THE CASE OF THE PECULIAR SAFECRACKER, by G. D. Falksen

“Well see, this is your problem right here,” Inspector Mueller said, speaking in the manner of a maintenance engineer. “You’ve got a hole in your safe.”

Next to him, Inspector Wilde folded his arms impatiently. “You’re no end of help, do you realize that?”

“Runs in the family,” Mueller replied.

They stood in the vault of the Martins and Wentworth Bank in the heart of Salmagundi’s prosperous Layer Three. The reinforced concrete chamber was square, about a dozen feet long and wide, with a ceiling that threatened constantly to brush the top of Wilde’s head. One side of the room held locked shelves with quantities of money, while the other hosted a row of safes of various sizes. The one that Mueller had been inspecting sat near the middle. Next to it lay the body of a man, now covered in a white sheet to preserve both the condition of the corpse and the dignity of the deceased.

The bank’s manager hovered at Wilde’s elbow, shaking nervously at the prospect of a scandal. His finely trimmed moustache twitched like the nose of a rabbit, and he cleaned the lenses of his delicate spectacles with a handkerchief so vigorously that it seemed they might break under the strain.

“Is that the best you can do?” the manager demanded, frantic over the no-doubt impending destruction of his livelihood and reputation. “You’re supposed to be Salmagundi’s finest!”

The two police officers turned toward him and presented a united front with the chests of their brown woolen uniforms. Wilde and Mueller were both very tall, and though Mueller was willowy, Wilde was an imposing titan of a man with a square jaw and broad shoulders. It was enough to make the bank manager take a step backward and tone down his vehemence.

Wilde kept his expression reassuring, and he placed a hand on the manager’s shoulder. “Steady on, sir. You have my word that we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Mueller was still pondering the safe door. “They cut the lock out of the safe, but they left the vault alone. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t make any sense?” Wilde asked.

“Well, look at it. The thieves break in during the night. They use sleeping gas to neutralize the bank guards—which isn’t a run of the mill tactic, let me remind you—but they somehow leave one man conscious so he can open the vault for them. Then they take him inside, kill him, cut open the safe somehow, take the contents and run off, leaving behind everything else in the vault with the exception of a few handfuls of money.” Mueller folded his arms with great finality. “Tell me how that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Wilde conceded. He turned to the bank manager. “Sir, I’m certain you can clear this up for us. If the clerk had already been forced to open the vault, why would he not have opened the safe as well?”

“It’s quite simple,” the manager said. “The safes in the vault are owned by our clients. We have no control over them save for their placement. None of our employees know any of the combinations.”

“Ah,” Wilde said. He ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. “Well, that does make some things a bit clearer. No employee could have opened the safe.”

“It’s still odd that only one safe was touched. I mean, yes, money was stolen from the bank’s strong boxes inside the vault, but this looks targeted. Otherwise, why waste time cutting into the safe at all? And if you bothered to bring a torch, why would you stop at just one safe?”

“Obviously they were interrupted,” the bank manager replied. “Poor Mr. Barnaby probably heard the guards coming to and tried to raise the alarm, so the robbers killed him. Then they panicked and made their escape.”

“But not before they emptied out the safe,” Mueller noted. He kept his tone ambiguous, but Wilde could tell that his mind was onto something. “And besides that, why bother with the safes at all? The vault’s own assets would be easier to get.”

Wilde turned to the manager. “Do you know what was in the safe?”

“I’m afraid not, Inspector. All of our clients’ property is strictly confidential. They provide the safes and their contents, and we simply provide the vault and make it available whenever a client needs to access it.”

Mueller made a little frown. “Wait a moment.… It was the middle of the night. How were they even able to open the vault? Don’t you have time locks?”

“Certainly not!” The manager was aghast at the idea. “We provide access for our clients day and night. That would be impossible if we couldn’t open our vault at a moment’s notice!”

Mueller placed his hand over his eyes and pinched his nose, as if suffering from a headache. “I understand, sir, but you realize that none of this would have happened if the robbers hadn’t been able to force your Mr. Barnaby to open the vault.”

The manager turned bright red and raised his finger in Mueller’s direction. “Now see here, Inspector—”

“Why don’t we make ourselves somewhat more productive?” Wilde interjected. “For instance, who owned the safe that was broken into?”

The bank manager shrank back and cleared his throat. “Yes…yes of course,” he said. “That would be…let me see.…” He removed a small printed paper from his coat pocket and inspected it. “Ah, yes, Number Seven: Witherspoon Machine Works. One of our most respected clients.”

“We’ll need their address and information,” Wilde said. He turned to Mueller. “Charles, any idea what they used to cut open the safe?”

Mueller opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a woman’s voice.

“Presumably an acetylene torch, Inspector Wilde.”

The speaker was a beautiful young woman whose pallor and refined features spoke of aristocratic breeding. Her long dark curls were tied up behind her head with a single red ribbon and then tucked carefully beneath a small black hat. Her clothing, while expensive and impeccable, was remarkably casual for someone of a wealthy background: a simple shirtwaist, coat and skirt combination in a dark ashen gray with a red velvet scarf. The cut of the garments were clearly intended to mimic the shape of a man’s suit without crossing the unspoken line.

“Doctor Bell, thank you for coming,” Wilde said, instinctively taking a step back from the woman’s unnerving expression.

Bell entered the vault and looked at the walls and surfaces disdainfully. “I will remind you, Inspector, that I do not make a habit of leaving my surgery every time the Legion of Peace discovers a new corpse. I was told that this incident would be of great interest to me. For your sake, I do hope the message I received was correct on that point.”

“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, Doctor.” Wilde motioned toward the corpse that lay near the safe. “This way please.”

Bell nodded curtly and followed Wilde across the vault. With very precise and deliberate movements, she set her surgical box down on the floor and then removed her hat and gloves, which she held out for Wilde to take. After a moment’s hesitation—during which, Bell’s expression became very impatient—Wilde accepted the accoutrements with a measured sigh. Bell knelt on the vault floor with little attention to propriety and drew back the sheet covering the corpse. What she saw made her blink in astonishment.

“Inspector Wilde, please accept my apologies,” she said. “This is most certainly worth the inconvenience of travel.”

The corpse was a man rapidly approaching middle age, with neatly trimmed sideburns and a short moustache. His face was frozen in an expression of utter shock, and he appeared to have died rather abruptly. The cause of death was obvious: the left side of his chest had been horribly burned, and a hole had been cut directly through his heart. It was a ghastly sight, although there was remarkably little blood to be seen in spite of the wound’s location.

Bell placed a pair of multi-lens spectacles over her eyes and began inspecting the wound with a probe, every so often making a “hmm” sound to indicate something of great interest. At length, she sat up again and narrowed her eyes in thought.

“Most remarkable…” she mused.

Mueller crouched by the body and peered at the hole. “What is it, Doctor?” he asked.

“Most remarkable indeed.…” Bell looked at Mueller, her reverie broken. She removed her spectacles and set them back inside her case. “To put it simply, my good Inspector, this is one of the most remarkable corpses I have ever had the pleasure of examining.”

Wilde crouched down to join them. “I don’t think ‘pleasure’ is quite the right word for this, Doctor.”

Bell gave him a disapproving look. “It is, Inspector. And I will thank you not to interrupt with trivialities of vocabulary.”

“Uh…right.…”

“What is your analysis, Doctor?” Mueller asked, steering Bell’s attention away from Wilde.

“The cause of death appears to have been a trauma-induced heart attack, caused specifically by the burning of a hole through the heart itself. Whatever caused the burning appears to have cut a line across the man’s side before boring through the chest itself.”

“What caused it?” Wilde asked.

“That is the question that puzzles me,” Bell replied. “Whatever it was, it scorched the flesh and clothing it came into contact with, but it did not set them aflame. As you can see, the burns as extremely localized, constituting the area of approximately a fingertip. I would have thought this to be caused by a cutting torch, presumably the same device used to open the safe, but I am quite certain that would have caused secondary burning of the surrounding materials.” She snapped her box shut and slowly picked herself up off the floor. “In all honesty, gentlemen, I am at a loss for an explanation.”

Wilde exchanged nods with Mueller. “Looks like it’s time for some footwork.” He turned to the bank manager. “We’re going to need the address of Witherspoon Machine Works. I assume you have it on file.”

“Of course, Inspector. Just a moment, if you please.” The manager hurried out of the vault, holding out hope for a speedy recovery of the stolen property.

Wilde turned to Bell. “Doctor, thank you for your assistance. We won’t keep you from your work any longer, although we’ll have the body sent along to your establishment. If your autopsy comes up with anything else, especially a profile of the weapon used, please send a cable to Headquarters.”

Bell replied with a soft smile, which was extremely unnerving against her otherwise cold expression. She took her hat and gloves back from Wilde. “Actually, Inspector, I must confess I am intrigued by this corpse in a way I have not been in quite some time. I would like the opportunity to study the weapon that caused this wound firsthand. If it is all the same with you, I will accompany you on your investigation. Perhaps my medical expertise will be of some assistance as your search progresses.”

Wilde and Mueller exchanged looks again.

“I’m not so sure…” Mueller began.

“It’s out of the question,” Wilde said, more forcefully. “We can’t simply bring a civilian along during an investigation. Not without good reason, anyway. It would be against protocol.”

Mueller pointed at Wilde. “What he said.”

Bell’s smiled widened even as her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Is that so? Perhaps I should speak to your Chief Inspector regarding this refusal to accept the help of a valuable diagnostic resource. I suspect she will be displeased.”

Wilde scoffed. “The Chief will be ‘displeased’ because at this hour of the morning she’s only into her second cup of coffee and she’s staring down a mountain of paperwork that some idiot clerk thought needed to be placed on her desk before she arrived.”

“And she was up all last night finishing a report on gang activity down in the slums,” Mueller added. “She wasn’t in a good mood last I saw her. If someone disturbs her, she’ll be furious.”

Wilde closed his eyes, realizing what they had just said. “Oh, Hell.…”

“Well, shall I disturb the poor dear about your refusal to accept my assistance?” Bell asked. When no answer was forthcoming, she turned toward the door with a flurry of skirts. “Then I suppose I shall.”

Wilde held up a hand. “Stop!”

Bell looked back over her shoulder with a wicked smile. “Yes, Inspector?”

Wilde’s expression was firm, but he accepted what he hoped would be the path of least aggravation:

“Okay,” he said, “you may come with us, on the condition that you do exactly what I say, when I say it.”

“But of course, Inspector,” Bell replied, bowing her head and seeming almost sincere. “I wouldn’t dream of causing you any trouble.”

* * * *

Despite Wilde’s deep misgivings, Bell proved to be as good as her word. She remained quiet as they drove to Witherspoon Machine Works, reading a small monograph in the back seat of the motorcarriage. At the Witherspoon offices, she followed Wilde and Mueller demurely into the building and said nothing as they explained their business to the secretary in the lobby.

After a short wait—reduced by a careful application of Wilde’s winning smile and public reputation—they were taken to the private office of Mr. Witherspoon. Witherspoon was a curious amalgamation of a man: a brilliant engineer with the eyes of a ruthless businessman. His appearance was slightly unkempt, but he smiled gamely as he shook hands with Wilde and Mueller.

“Inspectors, have a seat,” Witherspoon said, sitting behind his cluttered desk, which had been covered by all manner of papers and small curiosities and apparatus. After a moment, he took notice of Bell, who had been partly obscured behind Wilde. “Um…who is this, may I ask?”

“I am the medical consultant,” Bell replied, her expression remaining blank. Without another word, she took a seat a short distance away and returned to her book.

Witherspoon turned his attention back to Wilde and Mueller, immediately sizing them up. He instantly recognized Wilde, whose face was a common sight on the various recruitment posters plastered around the city. Mueller was less recognizable, but his appearance was slightly disheveled, similar to Witherspoon’s, and this seemed to satisfy Witherspoon after a moment’s thought.

“Well, gentleman, how can I be of service?” Witherspoon asked. When Wilde opened his mouth to speak, Witherspoon added, “I must remind you, however, that I am an extremely busy man. Please keep this brief and to the point.”

Wilde cleared his throat and kept his face serious. “Mr. Witherspoon, I’m afraid it’s my unfortunate duty to inform you that the safe your company holds at the Martins and Wentworth Bank was broken into last night and its contents stolen.”

Witherspoon’s eyes fairly bulged out of his head, and he stared at Wilde with his mouth half-open. “What?”

It was Mueller who spoke next. “I’m afraid so, sir. Sometime this morning shortly before first light, parties unknown broke into the bank and managed to make off with the contents of your safe.” Mueller specifically avoided mentioning the murder.

“Do you have any idea who might have a motive for doing such a thing?” Wilde asked.

“And, perhaps more importantly,” Mueller added, “just what was in the safe?”

“I—” Witherspoon snapped his attention to Mueller. “What?”

“What was in the safe?” Mueller repeated.

Witherspoon drew himself up a bit. “Valuable property of my company, Inspector.”

Mueller sighed. “So I would assume, Mr. Witherspoon. But what was it? If you can tell us what would have been taken, we will have some idea of where to look if the thieves attempt to sell it.”

Witherspoon remained evasive, but it was evident that he was seething with anger at the sudden news coupled with the invasion of his privacy. “Inspectors, I can tell you exactly who was responsible for this crime!”

Wilde and Mueller exchanged looks.

“Oh yes?” Wilde asked, removing a small notebook and pencil from his breast pocket. “That would save us a great deal of trouble. Who do you believe is responsible, and what grounds do you have for your accusation?”

“Viktor Zagreb, a former employee of mine.”

“And why would he go to all of this trouble?”

Witherspoon had a displeased expression. “He left my employment recently, under some rather unfortunate circumstances. He even convinced his assistant, another employee of mine, to leave as well! And without giving notice! Then, just two weeks ago, someone broke into the building and tried to make off with the contents of my office safe. The night watchman interrupted before anything could be taken, but it was a shock. That’s why I had the contents transferred to the bank. And let me tell you, there’s only one man who would have risked breaking into my office just to slight me.”

Mueller cleared his throat. “Mr. Witherspoon, if we’re going to retrieve your property, we’ll need a little more explanation than that. The intrusion in your office aside, a bank robbery is a bit excessive for a disgruntled former employee.”

Witherspoon sighed and drummed his fingertips on his desk. “Very well, Inspectors. Mr. Zagreb was one of my engineers. He immigrated to Salmagundi from the Empire last year and came to me with a solid letter of recommendation. I brought him into my employ, set him up in company housing…and then a few weeks ago, he had the audacity to try to demand money of me! I refused, of course, and then he left my employ, furious as if I had been the one to slight him! Can you believe that?”

Bell could be heard snickering in the background, but when eyes were turned toward her, she was reading her monograph as if nothing had happened.

“Mr. Witherspoon, please elaborate,” Mueller said, sighing a little in frustration. “How much did he demand from you? What were the circumstances?”

“Is this strictly necessary?” Witherspoon demanded. “I am a busy man and I have work to attend to. My property was stolen! Now can’t you go out and arrest the thief?”

“Not without reasonable cause to suspect him,” Mueller replied. It was a lie of course.

“Outrageous—” Witherspoon began.

Wilde rose to his full height and slammed his fist on Witherspoon’s desk. “Heaven’s Name, man! Just tell us what was in the bloody safe!”

Startled at the outburst, Witherspoon fell silent and swallowed visibly. After a long pause, in which he tried and failed to meet Wilde’s stare, he adjusted his necktie and cleared his throat.

“As I said, it was a collection of documents.”

“What kind of documents?”

“Patent documents, if you must know. My company recently developed a technology that will one day revolutionize the telegraph business. I’m certain you understand the value in that.”

In the background, Bell arched an eyebrow and looked up from her reading. Her curious expression was mirrored by both Wilde and Mueller, who exchanged looks and then peered at Witherspoon.

“How?” Mueller asked.

Witherspoon sighed in frustration. “Inspectors, need I remind you that I am a taxpayer? I have rights, unlike the unwashed masses you regularly deal with. And yet, here I am, the victim of burglary, and you have the audacity to demand private details of my business?”

Wilde leaned over the desk and growled at the obstinate Witherspoon. “Sir, we are trying to ascertain who would have both the interest and capacity to steal your property. And yet, even though time is of the essence, you drag your heels as if it were not important to you. Just tell us what we want to know, so we can do our bloody jobs!”

Behind them, Bell could be heard clearing her throat. “Mr. Witherspoon has given half of the answer already,” she said. “The documents clearly pertain to telegraph technology. Perhaps a more advanced switchboard system or a more reliable form of cable. What matters is that Mr. Zagreb is the first and only suspect in Mr. Witherspoon’s mind, which suggests to me that Zagreb has a personal interest in the patent.”

While speaking, Bell had stood and very slowly crossed the office until she stood at the edge of the desk, watching Witherspoon with an unwavering gaze reminiscent of a serpent observing a mouse. Witherspoon shifted uncomfortably in his chair and kept his eyes fixed on Wilde.

“Yes, all right!” he finally exclaimed. “The patent is for a new form of optical telegraph. It uses pulses of light to transmit the signals over distances without the need for wiring.”

Mueller’s jaw fairly dropped. “That’s…that’s.…”

“Ingenious,” Bell finished for him.

“If you use light, you don’t need the expense of telegraph lines. You could even transmit from one ship to another without needing to worry about couriers.”

“You can do that with a wireless,” Wilde scoffed.

“One can also listen in on wireless signals,” Bell said. “Just as one can do with the electronic telegraph. A light-based system would be almost impervious to interception.”

Witherspoon smiled a little. “It’s also much faster than electricity, which is of little significance now but will one day be very important. The technology is still too basic to change the world…yet. But in five or ten years, a modern optical telegraph will set the new standard for communications, and my company holds the patent. It is very important to us that we maintain control of this technology.”

Wilde frowned, troubled by a certain inconsistency. “Mr. Witherspoon, you say you suspect Zagreb of stealing the documents from the bank and of breaking into your offices before then for the same purpose.”

“Yes.”

“How did Zagreb know about the new technology and what it might be worth?”

Witherspoon was uncomfortably silent.

“He invented it, didn’t he?” Mueller asked.

There was a lengthy pause. “Yes, he did,” Witherspoon finally admitted. “Apparently he’d had the idea for some time but lacked the resources to develop it. When I employed him as an engineer, I gave him those resources. He developed the technology for me, and that was that.”

“I’m not surprised he asked for a raise, though,” Mueller said. “He must have known how valuable his work was to you. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t give him one to secure his loyalty.”

“What? The man had been working for me for a year. What would my older engineers have said if I’d doubled his pay like I.…” Witherspoon caught himself and snapped his mouth shut.

“Like you what? You tempted him with the promise of doubled pay so that he’d invent the next generation of telegraph technology, and then you turned down the reward that he deserved? Is that it?”

“Now see here—” Witherspoon snapped.

“Oh be quiet, Mr. Witherspoon,” Wilde exclaimed, interrupting him. “The way you exploited Zagreb was immoral and disgusting, but it wasn’t illegal. Come on, Charles,” he said to Mueller, “I think we finally have a reason to suspect this Zagreb fellow.” He gave Witherspoon a dutiful salute, but it was conducted with a seething undercurrent of distain. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Witherspoon. If you’d had the brains to tell us all this immediately, it might have saved us ten minutes. Good, day.”

* * * *

Viktor Zagreb had no listed address in Salmagundi, but his loyal assistant was easy enough to find. The assistant, a man by the name of Paul Fitzroy, lived in one of the better working class districts of Layer Five. While most of the layer was dark, run-down and grimy, Fitzroy’s neighborhood was relatively clean. The brick buildings were well maintained and their walls were free of graffiti. Even the gas lights that lined the street were almost entirely clean, a rare thing in the poorer sections of the city.

Fitzroy’s address was a tall but narrow townhouse, sandwiched in between several similar buildings. Wilde approached the door with Mueller and Bell following close behind. There was no initial response to his knock, but after a few more, the door opened to reveal a confused-looking man with a moustache. The man was dressed down to his shirt sleeves, which he had rolled up, and he had machine oil all over his hands and forearms. He was in the process of wiping his hands with a rag, which he nearly dropped when he saw the uniforms of the two officers.

“Yes? Can I be of help to you gentlemen?” the man asked, speaking with a slight accent.

Wilde gave a reassuring smile. “Are you Viktor Zagreb?” he asked, sliding his foot against the doorjamb just in case someone felt the sudden urge to slam the door in his face.

The man went pale with shock. “Yes, I am he. I…I have done nothing wrong!” He began to back into the house. “I have my papers! I will get them. They…they are here, somewhere.”

Wilde removed his hat and stepped into the narrow confines of the front hall. “Calm down, Mr. Zagreb, we aren’t here about your residency status.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Zagreb breathed a sigh of relief. “I do have my papers, you know. But I have misplaced them. They are in the house, but I know not where.”

“Mr. Zagreb,” Mueller said, entering behind Wilde, “we’re actually here regarding Witherspoon Machine Works, your previous employer.”

Inexplicably, Zagreb’s expression brightened, and he motioned for the inspectors and Bell to join him inside.

“This is wonderful news!” he exclaimed. “Paul said the police would only ignore me, but I knew you would see justice done!”

Mueller exchanged looks with Wilde. “What?”

Zagreb led them into a cramped but clean adjoining parlor, still speaking with great excitement. “Yes, when I filed the complaint against Mr. Witherspoon’s conduct toward me, I knew it would amount to something. Things are different here in Salmagundi. Not like in the Empire, where the rich own the police. Here, if you are in the right, the law will protect you. That is what I told Paul.”

Wilde cleared his throat. “Mr. Zagreb, I believe there is some confusion. We’re here about the theft of Mr. Witherspoon’s property.”

Zagreb’s face fell at the news, but he did not react with fear. “I am most sorry to hear this.… But it must be only a matter of time before my complaint is answered.” He continued cleaning his oily hands, trying to make himself presentable. “But, what is this you say about theft?”

“Two weeks ago, Mr. Witherspoon’s office was burgled. Last night, a bank was broken into and property belonging to Witherspoon Machine Works taken.”

“But, you surely cannot believe that I had anything to do with this!” Zagreb protested.

“That remains to be seen,” Mueller replied. “Can you account for your whereabouts last night?”

“I was asleep! It was the first evening I went to bed early in more than a week. I have been working very hard on a new invention. Yesterday it was finally tested to my satisfaction, so I allowed myself a good night’s sleep. Paul can attest to it when he returns! His room is on the landing beneath mind. If I left at any point, he would have known.”

At this point, Bell politely but forcefully pushed her way forward. “Mr. Zagreb, speaking as a qualified member of the medical profession, I have one question to put to you.” She smiled with unusual and unnerving warmth. “Might we see this invention of yours?”

* * * *

Zagreb’s workshop was located in the basement of Fitzroy’s house. It was a single long chamber of brick and stone that ran the entire length of the building, but though it was the largest room in the house, it was so completely cluttered with pieces of machinery, tools and half-finished projects that it felt as cramped as the rooms above. Wilde picked his way gingerly around the various tables, carefully avoiding the volatile mixtures and sparking electrical devices that covered them. Mueller and Bell were far more taken with the place, and more than once, Wilde had to snap his fingers to keep them from being distracted by some fascinating nuance of science.

One corner of the basement had been cleared out and it was occupied by a curious machine set upon a solid metal tripod. The device almost resembled a machine gun, or at least this was the most immediate parallel that came to mind. The main portion of the device was a metal cylinder, about the length and diameter of a man’s arm. The cylinder was hinged and currently stood open, revealing a line of tiny mirrors, lenses and vacuum tubes that ran along its entire length. The back section of the tube ended in a wooden box that contained a number of switches and toggles. Long insulated cables connected the device to a collection of glass battery jars protected by wooden cases.

“What is it?” Mueller asked, peering at the machine in fascination.

“The future of industry,” Zagreb replied. “It is a machine that cuts with light. The energy from the batteries is focused into a beam of incredible intensity, which can cut through any known substance given enough time.”

He motioned to a heavy plate of iron that sat against the wall nearby. It was pockmarked with holes and lines that had been bored directly through it as if with a drill or saw.

Zagreb continued, “The cutting is still sloppy, but with a little more work, it will be as clean as a hot knife through butter. No more torches or drills to cut metal. No more need to cast metal to an exact size. If a piece is too large, it can be reshaped in minutes. This machine will revolutionize industrial production, and this time Witherspoon will not cheat me out of my work. I have already filed the patent!”

“It cuts through metal?” Wilde asked, more thinking aloud than anything else.

“Here, I will show you,” Zagreb said.

He flipped several of the switches on the control box and carefully lined up the cylinder with an empty space on the metal plate. The machine began to make a loud humming noise and Zagreb seemed pleased, but there was no other noticeable change. Curious, Mueller leaned forward to inspect the device again.

“Stop!” Zagreb shouted, throwing his hands out to get Mueller’s attention. He quickly switched the machine off.

Mueller took a step back, confused. “What?”

“You could have been killed! You must not touch the beam when it is firing. It would cut through you as easily as you might tear a sheet of paper.”

“Beam?” Wilde asked. “I didn’t see any beam.”

“Nor I,” Mueller agreed.

Zagreb shook his head. “No, no, you cannot see it. It is not light that you can see, but it is light all the same. Look at the plate. You can see where the beam has begun to cut it.”

“He’s right,” Mueller said, inspecting the indicated part of the metal.

Wilde frowned. “If the beam is invisible, Barnaby might have walked into it accidentally. He might have been an accomplice, and his death might not have been murder.”

Zagreb looked up in shock. “Murder? What is this about murder?”

“Mr. Zagreb, is this machine portable?” Mueller asked.

“Why yes, it is fairly light. But why—”

“And does your assistant know how to use it?”

“Well of course, but—”

Mueller turned to Wilde. “I think Fitzroy’s just become our top suspect.”

“Question is, where is he?” Wilde said.

Across the room, Bell cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, I may have the answer to that.”

They turned to see Bell standing, book in hand, looking more than a little perturbed as a ruddy-faced young man in a shabby suit stood behind her with a knife to her throat. He must have entered the house and gone down the stairs with great stealth upon noticing the presence of the police. Zagreb seemed utterly baffled and took a few steps forward, hands outstretched peacefully, while Mueller and Wilde immediately drew their revolvers.

“Paul?” Zagreb asked. “Paul, what are you doing? The police have been asking questions! What is going on?”

Paul Fitzroy kept the knife pressed against Bell’s throat. “Throw those guns away, coppers! Now, or the lady dies!”

“Not happening, Fitzroy,” Wilde replied, keeping his aim level. “Put the knife down and give yourself up. We know Barnaby was an accident. You can still get off without a hanging if you don’t do anything rash.”

“Paul, answer me!” Zagreb shouted, horrified.

“Oh shut up, Viktor! I told you we could sell your optical telegraph to the Empire, patent laws be damned! But no, you wouldn’t hear of it! You let Witherspoon cheat you out of what was rightfully yours!”

“You were the one who broke into Witherspoon’s office, weren’t you?” Wilde asked. “Then you found out he’d moved the telegraph plans to the bank vault, so you convinced Barnaby to get you inside. But you needed to break into the safe, so you stole Zagreb’s cutting beam the first night he went to bed early.”

Fitzroy grinned. “I drugged his tea to be sure he’d sleep soundly.”

“Paul!” Zagreb cried.

“You brought this on yourself, Viktor! You made the perfect weapon—Barnaby’s death proves what it can do—but you wouldn’t listen when I said we should sell it on the arms market! But it doesn’t matter now. I’ve got a buyer for both your inventions, and they don’t care who owns the rights. In half an hour, I’ll be away from this city and the reach of your law!”

“I’ve had enough of this…” Bell grumbled.

Taking her book firmly by the corner, she snapped it upward and into Fitzroy’s nose. The object connected with a satisfying smack, and a kick to the shin finished the job of dislodging the man. Fitzroy collapsed with a howl of pain, dropping his knife and clutching his face. Bell gave him another solid kick for good measure and then set about brushing out the wrinkles in her coat and straightening her hair.

“I’m a patient woman,” she said, in response to the three astonished stares she received, “but there simply is a limit to what a respectable woman will tolerate.”

* * * *

Outside, a short while later, Mueller and Wilde watched as Fitzroy was loaded into a motorcarriage and driven off by peacekeepers from the local precinct house.

“That was neatly done,” Wilde said, lighting a sandalwood cigarette.

“A fine job,” Mueller agreed. “A pity about Zagreb, being caught in the middle of it all. I wonder what will become of him.”

“I think he’ll be fine.”

Wilde nodded toward Bell who had taken Zagreb by the arm and was leading him in what appeared to be a pleasant noonday stroll.

“Tell me, Mr. Zagreb,” Bell could be heard to say as she passed by, “this cutting light of yours…do you think it might replace the saw as a method of amputation?”

“Well, I—”

“I suppose it would cauterize as it cut, which is a consideration in itself.”

“I suppose, but—”

“And do you believe it could be miniaturized to fit inside a medical bag? I would find it most useful in my work.”

“Yes, but—”

“You simply must come and stay with me for a few days while we discuss it. Or a month. A year perhaps. That might be best. I’ll have the spare room converted for you.”

Mueller shook his head as they continued on down the street. “I don’t think I’m entirely comfortable with the idea of that woman owning one of those things.”

“I don’t think I’m entirely comfortable with the idea of that woman,” Wilde replied. He checked his wrist chronometer and brightened. “Lunch time! Let’s find a cafe and have a nosh before we worry about paperwork.”

Mueller clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “First sensible thing I’ve heard all day.”