Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (18 page)

Gideon and Maria followed Bent to a black door at the top of a flight of stone steps and the journalist rapped sharply on the brass knocker. There was a pause and then the door was opened by a broad, ruddy woman in the black frock and white apron of a housekeeper.

Gideon said, “We are here to see Captain Lucian Trigger.”

The woman frowned and made to shut the door. “I am sorry, but Captain Trigger is indisposed.”

“Told you. He don’t see anybody, doesn’t old Trigger,” Bent said.

“Then Dr. Reed!” said Gideon desperately. “Could I not speak to Dr. John Reed, in Captain Trigger’s absence?”

Gideon became aware of a shadow behind the housekeeper, and then a voice as dry as autumn leaves said quietly, “Mrs. Cadwallader? Did someone mention John? Is there news?”

Mrs. Cadwallader turned to the figure who shuffled into the sunlight and said tenderly, “Captain Trigger, I told you that you were to rest this afternoon. Excitement does not do for you. I shall see to these people.”

Gideon gaped at the figure whom the housekeeper had addressed as Captain Trigger. Surely there must be some mistake. There were some similarities between the small, thin man who stood in his house coat and velvet slippers in the doorway and the illustration of the robust adventurer with his chest puffed out that proudly dominated the cover of the penny blood Gideon held out in his hand. Both had well-cut, silver-white hair, and both had gray mustaches with waxed tips. But there the likeness ended. The Captain Trigger who appeared in the flesh before Gideon Smith was thin to the point of emaciation, his face creased with lines of age and worry, his sad, milky eyes squinting in the strong afternoon sun. He looked like the shadow Gideon’s Captain Trigger might cast, like a reflection in a tarnished mirror. Gideon felt his own shoulders slump, felt the breath knocked out of him. It had all been in vain. It had all been for nothing.

Captain Trigger smiled uncertainly and said, “What is your name?”

“Smith,” said Gideon numbly. “Gideon Smith.”

Gently, Trigger took the penny blood from Gideon’s hands and felt in his house coat pocket, withdrawing a fountain pen. With a shaking hand he wrote on the cover
To Gideon, from Captain Lucian Trigger, Hero of the Empire
. Then he handed the periodical back and said, “Good day to you, Mr. Smith. I hope you enjoy my adventures.”

“Your adventures,” said Gideon hollowly, looking down at the inscription.

Bent murmured, “Sorry you had to find out like this, lad. Old Trigger’s nothing but a fraud. A romancer. You didn’t . . . you didn’t really think all that guff was actually
true,
did you?”

Gideon looked at the sad figure of Trigger and felt a sudden wave of loathing. He had placed his trust in Trigger, and it had been trodden into the dust. What of
This adventure, as always, is utterly true, and faithfully retold by my good friend, Doctor John Reed
? A lie. Nothing but a fiction. He shook his head in disgust. “So that’s it, then? I cannot entreat Captain Lucian Trigger to help me in my hour of need?”

Trigger held his hands, palm upward, by his sides. “I am sorry. I am in no position to help anyone. I wish you luck in your endeavors, Mr. Smith.”

The housekeeper put her face into the gap between Trigger and the door and frowned at the three of them on the doorstep. As she began to close the door Gideon said, “So I am expected to just go back to Sandsend and deal with the mummy by myself?”

Bent nudged Maria. “There he goes again. Mummies. Have you got a clue what he’s on about?”

Trigger held the door as it swung toward its frame. He waited a moment, then opened it again, despite Mrs. Cadwallader’s protestations. He leaned out and looked quizzically at Gideon. Slowly he said, “Did you say mummies? As in Egyptian mummies?”

“You remember
The Shadow Over Faxmouth
? From the December issue last year?”

“Of course,” said Trigger.

“The creature that threatens my home is the same,” said Gideon. “
Exactly
the same.”

Trigger’s eyes widened, and as the housekeeper tried to take over the job of shutting the door he shooed her away with a wave of his thin hands. “Mr. Smith,” he said, “I rather think you had better come in.” He tapped his long forefinger against his chin. “Mrs. Cadwallader, I think we shall require some coffee in the trophy room.”

Trigger led them into the gloomy wood-paneled room hiding behind a net-curtained window in the shadowy rear of the townhouse. It was like walking straight into the pages of
World Marvels & Wonders
. Each wall was covered by a glass cabinet, and in each cabinet was a memento from every one of the adventures Gideon had devoured for as long as he could remember. He drifted, wide-eyed, past every display, his face reflecting dully in the glass. Here was hard evidence that, just as he had always believed, Captain Lucian Trigger’s adventures were indisputably real.

“The Tongan Fetish,” he said in wonder. “And the claw from the Exeter Werewolf. Lord Dexter’s top hat! And is this . . . ?”

“The Book of the Expurgated Apostles,” said Trigger, his own sallow reflection appearing beside Gideon’s. “You are clearly an aficionado of the adventures, Mr. Smith.”

Mrs. Cadwallader, glaring with hostility at the visitors, brought in a tray of coffee and fancies. “I’ll thank you to not overly excite Captain Trigger,” she said tartly. “He is very weak at present.”

When the housekeeper had bustled out and closed the door behind her, Maria poured coffee for them all and Trigger sat lightly in his easy chair, resting his head on an antimacassar. He closed his eyes for so long Gideon feared he had fallen asleep, but just as he was about to clear his throat Trigger said, “Mrs. Cadwallader is quite correct, unfortunately. I am not the man I was.”

“Like my old mum always said, you’re only as old as the man you feel,” cackled Bent.

Trigger opened his eyes and blinked at Bent, as though noticing the journalist for the first time. “It is not age wearies me, sir, but loss. However, I think it is about time introductions were effected. Mr. Smith has already stated his name and an intent causing my heart to beat like a drum. Who are you, sir?”

Bent extended a hand while he used the other to shovel fancies into his mouth. “Aloysius Bent, Captain Trigger, of the
Illustrated London Argus
. A lowly scribe, like your good self.”

“A journalist,” said Trigger primly.

Gideon said, “You’ve got it wrong, Mr. Bent. It isn’t Captain Trigger who writes up the adventures, but Dr. John Reed.” He looked around. “Is Dr. Reed not with you? I was given to understand you two spent much time together.”

“In each other’s pockets,” guffawed Bent. “You might say, in each other’s
trouser
pockets.”

Trigger stared at Bent. “I am glad my life offers such amusement to you, Mr. Bent. Little more than I would expect from your publication, though.”

Bent waved a protesting hand. “We’ve got the same paymasters at the end of the line, Trigger.”

Trigger ignored him and addressed Maria. “And you, my dear? Mr. Smith’s sweetheart, perhaps?”

Gideon saw a flush rise on Maria’s pale cheeks. Einstein really had left nothing out of his automaton. She kept her eyes averted from him and gifted Trigger with a small smile, which caused Gideon’s breath to catch in his throat. “We are merely traveling companions, Captain Trigger.”

They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment, Gideon itching to stand and inspect further the trophies lining the cabinets. But then Trigger said, “I believe mummies were mentioned. Mr. Smith, I would be extremely grateful if you could tell me your story.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Bent. “He’s giving me the tale, that’s the deal. I bring him to you, he gives me the story of the Wolf of Whitby.”

Gideon sighed. “For what seems like the hundredth time, there is no wolf in Whitby, Mr. Bent.” He turned to Trigger. “Of course I shall tell you my story. That is why I am here. But you may have trouble believing it.”

Trigger smiled, and for the first time since meeting him Gideon thought he detected a little of the elusive
something
that had made him the Hero of the Empire. “Oh, I doubt it, Mr. Smith,” he said. “I am, after all, Captain Lucian Trigger.”

“That,” said Bent, “is possibly the most ridiculous, fanciful, and far-fetched thing I have ever heard, and trust me, I’ve heard some fucking bullshit. Pardon my French.” He paused. “Actually, no, don’t pardon my fucking French. You’ve just wasted half my day on a wild goose chase. You should be in the bloody Bethlem Royal Hospital, chained to a wall, not running around loose in London.”

Trigger continued to regard Gideon. “Is that right?” he asked. “Are you a lunatic? Is that a pack of lies?”

Gideon laid his hand on his chest. “Sir, it is the God’s honest truth.”

“Yes,” said Trigger thoughtfully. “I do believe it is.”

Bent stared at him. “Then you’re as mad as he is. I’m in a house of madmen. True? Frog-faced mummies from Egypt attacking people in bloody Yorkshire? And let’s say I could begin to stretch my credulity enough to accept such things exist. Do I need to point out the only person to see the thing is a
sevenyear-old boy
?”

With some effort, Trigger got to his feet and strode to the trophy cabinet. “The stories in
World Marvels & Wonders
are, aside from a touch of literary license and the necessary alteration of details here and there to protect certain individuals, faithful reports of what happened. That particular case Mr. Smith alludes to, which appeared under the title
The Shadow Over Faxmouth,
occurred around two and a half years ago. A mummy liberated from the sands of Egypt was taken to Arkhamville, and was later revived by unknown means. It stole a ruby pendant and made for the sea. The mummy escaped but the pendant was recovered and brought back here, to this trophy room. It used to reside in this very cabinet.”

“Used to?” asked Gideon, rising and joining Trigger at the glass case. There was indeed a velvet cushion, slightly indented but otherwise bare, and a small card inscribed with the words “Arkhamville necklace (originally Egyptian).”

“It has gone, with John. With Dr. Reed.”

“He stole it?” asked Gideon, aghast. “He has abandoned you?”

Trigger shook his head. “Mr. Bent? What was it you said about me earlier? What did you call me?”

“A bum-jockey?” said Bent. “Oh, no, that was before we got here, in the cab. A fraud, that was it.”

Trigger nodded. “A fraud. Quite. You see, Mr. Smith, Mr. Bent is correct. I am a fraud.”

“But you said the stories were true!” protested Gideon. “And so they are,” said Trigger, smiling sadly. “But although they purport to be the adventures of Captain Lucian Trigger, that is not strictly correct. I said, did I not, that some things had been changed? The largest lie of all is that it is Captain Trigger who sallies forth into the world while his faithful companion Dr. Reed stays at home and transcribes his notes and journals. Quite the reverse is true. It is I, Lucian Trigger, who sits alone at the desk in the study and transforms into thrilling prose the rousing episodes of peril and triumph. And it is Dr. John Reed who is truly the Hero of the Empire.”

“Then it is Dr. Reed I need to see,” said Gideon.

Trigger sighed. “Would that were possible. He has been missing for more than a year. He embarked upon an adventure in Egypt. I am quite bereft without him.”

“He’s kicked the bucket?” said Bent.

Gideon glared at Bent. “Captain Trigger? Is he . . . ?”

Trigger shook his head sadly and touched his hand to his chest. “I do not know for sure. But if he were gone, I think I would feel it, here.” He fixed his watery eyes on Gideon. “My heart aches every day, Mr. Smith, and I am convinced John is still alive.”

Dusk had landed heavily on Grosvenor Square. Trigger sighed and lit the electric lamps in the room.

Eventually Gideon said, “Then it seems evident to me what must happen.”

Trigger nodded sadly. “There is no help here, I am afraid. When you spoke on the doorstep of mummies, I dared to hope you might have some news of John. But it is not to be. You must face your peril in Sandsend without Captain Trigger, Mr. Smith.”

Gideon stared at him. “That isn’t what I mean at all, Captain Trigger.”

“Then what, young man?”

Gideon looked at Trigger, then at Bent, then to Maria. “Isn’t it obvious? If John Reed is really the man who tackled the Faxmouth mummy, then I’ve no choice. I have to go to Egypt and find him.”

“Egypt?” said Bent. “Oh, this is getting priceless now. I’ll give you this, Mr. Smith, you’re awfully good value for money.”

“But how do you anticipate traveling to Egypt?” asked Maria quietly.

Gideon began to stalk up and down the trophy room. “I do not know. How did Dr. Reed get there?”

“I believe on this occasion he secured the services of Rowena Fanshawe,” said Trigger.

“The Belle of the Airways!” said Gideon. “From the adventures! Then she will be able to take me straight to where she saw him last.”

“I have already spoken to her,” said Trigger. “She merely transported him to Alexandria. Where he went from there, and how, I have no idea.”

“I must see her, nonetheless,” said Gideon. He paused, his face falling. “But . . . how much do you suppose passage to Alexandria would cost?”

“More than a steam-cab from Fleet Street to Grosvenor Square,” chuckled Bent. “And you’re broke, remember?”

Trigger was standing thoughtfully at the window, gazing out as the lamps flared into life in the square. “Mr. Smith,” he said slowly, “if you truly mean to travel to Egypt in search of John . . .”

“I do,” said Gideon. “I must have his help. That is, if the creature hasn’t slaughtered the entire village by now.”

“. . . then I will finance your expedition,” said Trigger. “John and I, we are not without resources. We are rather . . . affluent.”

“Can we go to see Rowena Fanshawe now?” asked Gideon.

“I would suggest tomorrow,” said Trigger. “This evening, I would like to extend to you an invitation to be my guests for dinner. I shall tell you . . . I shall tell you of John, and we can plan our next move in comfort. Do you and Miss Maria have somewhere to stay in London?”