speak it aloud.
“The most logical and obvious answer ...” he repeated, almost to himself. “Detective, tell your men to fetch a wagon. A covered wagon. I should like to inspect the body more closely. Doctor Pentecost is in possession of a bone saw, correct?”
“Um,” Armitage blinked. “I believe so.”
Fox turned, and began striding swiftly back through the long box corridor.
“I surmise that it shall be insufficient to the task at hand,” he called back over his shoulder. “Inform him to procure a welding torch as well.”
To be continued ...[/b]
