Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18
The following Sunday, the 10th of June, at about 1:43 PM, Spilman was with Ted in the Green Park, the two of them just relaxing and enjoying a beautiful rare sunny day, when Spilman saw the two men who'd chased him Tuesday night and a couple of nights since. People who'd spent the morning in church were strutting their fine church duds; people who'd been drinking the night before had mostly recovered from their hangovers; people such as Spilman and Ted who'd done neither had been soaking in the beautiful weather since early that morning; and now those two clowns appeared on a bench a hundred yards away or so, clearly watching Spilman and pretending not to, like a very sour note in the lovely symphony which this afternoon had been. Not entirely unexpected sour notes, though. Since Tuesday night Spilman had been enjoying Ted's company more often than usual. Charlie wasn't with them today. He and Latham and many other autistics found the bright sunlight much more harsh than delightful, and were staying indoors. It was the first time since Tuesday Spilman and Ted'd been out together without Charlie; it was the first time Spilman had seen the two heavies in the daytime, the first time he had seen them while Ted was near, and the first time he saw them and felt no need to run. He slapped Ted's knee, nodded in their direction and said, "That's them."
"The two fellows who've been bovering you?"
"Hm-mm."
"Oy. You do mean the two jokers wif matching hats and -- "
"Yes, and matching jackets, and, uh..."
"Yeah, entire matching outfits, they dress in matching outfits a lot."
"You know them?"
"Oy."
"Two of us?"
"Oy, I am very sad to say. I mean, look at them. Is there anything in the world more conspicuous than matching outfits on large grown men? I imagine they were wearing matching outfits too the other times they was chasing you?"
"Yes."
"Disgraceful. Just what you want when you're trying to sneak up on somebody: look like a cricket team. I thought we had some standards. I mean, we don't trust Charlie wif any political business -- you know what I mean. I love the sod, but -- "
" -- Yes, I know exactly what you mean, Charlie's got no sense of what needs to be secret, so we can't trust him with any of our many secrets. It's nothing against him, he's just different. What are they, brothers? I'm simply trying to understand the matching outfits."
"Nah."
"Lovers, perhaps?"
"Uhhh... Hah. Hadn't thought of that. No, I don't think so. I think they're just mates, and more than a bit thick. Some pairs of eight-year-old boys'll dress alike, given the opportunity. If they're not particularly bright eight-year-old boys. These two donkeys shouldn't be entrusted with secrets any more than Charlie -- in my opinion. Others clearly see if differently -- and neither one a them ever fixed a watch or a sparrow's nest. Oy!" Ted shouted. His voice boomed and echoed and many people startled, including the two identically-dressed men on the other bench watching them and pretending not to. "Yes, we can see you just fine, can ya see us awright?" They gestured frantically for Ted to be quiet. "What's that? Lower? Awright!" Ted shouted, then shifted from his natural booming baritone to an even more penetrating, deafening false basso profundo, and shouted, "I said we can see you just fine from over here, can you see us awright!" He shifted back to his natural voice and shouted, "Come on over then, we got some stuff to diiscuss, the four of us. No? You don't want to come over? Fine. I'll ask you anyway: why've you two idiots been trying to kill my friend?!" Gasps and half-shrieks were audible from bystanders, and the two in matching Sunday finery were scurrying over to where Ted and Spilman sat.
When they were near Ted snarled, "Siddown," and nodded down at the bench he and Spilman were occupying. It was not a large bench, Ted was sitting at one end, one of the large smashed-faced fellows brushed against Spilman as he sat down, but this time Spilman didn't feel the slightest bit alarmed. "Two on two now," Ted said, "fair fight. Wanna give it a go now? No? Then tell me just what in the sodding Hell has gotten into the two of you. Oh, by the way, don't wear matching outfits when you want to sneak up on somebody. We both agree, it's about as conspicuous as can be. But you were about to explain yourselves."
"E's not yr friend, Ted."
"E is, for a number of years now, and a good and trustworthy soul."
"Bollocks!" said the one of them who'd been talking, the one seated next to Spilman, and he pulled on Spilman's watch chain, pulled the Waltham 1883 out of Spilman's vest pocket, shook it at Ted and demanded, "What do you say to that?!" Spilman took this quite calmly.
Ted replied, "I say you should leave talking in riddles to people much more clever than you."
The man shoved the watch back into Spilman's pocket and asked, "Ya remember Smif? Dark-haired fellow, bit of a weight problem, worked as a clerk over at Parliament, liked to dress a bit flashy, liked to drink a bit of whisky, liked the ladies maybe even a bit more than most -- "
"Yeah yeah I know the guy, but why are you asking me whether I 'remember' him? Somefing happen to him?"
"Ask your 'friend.'"
"What'd I just finish tellin' you about talking in riddles?"
"Nobody I know has seen Smif since about a month ago when some coppers chased im through Waterloo Station."
"That big ruckus in Waterloo Station was over Smif?"
"Yeah."
"Dint know it was Smif they was chasin."
"It was Smif. Chased im but dint catch im. Minutes after that, Inspector Raymond's on the case, lookin round the station. You know Raymond."
"All four of us know Raymond."
The man paused, it really seemed as if he needed a while to count how many of them there were on the bench. Spilman and Ted exchanged a glance, Ted with his palms raised in entreaty toward Heaven. The man continued, "Apparently Raymond was trying to find Smif before someone else did and help him disappear. But it seems someone else found poor Smif first."
"Bill, I swear by our dear beloved semi-reactionary Queen, if I have to tell you one more time about talking in riddles."
"The last time anybody saw Smif he was wearing that watch." Bill poked the Waltham 1883 in Spilman's pocket several times.
"Don't touch him again."
"E was wearing that watch," Bill said. "And your 'friend' ere, the high and mighty Mr Spilman, who acts and talks like a gentleman but is just as much a dirty Cockney as you or me, started wearin Smif's watch the day Smif disappeared."
"Bill, to call you a sodding moron would be an insult to sodding morons everywhere. That's not Smif's watch. Charlie Evans just happened to be on the platform when Smif was chased through it."
"The famous idiot."
"Bill, I swear to God, I will kill you just for exercise, and then I'll kill your only friend George just for spite. Shut up now. Spilman here is my friend. Charlie is too. And you're a famous idiot. Charlie's daffy about watches. Can spot one a hundred yards away in the dark for half a second and tell you the brand and model. E saw Smif's watch. My other good friend Albert Latham -- "
"Yeah, the, uh... Charlie Evans works for the Lathams now," George piped up. "They make those posh watches."
"I have worked for the Lathams for a long time, Albert Latham is my boss and also my very good friend. I swear to Christ, shut up, the pair of ya, shut up and listen for once in yr lives, ya... The police called Latham in to talk to Charlie about Smif's watch. That's how Latham met Charlie. Latham brought several watches like the one Smif was wearing, so that Charlie could point out the one looked most like it. He gave that one to the police, and he still had the others in is pocket when he happened to meet Spilman ere later the same day, who happened to be looking for a decent watch, and so Latham gave im..." Now Ted pulled the Waltham out of Spilman's pocket by its chain "...this one. I didn't know Smith'd gotten into trouble."
"I had no idea the man they were looking for there was one of us, was your friend," Spilman said to Bill and George. "I'm sorry."
"Fanks," Bill said. "Sorry about trying to arm you. Bit of a fuck-up there, no doubt."
"Oh, please don't give it another thought," Spilman replied, "it could've happened to anyone."
"Fanks," Bill said, and George nodded his wide-eyed thanks. Neither gave the slightest sign of having detected the sarcasm in Spilman's reassurance.
"I'm sorry about Smif too," Ted said. "I hope he's awright. Good that Raymond was on the case so quickly, I'm sure that gave Smif a better chance. But look, the two of ya. This is a perfect example of why you should talk to other people and get their advice first, before you go off on your own and try to settle things. Was anybody else at all aware of your plans to do Spilman in?"
The two of them were staring at the ground, they couldn't meet Ted's gaze. Bill just shook his head.
"Well I'm not surprised. I'm very disappointed in the two of ya, but I'm not surprised. Did ya learn somethin here? Please tell me ya learned something."
"Ahh," Bill said, and cleared his throat, and said, "talk to somebody first," still staring shamefacedly at the ground.
"Oy. Very good. Now sod off and let me and me friend enjoy this lovely afternoon."
They mumbled several more "sorry"s and shambled off. For a long time Spilman shifted his gaze back and forth between Bill and George walking away, and Ted watching them retreat with his lower jaw thrust out in annoyance. Finally Ted said, "They aven't learned a fucking thing. They never learn anything. They're a perfect example of good intentions paving the road to Ell. What donkey ever initiated them to be two of us?"
"I had no idea that man with all the coppers chasing him through Waterloo Station was a friend of yours. It made the papers: a mysterious chase, and none of the police would talk about it."
"Yeah. Yeah. I had no idea it was Smif. Poor sod, hope he's okay now. More of just an acquaintance to me. Bit of a silly fucker, the way he dandied up like a peacock. For the ladies, just as Bill said. I think maybe the ladies would've liked him more if he'd worried less about is clothes and done a few sit-ups now and then instead. Eh. That depends on which ladies it is, I suppose. Maybe Smif was actually onto something."
"So why was he in trouble?"
"Sod me if I know. Fucked a big shot's wife or daughter, maybe? I've no idea."
"Huh."
"What is it?" Ted asked.
"Raymond's been behaving very strangely lately."
"Yeah, I've noticed that too. So what?"
"Mm... I don't know what. Seems like I had half a clue about something there for a second, and then I lost it again."
"Well, if it's important, chances are it'll come to you again. Sometimes you figure something out as soon as you stop trying to, know what I mean? Tell you what, Spilman, whyn't we have a beer to celebrate your aving cheated yet another completely senseless death."
Showing posts with label waltham 1883. Show all posts
Showing posts with label waltham 1883. Show all posts
Monday, April 28, 2014
Friday, April 25, 2014
Because Of Mistakes! pt 18
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17
At about 3 minutes before midnight the following Tuesday, the 5th of June, Spilman was wearing the watch Latham had given him early in May. Spilman hadn't reset the watch since Latham had given it to him, and it was currently about 40 seconds fast. Which meant that Spilman didn't know how accurately it was running. All he knew is that it was within 2 or 3 minutes of spot on, without his having adjusted it for a month, and that that was amazing by his standards, and that Latham was a genius whom he was very fortunate to know. And that Latham shared the same condition with Charlie, although he'd been able to hide it from everyone but some of his family and a Swiss doctor with whom he corresponded about it. Latham insisted upon referring to what he and Charlie had as a condition, and was quite distressed, Spilman could tell, whenever anyone referred to it as a disorder. Apparently Charlie's abilities in some ways quite dwarfed Latham's which, in Spilman's view, certainly bolstered Latham's case for not thinking of it as a disorder. Latham also referred to it as a mutation. Although the term held some horror for the uninitiated general public, Latham assured Spilman that mutation could be either good or bad -- although that itself was a subjective call -- and that if it had not been for mutations we would all still be one-celled organisms living primarily upon our own excrement, if, that is, life had ever begun at all.
With some effort Spilman refocused his attention upon the task at hand: interviewing the butler of a Tory MP who for years had been spying as much as he possibly could upon his master, for the sake of their friends. The interview was pretty much wound up, Spilman had filled quite a few notebook pages -- how had he ever lived before Freddie had started giving him these posh notebooks and pens? So many cleverly-made things in this world, kept -- for the most part -- so greedily by a few away from the many, so that most people really didn't even know what they were missing.
The butler had himself made a few notes, to which he'd referred while briefing Spilman. "Okay," Spilman said, and pointed at the butler's little pile of scraps of paper," "I'll have those, too."
"Oh," the butler said, "why?"
"Why?" Spilman replied. "Why do you want to keep them? As souvenirs, perhaps?" The butler said nothing and merely looked nonplussed. "I'm going to take them from you because they're very dangerous to you, for one thing. I'm going to go through them once to check against my own notes, and then I'm going to destroy them." He took the pile and stuffed them into the convenient pocket at the back of the notebook, one of the countless things, pockets like these in notebooks, which the rich took for granted and the poor knew nothing about. "And if I'm in danger of being apprehended myself, I'll throw this whole lot away," he said, holding up the notebook, "Even though I've worked very hard for weeks to get it two-thirds full of notes or so, because this is all very dangerous. Perhaps, if we and people like us are very successful, in a couple of decades we'll be able to keep souvenirs of our work and write our memoirs and be hailed as heroes. For the nonce we're still criminals."
"Are you actually in danger of being apprehended?" the butler asked as they stepped into the alley from the room, attached to a warehouse in Lambeth, which they and their friends occasionally met in when they wanted privacy. The butler had a key to the place; he locked up behind them.
"One never knows. Oh, I'm so sorry, I almost forgot." Spilman handed a page torn from the notebook to the butler, with the name and address of a physician on it. "The man I mentioned. Take that boy from your household to him. My mind's all over the place. If it is pneumonia, God forbid, this man can help the child."
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
"Of course. Whatever are we here for if not for children like him? Just dress the tyke up like a little scion of our betters, and keep him from speaking, and I think you'll have no trouble passing yourselves off as a gentleman and his son. That'll get you past his receptionist and into his examining room, and then you can both be who you are. Don't worry about his nurse, the man's also one of us. And of course there'll be no charge."
"I say, I'm not a pauper, I can pay to visit a doctor."
"I swear to God, my friend," Spilman exclaimed, "for someone dedicated to breaking society's shackles you never seem to pass up an opportunity to lock yourself in them."
"I want to do my part."
"You do your part and several other people's. You work in a fine house, it's true, and get some fine scraps thrown your way, but all you have as your own is a nasty little room. This doctor has a very large house not far from where you work. He wants to do his part as well. Let him."
As he walked back home Spilman did his very best to look in all directions all the time without appearing to and to keep his ears sharp. He hadn't wanted to let it show to his friend, but as a matter of fact, he was a little more anxious than usual about being waylayed, and searched, and maybe killed. Earlier that evening he'd just seen a pair of thugs coming at him, seen them just soon enough to be able to run away. They'd both been very big, both had fit bodies and smashed-up faces. Boxers, or maybe just fighters away from the realm of sport. Spilman was not an exceptional fighter but he was a positively extraordinary runner. After about a mile the two men had given up, and one of them had yelled after him, "That's it, you rat fucker, keep running. We know where you live."
"So do a lot of my friends," Spilman shouted back.
"You don't ave as many friends as you think!" the voice had retorted as it receded in the dark: they'd stopped running, Spilman hadn't yet. At the time he hadn't thought much of the man's remarks, thinking it was only talk. If talking decided fights, a great many fights would've turned out entirely differently. At first he'd thought the man had called him a rat only to signify that Spilman was a small and loathesome creature. But then it occurred to him that "rat" was a piece of American slang, which had begun to cross the Atlantic, for "traitor." Saying he was a traitor would match up with saying that some people were no longer his friends. Of course, doing what he did, there was always going to be a certain amount of confusion among a certain number of people about what exactly he was up to and whose side he was on. And he had been running away from people threatening him harm on a regular basis since he'd been a small fleet-footed boy. Still, he couldn't entirely shake the thought that perhaps something unusually bad had happened, that some of his friends actually did think he'd betrayed them somehow, that perhaps they'd even sent those men to injure or even kill him, all because of some misunderstanding, or maybe because of a lie from an actual traitor. Spilman told himself not to be silly, not to scare himself for no reason. But he couldn't quite shake it. A chill had settled into him.
At about 3 minutes before midnight the following Tuesday, the 5th of June, Spilman was wearing the watch Latham had given him early in May. Spilman hadn't reset the watch since Latham had given it to him, and it was currently about 40 seconds fast. Which meant that Spilman didn't know how accurately it was running. All he knew is that it was within 2 or 3 minutes of spot on, without his having adjusted it for a month, and that that was amazing by his standards, and that Latham was a genius whom he was very fortunate to know. And that Latham shared the same condition with Charlie, although he'd been able to hide it from everyone but some of his family and a Swiss doctor with whom he corresponded about it. Latham insisted upon referring to what he and Charlie had as a condition, and was quite distressed, Spilman could tell, whenever anyone referred to it as a disorder. Apparently Charlie's abilities in some ways quite dwarfed Latham's which, in Spilman's view, certainly bolstered Latham's case for not thinking of it as a disorder. Latham also referred to it as a mutation. Although the term held some horror for the uninitiated general public, Latham assured Spilman that mutation could be either good or bad -- although that itself was a subjective call -- and that if it had not been for mutations we would all still be one-celled organisms living primarily upon our own excrement, if, that is, life had ever begun at all.
With some effort Spilman refocused his attention upon the task at hand: interviewing the butler of a Tory MP who for years had been spying as much as he possibly could upon his master, for the sake of their friends. The interview was pretty much wound up, Spilman had filled quite a few notebook pages -- how had he ever lived before Freddie had started giving him these posh notebooks and pens? So many cleverly-made things in this world, kept -- for the most part -- so greedily by a few away from the many, so that most people really didn't even know what they were missing.
The butler had himself made a few notes, to which he'd referred while briefing Spilman. "Okay," Spilman said, and pointed at the butler's little pile of scraps of paper," "I'll have those, too."
"Oh," the butler said, "why?"
"Why?" Spilman replied. "Why do you want to keep them? As souvenirs, perhaps?" The butler said nothing and merely looked nonplussed. "I'm going to take them from you because they're very dangerous to you, for one thing. I'm going to go through them once to check against my own notes, and then I'm going to destroy them." He took the pile and stuffed them into the convenient pocket at the back of the notebook, one of the countless things, pockets like these in notebooks, which the rich took for granted and the poor knew nothing about. "And if I'm in danger of being apprehended myself, I'll throw this whole lot away," he said, holding up the notebook, "Even though I've worked very hard for weeks to get it two-thirds full of notes or so, because this is all very dangerous. Perhaps, if we and people like us are very successful, in a couple of decades we'll be able to keep souvenirs of our work and write our memoirs and be hailed as heroes. For the nonce we're still criminals."
"Are you actually in danger of being apprehended?" the butler asked as they stepped into the alley from the room, attached to a warehouse in Lambeth, which they and their friends occasionally met in when they wanted privacy. The butler had a key to the place; he locked up behind them.
"One never knows. Oh, I'm so sorry, I almost forgot." Spilman handed a page torn from the notebook to the butler, with the name and address of a physician on it. "The man I mentioned. Take that boy from your household to him. My mind's all over the place. If it is pneumonia, God forbid, this man can help the child."
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
"Of course. Whatever are we here for if not for children like him? Just dress the tyke up like a little scion of our betters, and keep him from speaking, and I think you'll have no trouble passing yourselves off as a gentleman and his son. That'll get you past his receptionist and into his examining room, and then you can both be who you are. Don't worry about his nurse, the man's also one of us. And of course there'll be no charge."
"I say, I'm not a pauper, I can pay to visit a doctor."
"I swear to God, my friend," Spilman exclaimed, "for someone dedicated to breaking society's shackles you never seem to pass up an opportunity to lock yourself in them."
"I want to do my part."
"You do your part and several other people's. You work in a fine house, it's true, and get some fine scraps thrown your way, but all you have as your own is a nasty little room. This doctor has a very large house not far from where you work. He wants to do his part as well. Let him."
As he walked back home Spilman did his very best to look in all directions all the time without appearing to and to keep his ears sharp. He hadn't wanted to let it show to his friend, but as a matter of fact, he was a little more anxious than usual about being waylayed, and searched, and maybe killed. Earlier that evening he'd just seen a pair of thugs coming at him, seen them just soon enough to be able to run away. They'd both been very big, both had fit bodies and smashed-up faces. Boxers, or maybe just fighters away from the realm of sport. Spilman was not an exceptional fighter but he was a positively extraordinary runner. After about a mile the two men had given up, and one of them had yelled after him, "That's it, you rat fucker, keep running. We know where you live."
"So do a lot of my friends," Spilman shouted back.
"You don't ave as many friends as you think!" the voice had retorted as it receded in the dark: they'd stopped running, Spilman hadn't yet. At the time he hadn't thought much of the man's remarks, thinking it was only talk. If talking decided fights, a great many fights would've turned out entirely differently. At first he'd thought the man had called him a rat only to signify that Spilman was a small and loathesome creature. But then it occurred to him that "rat" was a piece of American slang, which had begun to cross the Atlantic, for "traitor." Saying he was a traitor would match up with saying that some people were no longer his friends. Of course, doing what he did, there was always going to be a certain amount of confusion among a certain number of people about what exactly he was up to and whose side he was on. And he had been running away from people threatening him harm on a regular basis since he'd been a small fleet-footed boy. Still, he couldn't entirely shake the thought that perhaps something unusually bad had happened, that some of his friends actually did think he'd betrayed them somehow, that perhaps they'd even sent those men to injure or even kill him, all because of some misunderstanding, or maybe because of a lie from an actual traitor. Spilman told himself not to be silly, not to scare himself for no reason. But he couldn't quite shake it. A chill had settled into him.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Because Of Mistakes! pt 10
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
At about 2:31 PM the next day, Friday, Latham, walking across the bridge toward Westminster, was able to determine that the large policeman shambling toward him was, in fact, Inspector Raymond. He hadn't seen Raymond since the incident at Waterloo station. Not very many paces later, Latham began to suspect that the large-linked watch chain protruding from Raymond's waistcoat pocket was platinum; when they were within twenty paces of each other he was sure it was. Then they were face to face, and stopped and stood there, neither one saying Hello or anything else for the nonce. Finally Latham said, "That's an extraordinary watch-chain, Inspector. D'ya have a rich aunt die on you lately?" The two of them weren't in the habit of laying hands upon one another, but Latham unceremoniously pulled the watch from Raymond's pocket, a Waltham 1883, yes, it was the very same watch Charlie had described to him, the same in every detail down to the unusual, deep scratch next to the stem. Latham unfastened the chain from Raymond's vest, looked around to make sure no other pedestrians were near them on the bridge, and tossed the watch and chain into the Thames. "Don't worry," he told Raymond, "I'll get you a new one, you know I will, you just have to ask. You like that sort of heavy chain, no problem. I'll give you a beautiful heavy platinum watch to match it."
They just stood there for a while, neither one knowing what to say. Finally Latham asked Raymond, "So, what are you up to?"
Raymond shrugged several times before he spoke: "To tell you the truth, I'm wandering around aimlessly."
"You look terrible. Pardon my saying so, I say it out of concern."
"I know. I know you do. I know I do."
Latham looked around again to be sure that they were out of anyone's hearing, and asked, "How long were you wearing that watch and chain?"
"A week, a day and a few hours."
"Good."
"Good?"
"It's clear that you're very upset about something. And that's bad. What I meant is that it's good that, apparently at least, you're not so upset that you've lost all sense of time. Good Lord, has it been a week since you've changed your clothes? Never mind, answer me this instead: have you got fresh clothes at home?"
Raymond nodded: "Yup."
"Right." Latham whistled loudly, an empty hansom cab stopped, Latham herded Raymond into. "Oh," he said, "I don't know your address." Raymond gave the driver his address in Lambeth. They were silent for the several minutes it took the cab to get there. Once Latham got Raymond into a hot bath in his flat, he said, "Look, I understand how sometimes you can't tell someone something. It may hurt my feelings when that someone is me, but I understand that there are more important things in the world than my hurt feelings. The thing is, Charlie, ahhh... I don't think Charlie understands the concept of secrecy."
"Charlie? Ah, you mean that imbecile back at Waterloo Station?"
"He's not an imbecile!"
"You sure?" Raymond asked. "The way you say that, sounds like you've said it several times already."
"He's not an imbecile. Without him you never would've identified that watch and chain."
"No?"
"No. And he would've spotted the chain several times further away than I did. A football field away. At dusk."
"Would he have now?"
"You remember the drawing of the watch, in the packet I sent you?"
"Yeah."
"You know Charlie made that drawing?"
"Oh. Actually, I hadn't realized that. Thought you drew that."
"Wish I could draw like that. Charlie banged that out in two minutes. I'm not exaggerating. Two minutes. He's a genius." He looked up to meet Raymond's eyes after saying this, saw Raymond's skeptical expression. "He's a genius in some areas, not in others. Alright?"
"Well, he seems to be a draftsman, alright."
"The drawing's nothing compared to what he can do with watches. What he can do with a watch with his bare hands. He's spending some time over at the Latham plant now, with proper tools and so forth. But I don't know. I don't know if he shouldn't better be some place like the British Museum. Or Cambridge."
"Alright, alright, I apologize for insulting your talented friend. But I believe how we started talking about him was that you said, ahh, you said that he... doesn't understand the concept of secrecy."
"I suspect he doesn't. And he's got eyes like a hawk. So you've been wearing that watch and chain for a week now. Maybe sort of halfway hoping someone would notice it and it'd get you in trouble, eh?"
"Mm. Maybe so."
"Well, if you've got a guilty conscience about something. Or if there's some shady business in the police, or somewhere else, and you sort of halfway want to expose it, because you think it's rotten -- or whatever's upsetting you, you're a grown-up and it's your business. But imagine if it hadn't been just me on the Westminster bridge. Imagine if Charlie'd been walking along beside me, and a hundred yards away from you he starts pointing at you and shouting excitedly about the watch and the chain and the man running through Waterloo Station with all the police looking for him. Charlie's as harmless as a baby, you saw that yourself. Can't even defend himself. You hurt him, all he can do is scream in pain. And just as easy as that you could've gotten him tangled up in -- God knows what, in something too horrible for you to talk about it with me, just because you're being melodramatic and wearing that watch and chain because -- I don't know why, because you're angry, or sad, or you feel guilty, I don't know. Could've turned Charlie's whole life upside-down because of some melodramatic play-acting on your part."
"Alright, alright, Latham, you've made your point. And you're right. You and me and our friends, we've chosen to carry a lot of secrets around, and we accept the risks. But Charlie hasn't asked for any of that."
"Exactly."
"So he's a wizard with watches, Charlie is."
"Oy. Only person I've ever seen who's better at fixing a watch than I am. And he's miles better."
"And you and he are both... autistic."
"Yep."
"You said you understand Charlie much better than you understand me or most people. That was disturbing."
Latham was taken aback. "Sorry, Inspector, didn't mean to disturb you, but there it is."
"But that would mean that you're..."
"Imbecilic? Try to look at it the other way round: it means Charlie isn't nearly as much an imbecile as he seems to you," Latham said, and raised his glance to see Raymond laying back in the tub and staring at the ceiling with an expression of great puzzlement, as if he were having a great deal of trouble looking at Charlie another way around. Latham was exasperated. What more did Raymond have to know in order to revise his preconceived categories of people?
At about 2:31 PM the next day, Friday, Latham, walking across the bridge toward Westminster, was able to determine that the large policeman shambling toward him was, in fact, Inspector Raymond. He hadn't seen Raymond since the incident at Waterloo station. Not very many paces later, Latham began to suspect that the large-linked watch chain protruding from Raymond's waistcoat pocket was platinum; when they were within twenty paces of each other he was sure it was. Then they were face to face, and stopped and stood there, neither one saying Hello or anything else for the nonce. Finally Latham said, "That's an extraordinary watch-chain, Inspector. D'ya have a rich aunt die on you lately?" The two of them weren't in the habit of laying hands upon one another, but Latham unceremoniously pulled the watch from Raymond's pocket, a Waltham 1883, yes, it was the very same watch Charlie had described to him, the same in every detail down to the unusual, deep scratch next to the stem. Latham unfastened the chain from Raymond's vest, looked around to make sure no other pedestrians were near them on the bridge, and tossed the watch and chain into the Thames. "Don't worry," he told Raymond, "I'll get you a new one, you know I will, you just have to ask. You like that sort of heavy chain, no problem. I'll give you a beautiful heavy platinum watch to match it."
They just stood there for a while, neither one knowing what to say. Finally Latham asked Raymond, "So, what are you up to?"
Raymond shrugged several times before he spoke: "To tell you the truth, I'm wandering around aimlessly."
"You look terrible. Pardon my saying so, I say it out of concern."
"I know. I know you do. I know I do."
Latham looked around again to be sure that they were out of anyone's hearing, and asked, "How long were you wearing that watch and chain?"
"A week, a day and a few hours."
"Good."
"Good?"
"It's clear that you're very upset about something. And that's bad. What I meant is that it's good that, apparently at least, you're not so upset that you've lost all sense of time. Good Lord, has it been a week since you've changed your clothes? Never mind, answer me this instead: have you got fresh clothes at home?"
Raymond nodded: "Yup."
"Right." Latham whistled loudly, an empty hansom cab stopped, Latham herded Raymond into. "Oh," he said, "I don't know your address." Raymond gave the driver his address in Lambeth. They were silent for the several minutes it took the cab to get there. Once Latham got Raymond into a hot bath in his flat, he said, "Look, I understand how sometimes you can't tell someone something. It may hurt my feelings when that someone is me, but I understand that there are more important things in the world than my hurt feelings. The thing is, Charlie, ahhh... I don't think Charlie understands the concept of secrecy."
"Charlie? Ah, you mean that imbecile back at Waterloo Station?"
"He's not an imbecile!"
"You sure?" Raymond asked. "The way you say that, sounds like you've said it several times already."
"He's not an imbecile. Without him you never would've identified that watch and chain."
"No?"
"No. And he would've spotted the chain several times further away than I did. A football field away. At dusk."
"Would he have now?"
"You remember the drawing of the watch, in the packet I sent you?"
"Yeah."
"You know Charlie made that drawing?"
"Oh. Actually, I hadn't realized that. Thought you drew that."
"Wish I could draw like that. Charlie banged that out in two minutes. I'm not exaggerating. Two minutes. He's a genius." He looked up to meet Raymond's eyes after saying this, saw Raymond's skeptical expression. "He's a genius in some areas, not in others. Alright?"
"Well, he seems to be a draftsman, alright."
"The drawing's nothing compared to what he can do with watches. What he can do with a watch with his bare hands. He's spending some time over at the Latham plant now, with proper tools and so forth. But I don't know. I don't know if he shouldn't better be some place like the British Museum. Or Cambridge."
"Alright, alright, I apologize for insulting your talented friend. But I believe how we started talking about him was that you said, ahh, you said that he... doesn't understand the concept of secrecy."
"I suspect he doesn't. And he's got eyes like a hawk. So you've been wearing that watch and chain for a week now. Maybe sort of halfway hoping someone would notice it and it'd get you in trouble, eh?"
"Mm. Maybe so."
"Well, if you've got a guilty conscience about something. Or if there's some shady business in the police, or somewhere else, and you sort of halfway want to expose it, because you think it's rotten -- or whatever's upsetting you, you're a grown-up and it's your business. But imagine if it hadn't been just me on the Westminster bridge. Imagine if Charlie'd been walking along beside me, and a hundred yards away from you he starts pointing at you and shouting excitedly about the watch and the chain and the man running through Waterloo Station with all the police looking for him. Charlie's as harmless as a baby, you saw that yourself. Can't even defend himself. You hurt him, all he can do is scream in pain. And just as easy as that you could've gotten him tangled up in -- God knows what, in something too horrible for you to talk about it with me, just because you're being melodramatic and wearing that watch and chain because -- I don't know why, because you're angry, or sad, or you feel guilty, I don't know. Could've turned Charlie's whole life upside-down because of some melodramatic play-acting on your part."
"Alright, alright, Latham, you've made your point. And you're right. You and me and our friends, we've chosen to carry a lot of secrets around, and we accept the risks. But Charlie hasn't asked for any of that."
"Exactly."
"So he's a wizard with watches, Charlie is."
"Oy. Only person I've ever seen who's better at fixing a watch than I am. And he's miles better."
"And you and he are both... autistic."
"Yep."
"You said you understand Charlie much better than you understand me or most people. That was disturbing."
Latham was taken aback. "Sorry, Inspector, didn't mean to disturb you, but there it is."
"But that would mean that you're..."
"Imbecilic? Try to look at it the other way round: it means Charlie isn't nearly as much an imbecile as he seems to you," Latham said, and raised his glance to see Raymond laying back in the tub and staring at the ceiling with an expression of great puzzlement, as if he were having a great deal of trouble looking at Charlie another way around. Latham was exasperated. What more did Raymond have to know in order to revise his preconceived categories of people?
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Because Of Mistakes! (novel about autism in London in 1900) pt 8
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7
This is how it was: Inspector Raymond officially reported to Chief Superintendent Martin. Martin was almost universally thought to be a corrupt tool of the capitalists, in the pocket of the Liberal MP Lyle Chambers. Working in one of Chambers' many factories was known to be a very unfortunate fate. Chambers had lobbied hard against Factory and Workshop, and since it had passed he'd routinely bribed officials to overlook his violations of the law. In reality, Chief Superintendent Martin was a Socialist double-agent, staying close to Chambers and other reactionary capitalists and gaining their trust in order to thwart them. For just one recent example, Martin had told Raymond about the campaign of bribes to overturn Factory and Workshop, and it had been Raymond who'd told Fontaine and Spilman.
Martin didn't tell Raymond who else knew that he was a double-agent. Not one name. And Raymond told no-one about Martin's actual activity. The information he passed along, as far as any of Raymond's other comrades believed, was either from a source Raymond wouldn't name, or from this or that person who was nothing but a name Raymond told them, persons who didn't really exist. Whenever the two of them, Raymond and Martin, discussed their real business, not official police business, they spoke one on one behind closed doors. Raymond saw someone or other from Martin's staff nearly every working day. Raymond knew that some of that staff certainly had to be Socialist double-agents just like Martin, but he had no idea which ones.
For another example, someone working for Martin had discovered that George Smith, Raymond's friend whom he had just murdered, the man who ran through Waterloo Station with a Waltham 1883 on a heavy platinum chain, a clerk in the House of Commons and a long-time well-trusted Socialist with a huge number of Socialist contacts, had begun to sell his friends' secrets to right-wingers. "By a great stroke of luck," Martin had said to Raymond on Monday, two days ago, "he sold some of that information to one of us, someone I know, another double-agent who's a capitalist tool as far as the world is concerned. As far as I know, we've been able to discredit most or all of the information in the eyes of the right-wingers Smith sold it to. But only just, and that's been extremely difficult, putting out those fires. And in the meantime, Smith's old left-wing friends are catching on that he's turned informer, while the right-wingers want more information in place of the information they've already paid for which they think is inaccurate, because we were able to discredit it. Smith is panicking, which of course makes him extremely dangerous to all of us. He put together a packet which would've exposed me, you, Fontaine, Spilman and hundreds of others, beyond anything I could do to undo it. A constable who works for me took that packet off of him on his way to sell it to -- someone, I don't know who -- and was going to take him into custody, but Smith fought him off with his fists and ran off. Smith needs to be found, and made to vanish."
"You want him dead?"
"It's an awful thing. I don't see that we've got any other choice."
And the next day, Tuesday, Raymond's men just missed Smith at Waterloo Station, chasing him off of a train headed east, and then they'd come across that strange young man obsessed with watches, and then with Latham's help interviewing that young man they'd found the pawnbroker's where Smith sold an expensive watch and put a cheaper one onto a platinum chain, and from there they found the room near Waterloo he'd been holed up in, and from there he was seen boarding another train headed east, and an unknown source -- unknown to Raymond, presumably known to Martin once again -- gave them a message that he was in that fleabag hotel in Southend, where Martin said that Raymond would meet three men. Those three men who hadn't bothered to give Raymond their names, possibly police, possibly not. And Raymond had told them he'd finish it himself.
Raymond got to the station as the morning shift was coming on. "Oy, Boss," a constable called out, "you alright?"
Raymond hadn't slept in two days and he'd just killed a friend. "Got a bit of a cold," He said. "You might want to stay a pace or two away if you haven't had it lately. Other than the cold I'm fine, thank you for asking."
A Detective Sergeant said, "I've got some reports of sightings of men with cheap watches on expensive chains, Inspector." If the Detective suspected that the watch-chain hanging from Raymond's vest was worth three hundred quid, he gave no sign of it.
"Oh, you didn't hear? Higher-ups took that case over yesterday evening. We're done."
"Sorry, Sir, I hadn't heard."
"No worries. Never need to apologize to me for working hard. You got it all written up?"
"Yessir." The detective held up an envelope.
"Right. Put it on my desk, I'll pass it along, and you're on to the next case."
"He out of London, Sir? That why we're off the case?"
"They didn't tell me a thing except that we're off of it, Detective. Ours is not to question why."
This is how it was: Inspector Raymond officially reported to Chief Superintendent Martin. Martin was almost universally thought to be a corrupt tool of the capitalists, in the pocket of the Liberal MP Lyle Chambers. Working in one of Chambers' many factories was known to be a very unfortunate fate. Chambers had lobbied hard against Factory and Workshop, and since it had passed he'd routinely bribed officials to overlook his violations of the law. In reality, Chief Superintendent Martin was a Socialist double-agent, staying close to Chambers and other reactionary capitalists and gaining their trust in order to thwart them. For just one recent example, Martin had told Raymond about the campaign of bribes to overturn Factory and Workshop, and it had been Raymond who'd told Fontaine and Spilman.
Martin didn't tell Raymond who else knew that he was a double-agent. Not one name. And Raymond told no-one about Martin's actual activity. The information he passed along, as far as any of Raymond's other comrades believed, was either from a source Raymond wouldn't name, or from this or that person who was nothing but a name Raymond told them, persons who didn't really exist. Whenever the two of them, Raymond and Martin, discussed their real business, not official police business, they spoke one on one behind closed doors. Raymond saw someone or other from Martin's staff nearly every working day. Raymond knew that some of that staff certainly had to be Socialist double-agents just like Martin, but he had no idea which ones.
For another example, someone working for Martin had discovered that George Smith, Raymond's friend whom he had just murdered, the man who ran through Waterloo Station with a Waltham 1883 on a heavy platinum chain, a clerk in the House of Commons and a long-time well-trusted Socialist with a huge number of Socialist contacts, had begun to sell his friends' secrets to right-wingers. "By a great stroke of luck," Martin had said to Raymond on Monday, two days ago, "he sold some of that information to one of us, someone I know, another double-agent who's a capitalist tool as far as the world is concerned. As far as I know, we've been able to discredit most or all of the information in the eyes of the right-wingers Smith sold it to. But only just, and that's been extremely difficult, putting out those fires. And in the meantime, Smith's old left-wing friends are catching on that he's turned informer, while the right-wingers want more information in place of the information they've already paid for which they think is inaccurate, because we were able to discredit it. Smith is panicking, which of course makes him extremely dangerous to all of us. He put together a packet which would've exposed me, you, Fontaine, Spilman and hundreds of others, beyond anything I could do to undo it. A constable who works for me took that packet off of him on his way to sell it to -- someone, I don't know who -- and was going to take him into custody, but Smith fought him off with his fists and ran off. Smith needs to be found, and made to vanish."
"You want him dead?"
"It's an awful thing. I don't see that we've got any other choice."
And the next day, Tuesday, Raymond's men just missed Smith at Waterloo Station, chasing him off of a train headed east, and then they'd come across that strange young man obsessed with watches, and then with Latham's help interviewing that young man they'd found the pawnbroker's where Smith sold an expensive watch and put a cheaper one onto a platinum chain, and from there they found the room near Waterloo he'd been holed up in, and from there he was seen boarding another train headed east, and an unknown source -- unknown to Raymond, presumably known to Martin once again -- gave them a message that he was in that fleabag hotel in Southend, where Martin said that Raymond would meet three men. Those three men who hadn't bothered to give Raymond their names, possibly police, possibly not. And Raymond had told them he'd finish it himself.
Raymond got to the station as the morning shift was coming on. "Oy, Boss," a constable called out, "you alright?"
Raymond hadn't slept in two days and he'd just killed a friend. "Got a bit of a cold," He said. "You might want to stay a pace or two away if you haven't had it lately. Other than the cold I'm fine, thank you for asking."
A Detective Sergeant said, "I've got some reports of sightings of men with cheap watches on expensive chains, Inspector." If the Detective suspected that the watch-chain hanging from Raymond's vest was worth three hundred quid, he gave no sign of it.
"Oh, you didn't hear? Higher-ups took that case over yesterday evening. We're done."
"Sorry, Sir, I hadn't heard."
"No worries. Never need to apologize to me for working hard. You got it all written up?"
"Yessir." The detective held up an envelope.
"Right. Put it on my desk, I'll pass it along, and you're on to the next case."
"He out of London, Sir? That why we're off the case?"
"They didn't tell me a thing except that we're off of it, Detective. Ours is not to question why."
Monday, April 7, 2014
Because Of Mistakes! (novel about autism in London in 1900) pt 7
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
"Who are they looking for?" Freddy asked.
"Raymond wouldn't tell me," Al said. "It's all very hush-hush. Strange Raymond not confiding in me. Unusual."
Spilman said to Latham, "Freddy and I've been talking about the campaign to overturn Factory and Workshop, have you heard about this?"
"Yes indeed," Latham said. "It's flabbergasting. And it actually has a chance, it seems."
"Terry and I were discussing it over lunch," Fontaine said. "It seems some very large bribes have been given to MP's who otherwise might've been on the fence in the effort, or voted to uphold the law as it stands. It'd be great if we could publicly expose these bribes, prove to the public that they've been given, but that seems easier said than done. You rub shoulders with some of the people involved in all of this muck -- factory owners, the ones giving the bribes. You might be able to throw a wrench into it."
"I'll certainly try."
Fontaine handed him a slip of paper, labelled "A": "The names on this list, we know for sure they're involved."
"Good God!"
"Yes. Shocking behavior from pillars of society and great philanthropists such as these." Fontaine handed Latham a second slip of paper, labelled "B": "We suspect these men, but we're not certain yet."
"I can bring up the subject of Factory and Workshop, try to loosen a few lips."
"Good man, Latham," Fontaine said.
"I wish I could honestly say I was shocked," Latham said. "It's all very sad."
Fontaine had also in no way been shocked to learn that these individuals, men he had known since he and they were boys in some cases, were bribing members of Parliament in order to cut costs at the expense of laborers. Latham often seemed to miss irony and sarcasm. He was aware that he missed it, and had asked Fontaine to point it out when he did, but this time Fontaine let it go. Fontaine was saddened as well, and the sadness was sapping his energy.
Latham asked, "What else have we got in place, what other plans, to try to stop further bribes? I take it that as it stands now, the effort to over turn the law will fail."
"Oh," Spilman said, "you don't want to know."
"Don't I?" Latham retorted with some obvious annoyance. "First Raymond, and now for the second time today I'm not to be trusted by my own comrades?"
"Terry," Fontaine said, "by all means, tell him."
"All right. Well, we happen to know of some large sums being gathered together, great big packages full of cash which aren't supposed to exist, whose existence couldn't be explained without giving criminal activity away. Therefore their owner wouldn't be able to report it if they were stolen. Therefore, we're going to steal a lot of it."
"Oh... Oh... Wow," Latham said.
"Mad, bad, and dangerous to know, this one," Fontaine said, clapping a hand on Spilman's shoulder.
"Ironically, though," Spilman said, "I've never been able to stand Byron." Latham didn't understand that remark. "It's about time that I get back to the cloak and dagger business," Spilman said, stood up and stretched and yawned and took his leave. "Terrific lunch, Freddy, as always. You're certainly right about that."
At about 7:32 AM the next morning, Wednesday, Inspector Raymond picked the lock on a hotel door in Southend. It was a dismal little room, filthy, without as much as one tiny window, although the cracks in the wall were large and numerous enough that the place was quite light in the sunrise. What a shyte place to die, Raymond thought sadly. Raymond's entrance had awoken the man sleeping on the cot which took up more than half the room. He recognized Raymond, and at first he smiled. That smile faded quickly as Raymond kicked the door shut behind him and advanced on him. He put his knee on the man's chest and forced him back down onto his back, took the pillow from beneath the man's head and placed it over his face. Raymond was an enormous man and quite fit, he was much stronger than his erstwhile friend here, now his victim. He easily held the pillow in place with one hand, making the man's screams almost entirely inaudible, while with his other hand he took the revolver out from underneath his jacket, pushed it into the pillow to muffle the sound of the shots, and fired three times.
As instructed, he handed the revolver over to the men out in front of the hotel, dressed like an Inspector and two Constables. No one had bothered to give Raymond their names. He wouldn't have been surprised if they weren't actually policeman at all. "Hurry," he told them, "the door's unlocked. Top of the stairs, second door on the right facing the front of the building."
"Right, Raymond. Off you go then, we'll take it from here. Good job, just as expected."
Just as expected, Raymond thought. So either they had heard about him, heard that he got things done, or they were lying by implication. On the train back downtown, Raymond took the watch and the very heavy chain he had taken from his friend's corpse as a sort of impotent private protest. So that is a Waltham Model 1883, he said to himself. And that, he thought, looking at the chain from which the watch swung before him, is a bloody great lot of platinum, worth about a half year of my salary. Wonder whether those three goons knew that much precious metal was there. Wonder whether they were planning to steal it. Raymond unhooked his old watch and chain and put them into a pocket of his jacket, fastened the platinum watch in its place and put the 1883 into his waistcoat pocket. He knew it was very foolish to do so, but he continued his protest in this manner. I dare somebody to say something about it, I really do. Although, he didn't actually know whether any other policemen -- or goons and fake policemen, or what have you -- would even notice his friend's watch and chain.
Raymond had never done anything remotely like this before. He had always prided himself on protecting those smaller and weaker than himself -- and since around his 15th birthday, that had included almost everyone he met. Even those he arrested, he treated gently and with respect, and insisted that everyone in his command always do the same. He began to cry. Other passengers in the train snuck startled glances at this enormous crying police Inspector.
"Who are they looking for?" Freddy asked.
"Raymond wouldn't tell me," Al said. "It's all very hush-hush. Strange Raymond not confiding in me. Unusual."
Spilman said to Latham, "Freddy and I've been talking about the campaign to overturn Factory and Workshop, have you heard about this?"
"Yes indeed," Latham said. "It's flabbergasting. And it actually has a chance, it seems."
"Terry and I were discussing it over lunch," Fontaine said. "It seems some very large bribes have been given to MP's who otherwise might've been on the fence in the effort, or voted to uphold the law as it stands. It'd be great if we could publicly expose these bribes, prove to the public that they've been given, but that seems easier said than done. You rub shoulders with some of the people involved in all of this muck -- factory owners, the ones giving the bribes. You might be able to throw a wrench into it."
"I'll certainly try."
Fontaine handed him a slip of paper, labelled "A": "The names on this list, we know for sure they're involved."
"Good God!"
"Yes. Shocking behavior from pillars of society and great philanthropists such as these." Fontaine handed Latham a second slip of paper, labelled "B": "We suspect these men, but we're not certain yet."
"I can bring up the subject of Factory and Workshop, try to loosen a few lips."
"Good man, Latham," Fontaine said.
"I wish I could honestly say I was shocked," Latham said. "It's all very sad."
Fontaine had also in no way been shocked to learn that these individuals, men he had known since he and they were boys in some cases, were bribing members of Parliament in order to cut costs at the expense of laborers. Latham often seemed to miss irony and sarcasm. He was aware that he missed it, and had asked Fontaine to point it out when he did, but this time Fontaine let it go. Fontaine was saddened as well, and the sadness was sapping his energy.
Latham asked, "What else have we got in place, what other plans, to try to stop further bribes? I take it that as it stands now, the effort to over turn the law will fail."
"Oh," Spilman said, "you don't want to know."
"Don't I?" Latham retorted with some obvious annoyance. "First Raymond, and now for the second time today I'm not to be trusted by my own comrades?"
"Terry," Fontaine said, "by all means, tell him."
"All right. Well, we happen to know of some large sums being gathered together, great big packages full of cash which aren't supposed to exist, whose existence couldn't be explained without giving criminal activity away. Therefore their owner wouldn't be able to report it if they were stolen. Therefore, we're going to steal a lot of it."
"Oh... Oh... Wow," Latham said.
"Mad, bad, and dangerous to know, this one," Fontaine said, clapping a hand on Spilman's shoulder.
"Ironically, though," Spilman said, "I've never been able to stand Byron." Latham didn't understand that remark. "It's about time that I get back to the cloak and dagger business," Spilman said, stood up and stretched and yawned and took his leave. "Terrific lunch, Freddy, as always. You're certainly right about that."
At about 7:32 AM the next morning, Wednesday, Inspector Raymond picked the lock on a hotel door in Southend. It was a dismal little room, filthy, without as much as one tiny window, although the cracks in the wall were large and numerous enough that the place was quite light in the sunrise. What a shyte place to die, Raymond thought sadly. Raymond's entrance had awoken the man sleeping on the cot which took up more than half the room. He recognized Raymond, and at first he smiled. That smile faded quickly as Raymond kicked the door shut behind him and advanced on him. He put his knee on the man's chest and forced him back down onto his back, took the pillow from beneath the man's head and placed it over his face. Raymond was an enormous man and quite fit, he was much stronger than his erstwhile friend here, now his victim. He easily held the pillow in place with one hand, making the man's screams almost entirely inaudible, while with his other hand he took the revolver out from underneath his jacket, pushed it into the pillow to muffle the sound of the shots, and fired three times.
As instructed, he handed the revolver over to the men out in front of the hotel, dressed like an Inspector and two Constables. No one had bothered to give Raymond their names. He wouldn't have been surprised if they weren't actually policeman at all. "Hurry," he told them, "the door's unlocked. Top of the stairs, second door on the right facing the front of the building."
"Right, Raymond. Off you go then, we'll take it from here. Good job, just as expected."
Just as expected, Raymond thought. So either they had heard about him, heard that he got things done, or they were lying by implication. On the train back downtown, Raymond took the watch and the very heavy chain he had taken from his friend's corpse as a sort of impotent private protest. So that is a Waltham Model 1883, he said to himself. And that, he thought, looking at the chain from which the watch swung before him, is a bloody great lot of platinum, worth about a half year of my salary. Wonder whether those three goons knew that much precious metal was there. Wonder whether they were planning to steal it. Raymond unhooked his old watch and chain and put them into a pocket of his jacket, fastened the platinum watch in its place and put the 1883 into his waistcoat pocket. He knew it was very foolish to do so, but he continued his protest in this manner. I dare somebody to say something about it, I really do. Although, he didn't actually know whether any other policemen -- or goons and fake policemen, or what have you -- would even notice his friend's watch and chain.
Raymond had never done anything remotely like this before. He had always prided himself on protecting those smaller and weaker than himself -- and since around his 15th birthday, that had included almost everyone he met. Even those he arrested, he treated gently and with respect, and insisted that everyone in his command always do the same. He began to cry. Other passengers in the train snuck startled glances at this enormous crying police Inspector.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Because Of Mistakes! (novel about autism in London in 1900) pt 6
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
At about 1:26 PM the same day, Latham climbed out of a hansom cab on Victoria Street and knocked on Fontaine's door. Charlie had looked at the four 1883's which had been brought over from the Latham plant and picked the one which looked the most like the one which had been coming out of the running man's pocket. Latham asked many detailed questions about the exact appearance of the watch, and had gotten many detailed and helpful answers, and made copious notes, before he fell silent and looked one more time at the remarkably accurate drawing of the new clock on platform 3 at Waterloo, a drawing he had noticed right away upon coming to Charlie's table, an amazing drawing, because, as Latham knew, Charlie had made it in the middle of the crowd and bustle of platform 3, without an easel, without even a pad -- and it was then that Latham asked Charlie if he could draw a picture of the running man's watch, with the face about 8 inches wide. He sent the constable back to Raymond with the 1883 Charlie had picked and his notes and Charlie's drawing and caught a cab.
He found Fontaine and Spilman in the dining room having dessert. "So, you two really have never met before?" Fontaine said. "It's high time, then. Terry, Albert Latham. One of us. Al, Terrence Spilman. One of us."
"Spilman," Latham said, and shook Spilman's hand. "A pleasure." He turned to Fontaine and asked, "What can I do for us today?" Fontaine first insisted that Latham sit and have lunch, and after he'd gotten his soup from Charles, the cook -- and also one of us, and served as waiter as well, which meant that, when the guests were all us, conversation could be to the point at meals at Fontaine's house -- Fontaine explained Spilman's problem with watches. "You called at the perfect time," Latham said, and pulled a packet from a pocket, in which were three smaller packets, in which were the three 1883's remaining after Charlie had picked one. "They're known as railroad watches. This category of watch came into being in the US some years ago, after there'd been a terrible head-on collision between two trains, because, apparently, one or both conductors had had poorly-working watches, and one or both of the trains was on the spot at an unscheduled time. Laws were passed regulating what sort of watches conductors would wear and how often they'd be repaired. They're accurate for the safety of the railroads, and inexpensive, because the conductors buy their own. Look like what you're after?"
"That one there, the case is -- what, pewter?"
"Waltham -- the company that makes these -- calls that 'silveroid.' It's mostly copper and nickel."
"And how accurate is it?"
"All three of these are accurate to within two or three seconds a day."
"Crikey! You pulling my leg, mate?"
"You'll find that Al never jokes about watches," Fontaine said. "Or oversells their performance."
"Well, I can tell that that one is silver and that one is gold, so, silveroid it is. How much?"
"Please," Latham said. "I'm rich, and I'm always glad to contribute to us."
"Huh!"
"Something wrong?"
"On the contrary. I just don't know if I've ever heard someone call himself rich before," Spilman said, at looked at Fontaine.
"I know," Latham said, and looked at Fontaine too. "Everyone seems to think he deserves even more than he has."
Fontaine looked quite unimpressed. He simply said, "I've never heard either of you complain about the food at my table."
"Okay, then," Spilman said to Latham, "just out of curiosity, how much would a Waltham like this one cost in a jeweler's shop?"
"Three pounds. Maybe two and ten."
"For within two or three seconds a day?!"
"No. No. You see, I adjusted this watch. Took it apart when it was new, measured and adjusted and balanced everything very carefully. Your average 1883 -- all three of these are Waltham model 1883 watches. They started making them in 1883 -- your average 1883 will run within ten or fifteen seconds a day."
"That's still quite impressive, to me," Spilman said. "So, 'railroad watch' was the key phrase. They run like the 1883's, for the same price?"
"About the same. Most real railroad watches will be slightly more expensive. Unfortunately, though, not everything sold as a railroad watch is the real thing. Some wouldn't be accepted by any railroad in the US, the UK, or even Ireland!" Latham saw Spilman wince at that last word, and added, "I'm joking about Ireland. I'm Irish. And they make some very fine watches in Ireland, and as far as I know their record of railroad safety is just fine. Did my little joke upset you? I'm sorry."
"It would've upset me if you'd meant it."
"I was making fun of anyone who would say such a thing and mean it. My jokes don't always come off. Now: 'railroad watch,' that's one key phrase here. Another one is 'lever set.' Do you know what that means?"
"No."
"Alright then, watch this." Latham took the silver watch and unscrewed its front cover. "There are key-wind watches. There are fewer of those made today. You wind them and set them with a key. Then there's stem-wind, stem-set: turn the stem to wind it, pull the stem out and turn it to set the time. These are lever-set watches. Don't try to pull the stem out on a lever-set watch. The only way you'll make it come out at all is if you break something. Don't pull on the stem." With a fingernail Latham pulled a lever out from behind the uncovered watch face, near the the numeral 2. "This is the lever. On Walthams, they're next to the 2 on the watch face. Some other brands have the lever in some other position. When the lever is pulled out, and you turn the stem -- see -- you reset the time. The lever can't be pulled out unless the cover is taken off. And when the lever is not pulled out, turning the stem winds the watch. Oh, and don't bother going to jewelers for watches from now on. Just come to us. Winston Latham & Sons. Just north of the east end of the Westminster Bridge. On your way to Waterloo Station. Bring that in once a year for a cleaning and adjustment. Or, of course, if anything goes wrong. If it runs fast or slow. If you drop it. Anything."
"Do it," Fontaine chimed in. "They're the best."
"My father, Winston, is one of us. My two bothers, unfortunately, aren't. Dad and I are trying, of course. Dropping hints and saying sensible things."
Stilman took his old watch off of its chain and put the Waltham in its place. Latham looked at Spilman's old watch and winced as one might do at the sight of a three-legged dog. "I'll trade you," Spilman joked.
"Well, if you don't have any plans for it..."
"I did, actually. I was planning to hurl it smartly at the very next brick wall I saw."
"In that case, I definitely want it," Latham said, quickly sheltering it in his hands as if it really were a suffering stray animal and Spilman had just kicked it.
Terry looked quizzically at Freddy, who just shrugged and said, "Mad about watches. Never met one he didn't deeply care for and respect. That's why he's the best. Your old watch there will soon be more accurate than it was new, I assure you."
"Setting the bar rather low," Terry muttered.
"Latham," Fontaine asked, "how did it happen that you had three -- railroad watches? -- on your person when you came to call?"
"Well. Inspector Raymond -- " Latham turned to Spilman and asked, "Do you know Inspector Raymond?"
"Indeed I do. One of us. A good man."
"That he is. Raymond is looking for someone. A witness noticed the man they're after was carrying an 1883. I talked to the witness and narrowed down what kind of 1883 it was."
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
At about 1:26 PM the same day, Latham climbed out of a hansom cab on Victoria Street and knocked on Fontaine's door. Charlie had looked at the four 1883's which had been brought over from the Latham plant and picked the one which looked the most like the one which had been coming out of the running man's pocket. Latham asked many detailed questions about the exact appearance of the watch, and had gotten many detailed and helpful answers, and made copious notes, before he fell silent and looked one more time at the remarkably accurate drawing of the new clock on platform 3 at Waterloo, a drawing he had noticed right away upon coming to Charlie's table, an amazing drawing, because, as Latham knew, Charlie had made it in the middle of the crowd and bustle of platform 3, without an easel, without even a pad -- and it was then that Latham asked Charlie if he could draw a picture of the running man's watch, with the face about 8 inches wide. He sent the constable back to Raymond with the 1883 Charlie had picked and his notes and Charlie's drawing and caught a cab.
He found Fontaine and Spilman in the dining room having dessert. "So, you two really have never met before?" Fontaine said. "It's high time, then. Terry, Albert Latham. One of us. Al, Terrence Spilman. One of us."
"Spilman," Latham said, and shook Spilman's hand. "A pleasure." He turned to Fontaine and asked, "What can I do for us today?" Fontaine first insisted that Latham sit and have lunch, and after he'd gotten his soup from Charles, the cook -- and also one of us, and served as waiter as well, which meant that, when the guests were all us, conversation could be to the point at meals at Fontaine's house -- Fontaine explained Spilman's problem with watches. "You called at the perfect time," Latham said, and pulled a packet from a pocket, in which were three smaller packets, in which were the three 1883's remaining after Charlie had picked one. "They're known as railroad watches. This category of watch came into being in the US some years ago, after there'd been a terrible head-on collision between two trains, because, apparently, one or both conductors had had poorly-working watches, and one or both of the trains was on the spot at an unscheduled time. Laws were passed regulating what sort of watches conductors would wear and how often they'd be repaired. They're accurate for the safety of the railroads, and inexpensive, because the conductors buy their own. Look like what you're after?"
"That one there, the case is -- what, pewter?"
"Waltham -- the company that makes these -- calls that 'silveroid.' It's mostly copper and nickel."
"And how accurate is it?"
"All three of these are accurate to within two or three seconds a day."
"Crikey! You pulling my leg, mate?"
"You'll find that Al never jokes about watches," Fontaine said. "Or oversells their performance."
"Well, I can tell that that one is silver and that one is gold, so, silveroid it is. How much?"
"Please," Latham said. "I'm rich, and I'm always glad to contribute to us."
"Huh!"
"Something wrong?"
"On the contrary. I just don't know if I've ever heard someone call himself rich before," Spilman said, at looked at Fontaine.
"I know," Latham said, and looked at Fontaine too. "Everyone seems to think he deserves even more than he has."
Fontaine looked quite unimpressed. He simply said, "I've never heard either of you complain about the food at my table."
"Okay, then," Spilman said to Latham, "just out of curiosity, how much would a Waltham like this one cost in a jeweler's shop?"
"Three pounds. Maybe two and ten."
"For within two or three seconds a day?!"
"No. No. You see, I adjusted this watch. Took it apart when it was new, measured and adjusted and balanced everything very carefully. Your average 1883 -- all three of these are Waltham model 1883 watches. They started making them in 1883 -- your average 1883 will run within ten or fifteen seconds a day."
"That's still quite impressive, to me," Spilman said. "So, 'railroad watch' was the key phrase. They run like the 1883's, for the same price?"
"About the same. Most real railroad watches will be slightly more expensive. Unfortunately, though, not everything sold as a railroad watch is the real thing. Some wouldn't be accepted by any railroad in the US, the UK, or even Ireland!" Latham saw Spilman wince at that last word, and added, "I'm joking about Ireland. I'm Irish. And they make some very fine watches in Ireland, and as far as I know their record of railroad safety is just fine. Did my little joke upset you? I'm sorry."
"It would've upset me if you'd meant it."
"I was making fun of anyone who would say such a thing and mean it. My jokes don't always come off. Now: 'railroad watch,' that's one key phrase here. Another one is 'lever set.' Do you know what that means?"
"No."
"Alright then, watch this." Latham took the silver watch and unscrewed its front cover. "There are key-wind watches. There are fewer of those made today. You wind them and set them with a key. Then there's stem-wind, stem-set: turn the stem to wind it, pull the stem out and turn it to set the time. These are lever-set watches. Don't try to pull the stem out on a lever-set watch. The only way you'll make it come out at all is if you break something. Don't pull on the stem." With a fingernail Latham pulled a lever out from behind the uncovered watch face, near the the numeral 2. "This is the lever. On Walthams, they're next to the 2 on the watch face. Some other brands have the lever in some other position. When the lever is pulled out, and you turn the stem -- see -- you reset the time. The lever can't be pulled out unless the cover is taken off. And when the lever is not pulled out, turning the stem winds the watch. Oh, and don't bother going to jewelers for watches from now on. Just come to us. Winston Latham & Sons. Just north of the east end of the Westminster Bridge. On your way to Waterloo Station. Bring that in once a year for a cleaning and adjustment. Or, of course, if anything goes wrong. If it runs fast or slow. If you drop it. Anything."
"Do it," Fontaine chimed in. "They're the best."
"My father, Winston, is one of us. My two bothers, unfortunately, aren't. Dad and I are trying, of course. Dropping hints and saying sensible things."
Stilman took his old watch off of its chain and put the Waltham in its place. Latham looked at Spilman's old watch and winced as one might do at the sight of a three-legged dog. "I'll trade you," Spilman joked.
"Well, if you don't have any plans for it..."
"I did, actually. I was planning to hurl it smartly at the very next brick wall I saw."
"In that case, I definitely want it," Latham said, quickly sheltering it in his hands as if it really were a suffering stray animal and Spilman had just kicked it.
Terry looked quizzically at Freddy, who just shrugged and said, "Mad about watches. Never met one he didn't deeply care for and respect. That's why he's the best. Your old watch there will soon be more accurate than it was new, I assure you."
"Setting the bar rather low," Terry muttered.
"Latham," Fontaine asked, "how did it happen that you had three -- railroad watches? -- on your person when you came to call?"
"Well. Inspector Raymond -- " Latham turned to Spilman and asked, "Do you know Inspector Raymond?"
"Indeed I do. One of us. A good man."
"That he is. Raymond is looking for someone. A witness noticed the man they're after was carrying an 1883. I talked to the witness and narrowed down what kind of 1883 it was."
Saturday, April 5, 2014
AUTISM In London in 1900: A Novel (pt 5)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Earlier that same day, at around 10:04 AM, Charlie, his friend from the neighborhood, the constable and the nice man who'd frightened away the physician arrived at the door of Charlie's father's pub. It had taken Charlie 76 steps to go from the bench where the physician had made the constable hold him down to outside of Waterloo Station; and then another 780 steps to get here. It shouldn't have taken 780 steps. The others took two wrong turns on the way here. It should've taken 743 steps. Those two wrong turns had been absolutely unnecessary. ...Yes. ...Yes. Charlie could see absolutely no reason at all for having taken those turns. He was done counting steps now and was about to start complaining about the wrong turns. For all he knew, none of the three others had any idea that the walk here could've been about 4.75% shorter. 37 steps shorter. 37! Because of mistakes! And his friend lived just two houses down!
The constable knocked on the door and Charlie's father opened it. At first he looked upset, but then he smiled at Charlie and tossled his hair. Charlie convulsed and grimaced and said, "AAAHHHH, AAAHHH, AAAOOOOO!" If you didn't know Charlie you might think was an expression of displeasure, but no. Charlie knew his father, knew that he wished him only good. He also knew that the toussling was most likely going to last no more than a second and a half, and he knew why his father toussled his hair: it was to express good will and affection. Charlie returned that affection, and because the toussling was familiar and Charlie knew it wasn't going to lead to more touching, there was a pleasure about it which outweighed the jolt that the touch gave him. It was pleasant. Charlie didn't mind when his father toussled his hair. And as he had gotten older Charlie had also realized that it was important to his father to touch him once in a while. His father was like most people: they needed to touch other people a certain amount, especially people they were close to, and if they didn't get to do that, it hurt. Achieving this insight made Charlie mind the hair-toussling even less. He felt affection toward his father and didn't want to make him hurt.
Charlie went behind the bar to get a table-top lamp, and then headed to his favorite table when the pub was quiet, in a corner all the way away from the front door. His father and the constable and his friend from the neighborhood and the man who's chased away the physician all sat down at a table near the front door and began to talk quietly. Charlie lit the lamp and adjusted it so that it shine brightly on the table-top and not into his eyes. He put both hands on the table-top. He liked the table-top. It was lacquered. The lacquer finish was deep and well-made. This made the table very easy to clean. Charlie liked the way it looked and the way it felt. Charlie rubbed the table-top, and rocked back and forth and said, "IIIIIIHHHH! IIIIIIHHHH! IIIIIIHHHH!..." After he had done this for a while he felt much more relaxed. It still made him very tense when he thought about the noisy crowds at Waterloo Station, and about being touched -- and especially that physician -- but rubbing the table and rocking and making the noises helped very much. And it helped that he was at home. And his friend being here, and even the constable and the nice stranger, that all helped, because he knew they all were there to protect him.
And he knew they were going to ask him some more about the man with the Waltham 1883. In the meantime, before they came over and started asking him questions, he took the piece of paper with the drawing of the new clock on it out of his pocket, unfolded it and looked at the drawing. He had gone to platform 3 at the station to see the new clock. The clock had been disappointingly uninteresting, but Charlie had his drawing of it now, so that was done. It was a full-on front view of the face, about actual size, about 12 inches in diameter, plus the green enamel band around the face, about three-quarters of an inch wide. The green enamel band was actually more interesting than any of the mechanics of the clock! Charlie snorted in amusement at the thought of that. He imagined that the enamel would feel something like this table-top to his hands. That was a soothing thought. The dark green color was soothing too.
The nice man had come over to him. "Hello, Charlie," he said. "I'm Al. May I sit down?"
"Yes." Charlie took a deep breath as Al sat down and said, "I know you want to ask me more questions about the man with the Waltham 1883. I'm sorry I wasn't able to be more helpful back at the station. It seems to be very important to the police to find that man. It seems they have a lot of policemen looking all over for him. Sorry."
"That's alright," Al said. "I know the noise at the station was making it hard for you to talk. I know people grabbing you made it even worse."
"Yes, you understand that better than most people. That's strange. Are you a doctor?"
"No, Charlie. Actually, I make watches."
"Ah-HAAAA!" Charlie exclaimed, and bounced up and down excitedly in his chair. "A watch-maker! That's great!"
"I understand you fix watches."
"Sometimes. It depends what's wrong with them. I don't have a lot of tools, so..."
"Well, maybe you'll get more."
"Yeah. So you want to know about the man with the 1883."
"Yes. You don't remember his face?"
"No."
"Was he short? Tall?"
"I don't know."
"Do you remember what he was wearing?"
"No. Probably a waistcoat. The Waltham was coming out of a pocket. That was probably a waistcoat pocket."
"But you don't know for sure."
"No. Sorry."
"That's alright, that's alright."
"You said the chain was unusual, the chain the 1883 was on."
"Unusual for an 1883. Very unusual. It was platinum. Great big heavy platinum chain."
"Platinum! Are you sure?"
"Yep. Just like your watch."
This took Latham aback. He knew he hadn't taken his watch out of his waistcoat pocket since meeting Charlie. He knew it hadn't slid partway out either. "When did you figure out that my watch is platinum?"
"After you sat down there."
Latham was well out of the glare of the table-lamp. He looked down. He himself could barely see the outline of his watch in its pocket. "You can see right now that my watch is platinum?"
"Of course. Didn't you know your watch is platinum?"
"Yes, I knew that. What surprises me is that you can see so well. In this light I can hardly see my watch at all."
"Oh. I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be sorry. I have very good vision. But it seems yours is extraordinary."
"I guess so. People say so. So, you're not a physician at all?"
"No, Charlie, not at all."
"I go to Dr Brown. He has to touch me sometimes when he examines me, but he knows how to do it so it doesn't hurt."
"Well, that's very good. That's excellent."
"That doctor at Waterloo Station didn't understand how to do that."
"No, Charlie, he didn't understand that at all."
"Maybe you could be a doctor someday."
"Oh. Hah. Huh. No. I like watches. I want to keep on making watches and fixing them. That's all I want to do."
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Earlier that same day, at around 10:04 AM, Charlie, his friend from the neighborhood, the constable and the nice man who'd frightened away the physician arrived at the door of Charlie's father's pub. It had taken Charlie 76 steps to go from the bench where the physician had made the constable hold him down to outside of Waterloo Station; and then another 780 steps to get here. It shouldn't have taken 780 steps. The others took two wrong turns on the way here. It should've taken 743 steps. Those two wrong turns had been absolutely unnecessary. ...Yes. ...Yes. Charlie could see absolutely no reason at all for having taken those turns. He was done counting steps now and was about to start complaining about the wrong turns. For all he knew, none of the three others had any idea that the walk here could've been about 4.75% shorter. 37 steps shorter. 37! Because of mistakes! And his friend lived just two houses down!
The constable knocked on the door and Charlie's father opened it. At first he looked upset, but then he smiled at Charlie and tossled his hair. Charlie convulsed and grimaced and said, "AAAHHHH, AAAHHH, AAAOOOOO!" If you didn't know Charlie you might think was an expression of displeasure, but no. Charlie knew his father, knew that he wished him only good. He also knew that the toussling was most likely going to last no more than a second and a half, and he knew why his father toussled his hair: it was to express good will and affection. Charlie returned that affection, and because the toussling was familiar and Charlie knew it wasn't going to lead to more touching, there was a pleasure about it which outweighed the jolt that the touch gave him. It was pleasant. Charlie didn't mind when his father toussled his hair. And as he had gotten older Charlie had also realized that it was important to his father to touch him once in a while. His father was like most people: they needed to touch other people a certain amount, especially people they were close to, and if they didn't get to do that, it hurt. Achieving this insight made Charlie mind the hair-toussling even less. He felt affection toward his father and didn't want to make him hurt.
Charlie went behind the bar to get a table-top lamp, and then headed to his favorite table when the pub was quiet, in a corner all the way away from the front door. His father and the constable and his friend from the neighborhood and the man who's chased away the physician all sat down at a table near the front door and began to talk quietly. Charlie lit the lamp and adjusted it so that it shine brightly on the table-top and not into his eyes. He put both hands on the table-top. He liked the table-top. It was lacquered. The lacquer finish was deep and well-made. This made the table very easy to clean. Charlie liked the way it looked and the way it felt. Charlie rubbed the table-top, and rocked back and forth and said, "IIIIIIHHHH! IIIIIIHHHH! IIIIIIHHHH!..." After he had done this for a while he felt much more relaxed. It still made him very tense when he thought about the noisy crowds at Waterloo Station, and about being touched -- and especially that physician -- but rubbing the table and rocking and making the noises helped very much. And it helped that he was at home. And his friend being here, and even the constable and the nice stranger, that all helped, because he knew they all were there to protect him.
And he knew they were going to ask him some more about the man with the Waltham 1883. In the meantime, before they came over and started asking him questions, he took the piece of paper with the drawing of the new clock on it out of his pocket, unfolded it and looked at the drawing. He had gone to platform 3 at the station to see the new clock. The clock had been disappointingly uninteresting, but Charlie had his drawing of it now, so that was done. It was a full-on front view of the face, about actual size, about 12 inches in diameter, plus the green enamel band around the face, about three-quarters of an inch wide. The green enamel band was actually more interesting than any of the mechanics of the clock! Charlie snorted in amusement at the thought of that. He imagined that the enamel would feel something like this table-top to his hands. That was a soothing thought. The dark green color was soothing too.
The nice man had come over to him. "Hello, Charlie," he said. "I'm Al. May I sit down?"
"Yes." Charlie took a deep breath as Al sat down and said, "I know you want to ask me more questions about the man with the Waltham 1883. I'm sorry I wasn't able to be more helpful back at the station. It seems to be very important to the police to find that man. It seems they have a lot of policemen looking all over for him. Sorry."
"That's alright," Al said. "I know the noise at the station was making it hard for you to talk. I know people grabbing you made it even worse."
"Yes, you understand that better than most people. That's strange. Are you a doctor?"
"No, Charlie. Actually, I make watches."
"Ah-HAAAA!" Charlie exclaimed, and bounced up and down excitedly in his chair. "A watch-maker! That's great!"
"I understand you fix watches."
"Sometimes. It depends what's wrong with them. I don't have a lot of tools, so..."
"Well, maybe you'll get more."
"Yeah. So you want to know about the man with the 1883."
"Yes. You don't remember his face?"
"No."
"Was he short? Tall?"
"I don't know."
"Do you remember what he was wearing?"
"No. Probably a waistcoat. The Waltham was coming out of a pocket. That was probably a waistcoat pocket."
"But you don't know for sure."
"No. Sorry."
"That's alright, that's alright."
"You said the chain was unusual, the chain the 1883 was on."
"Unusual for an 1883. Very unusual. It was platinum. Great big heavy platinum chain."
"Platinum! Are you sure?"
"Yep. Just like your watch."
This took Latham aback. He knew he hadn't taken his watch out of his waistcoat pocket since meeting Charlie. He knew it hadn't slid partway out either. "When did you figure out that my watch is platinum?"
"After you sat down there."
Latham was well out of the glare of the table-lamp. He looked down. He himself could barely see the outline of his watch in its pocket. "You can see right now that my watch is platinum?"
"Of course. Didn't you know your watch is platinum?"
"Yes, I knew that. What surprises me is that you can see so well. In this light I can hardly see my watch at all."
"Oh. I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be sorry. I have very good vision. But it seems yours is extraordinary."
"I guess so. People say so. So, you're not a physician at all?"
"No, Charlie, not at all."
"I go to Dr Brown. He has to touch me sometimes when he examines me, but he knows how to do it so it doesn't hurt."
"Well, that's very good. That's excellent."
"That doctor at Waterloo Station didn't understand how to do that."
"No, Charlie, he didn't understand that at all."
"Maybe you could be a doctor someday."
"Oh. Hah. Huh. No. I like watches. I want to keep on making watches and fixing them. That's all I want to do."
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
AUTISM In London in 1900: A Novel (pt 3)
Part 1
Part 2
Before he got to platform 3, even above the noise of the crowd, Latham could hear a man bellowing in pain. He ran up the platform stairs and saw a bunch of policeman standing around looking unsure and befuddled, including two constables who were holding a man still on a bench while a doctor, seemingly either quite oblivious to the man's pain, or simply a sadist, poked at him with a tongue depresser and a mirror. "What the hell, Raymond?" Latham said. "Does he plan to extract a tooth from your witness? You called me here to talk to that man, right?"
"Yes. How did you -- "
"For God's sake, get the doctor away from him, will you?"
Raymond looked uncertain.
"Raymond! Does it look to you as if this doctor is helping?! Does your witness seem to you to be composing his thoughts in order to give the clearest possible statement?! Please, trust me, I'll explain as soon as we get that doctor out of here! Raymond! You've trusted me before, trust me now! The first thing we have to do is remove that doctor! Look, let me pretend to be another doctor, one who's used to ordering other doctors about. Trust me, I know what I'm doing here, and he doesn't! Please, Raymond!"
"Okay, okay! Go into your doctor act, I'll back you up."
"What on Earth do you think you're doing?!" Latham shouted right away. He had an effective, theatrically-strong baritone. The two constables holding the man still looked up. "Let go of him right now, and back away!" They both did as he told them. One of them had a familiar face. Latham wondered whether Raymond was literally backing him up, gesturing for them to play along. The constables letting his patient loose made the doctor look up. Latham pointed a finger square into the man's face and boomed, "You! Leave that poor wretch alone, pack up your bag, scurry away immediately, and hope that no-one here has remembered your name! I shan't tell you again, Sir! Leave of your own accord, or these constables will drag you away and place you under arrest! Yes, now! Thank you! I'll take it from here!"
The doctor did as he was told. The man on the bench had become noticeably quieter as soon as the constables had let go of him, and as the doctor left he became quieter still. He rocked back and forth energetically, moaning and holding his head in both hands. Latham said, "Sorry about the shouting, friend. I didn't know how else to make him leave." The man nodded in Latham's direction as if he knew he had been addressed, took a deep breath, and then resumed the rocking and moaning. "Give him a good six feet of space in all directions," Latham said to the two constables. "Don't touch him unless you need to stop him banging his head on something solid. I wouldn't be surprised if the doctor made him so upset he'll do that, but let's hope not."
He turned back to Raymond: "Right. So this man -- "
"Charles Evans."
"Charles Evans." Latham turned back to Evans: "How do you do, Mr Evans?" and then back to Raymond.
"We found somebody who knows him, says he usually goes by Charlie."
"Ah. Hi, Charlie." Evans interrupted his rocking long enough to nod at Latham. His moaning was barely audible now.
"My God," Raymond said. "How'd you get him to calm down so quickly."
"He's calming himself down, actually. The rocking back and forth, the moaning, grabbing hold of his head like that -- that's all very good medicine for him. helps him to get right again. All I did was get him some breathing room. Good God, could you really not see how the doctor was upsetting him?"
Raymond threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Generally in a case like this a doctor'd be the expert."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's a good rule of thumb, ninety-nine times out of a hundred."
"And how exactly does it come that you're the expert this time?"
"Well," Latham said, "we need to talk out of earshot about that." He nodded toward the nearby glass-walled stationmaster's booth and asked, "Can we talk alone in there?"
"Sure."
"You've trusted me several times in several important criminal cases."
"And not had cause to regret it yet."
"Thank you. Now I'm going to have to trust you. I'm going to tell you something about myself, and ask you not to tell anyone else. Not the boys at the pub, not the Superintendent, not even your wife."
"Alright."
"I mean it. It could make things very difficult for me."
"I can see that you're asking seriously. I promise, it's between you and me. Like a priest at confession."
"So," Latham said. "The thing is, I can understand Evans there a lot better than I can understand you, or Smith, or my own father, or the great majority of the people I meet. Because I'm much more similar to him than to the rest of you."
"W-what? I mean, you both seem to have a thing for watches."
"That's just a coincidence. It's very lucky for old Charlie there that you called me. The way the doctor was going at him, it looked like he might be headed for what is ironically known as an 'asylum,' and iron chains and daily ice-cold baths and such. Do they still flog inmates in asylums, Raymond? Attempt to beat the demons right out of 'em?"
"Um... I don't know."
"Evans and I are both autistics. Our condition is known as autism. Well -- it will be known as autism, I'll wager. Eugen Bleuler coined the term. A Swiss psychiatrist. A colleague of Freud's. You know Freud."
"Yes. Die Traumdeutung.
You gave me a copy, thanks. I'm still working on it. My German isn't half as good as yours. Still, it's really fascinating stuff. So, this... Bleuler? Came up with a name for something you and Evans both have. Called autism."
"Yeah, that's what it's known as. Well, known to a half-dozen people, maybe. Seven, now that I've told you. I imagine that's what it will be known as, soon as Bleuler publishes a paper on it. But that probably won't happen for another ten years or so. Anyway. I'll wager Evans hasn't looked any of you in the eye."
"Not that I've noticed."
"Have you noticed I don't make eye contact often?"
"I have."
"It's uncomfortable to make as much eye contact as I do. But I try to blend in."
"D'you go into agony when someone touches you? Evans definitely doesn't like it."
"At times. At times I do. And I'll wager there are times when Evans doesn't mind being touched. And he might make eye contact now and then. With his parents, perhaps."
"Parent. Stepfather. No one knows who the real parents are. He was found on the doorstep of a pub when he was a baby. I gather the pub's owner has raised him as his own, and that Charlie is happy there. He's said several times that he wants to go home. In fact, I believe that's the only thing he's said since he fainted. He was talking to himself a mile a minute, then he fainted, and since then we can't get anything out of him except 'I want to go home.'"
"Well then I'd strongly recommend letting him go home. In fact it's rather a mystery how he ended up here to begin with. The noise and the crowds can't be comfortable for him. Ah," Latham said and pointed to a clock partway down the platform. "Brand-new clock. He must've been here to have a look at that."
"Well, Latham. I feel for the bugger. I do. But he very likely saw the man we're chasing. We need to get a statement from him."
"And how's that going? Getting a statement from him? Look. Where's this pub? He lives next to the pub?"
"Yeah. Not far. round the corner."
"Brilliant. Send Charlie, me, Charlie's friend and a constable to Charlie's place, let him relax and recover from a severe shock, and that'll be our best chance of getting a good statement out of him quickly. So, what'd he say so far?"
"Oy. He hasn't actually said the word 'watch,' but he was talking about something in a man's pocket, a man who was running fast, something coming out of the man's waistcoat pocket attached to a chain. Sounds like a watch. The man we're after -- "
"He have a name, by the way?"
"I can't tell you."
"Can't tell me his name? Well, that sounds very ominous and murky. Fine, I'll just assume he's a Crown Prince. It'd be pointless, I suppose, to ask why you're chasing him?"
"Utterly. But I can tell you that the man is fat. Probably runs very rarely, so that when he does, it's possible he bounces up and down in a way that would cause objects to come out of his pockets. Such as this object on a chain which caught Charlie's eye, which he said didn't match the chain it was on, and which he said had a scratch near the stem -- "
"Sounds even more like a watch now."
"Indeed. -- and which he referred to as an 1883."
"Aha."
"So there is a watch called an 1883?"
"There's the Waltham 1883. There may be others."
"Charlie said there are millions of 1883's."
"It'd be the Waltham, then."
"Any chance Charlie was using the term 'millions' as a euphemism?"
"Sorry. I'm afraid you'll find that autistics -- me included -- use euphemisms exceedingly sparingly. And it so happens that there are quite literally millions of Waltham 1883's, manufactured from 1883 until the present day, and no sign of sales slowing down."
"Damn. I was so hoping this would be a rare watch. Easy to track down, easy to spot." Raymond gave a loud sigh of discouragement. "But it's a needle in a great bloody haystack of identical 1883's, eh?"
"Similar, not identical. I have several different 1883's, I'll have them brought around to the pub, see if Charlie can tell us which one most closely resembles the watch which was coming out of the mystery man's pocket. And Waltham's an American firm, I'm pretty sure that most of those millions of 1883's are still in the US. But yes, I'm afraid that that still leaves us with a great bloody stack of them in London. In fact..." Latham opened the office door and shouted into the crowd: "Gentlemen! Gentlemen, if you please! Are any of you wearing a Waltham model 1883 watch?" Two men that Latham could see took 1883's out of their pockets and held them up. "Thank you!" he shouted, closed the door and laughed. "Now, don't look so glum, Inspector. Charlie said that the chain didn't match the watch?"
"He said it was very unusual to see an 1883 on a chain like that."
"There you go. The 1883 is the quintessential ordinary watch. Sounds as if the chain may be extraordinary. Chains are sold with watches. Maybe we've got something like a solid-gold chain here. The chain may be very helpful after all, if, for example, you find a pawnbroker who bought a gold watch from someone who purchased an 1883 at the same time and put it onto the gold chain. Some scenario like that. The chain may be very, very helpful indeed."
Part 2
Before he got to platform 3, even above the noise of the crowd, Latham could hear a man bellowing in pain. He ran up the platform stairs and saw a bunch of policeman standing around looking unsure and befuddled, including two constables who were holding a man still on a bench while a doctor, seemingly either quite oblivious to the man's pain, or simply a sadist, poked at him with a tongue depresser and a mirror. "What the hell, Raymond?" Latham said. "Does he plan to extract a tooth from your witness? You called me here to talk to that man, right?"
"Yes. How did you -- "
"For God's sake, get the doctor away from him, will you?"
Raymond looked uncertain.
"Raymond! Does it look to you as if this doctor is helping?! Does your witness seem to you to be composing his thoughts in order to give the clearest possible statement?! Please, trust me, I'll explain as soon as we get that doctor out of here! Raymond! You've trusted me before, trust me now! The first thing we have to do is remove that doctor! Look, let me pretend to be another doctor, one who's used to ordering other doctors about. Trust me, I know what I'm doing here, and he doesn't! Please, Raymond!"
"Okay, okay! Go into your doctor act, I'll back you up."
"What on Earth do you think you're doing?!" Latham shouted right away. He had an effective, theatrically-strong baritone. The two constables holding the man still looked up. "Let go of him right now, and back away!" They both did as he told them. One of them had a familiar face. Latham wondered whether Raymond was literally backing him up, gesturing for them to play along. The constables letting his patient loose made the doctor look up. Latham pointed a finger square into the man's face and boomed, "You! Leave that poor wretch alone, pack up your bag, scurry away immediately, and hope that no-one here has remembered your name! I shan't tell you again, Sir! Leave of your own accord, or these constables will drag you away and place you under arrest! Yes, now! Thank you! I'll take it from here!"
The doctor did as he was told. The man on the bench had become noticeably quieter as soon as the constables had let go of him, and as the doctor left he became quieter still. He rocked back and forth energetically, moaning and holding his head in both hands. Latham said, "Sorry about the shouting, friend. I didn't know how else to make him leave." The man nodded in Latham's direction as if he knew he had been addressed, took a deep breath, and then resumed the rocking and moaning. "Give him a good six feet of space in all directions," Latham said to the two constables. "Don't touch him unless you need to stop him banging his head on something solid. I wouldn't be surprised if the doctor made him so upset he'll do that, but let's hope not."
He turned back to Raymond: "Right. So this man -- "
"Charles Evans."
"Charles Evans." Latham turned back to Evans: "How do you do, Mr Evans?" and then back to Raymond.
"We found somebody who knows him, says he usually goes by Charlie."
"Ah. Hi, Charlie." Evans interrupted his rocking long enough to nod at Latham. His moaning was barely audible now.
"My God," Raymond said. "How'd you get him to calm down so quickly."
"He's calming himself down, actually. The rocking back and forth, the moaning, grabbing hold of his head like that -- that's all very good medicine for him. helps him to get right again. All I did was get him some breathing room. Good God, could you really not see how the doctor was upsetting him?"
Raymond threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Generally in a case like this a doctor'd be the expert."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's a good rule of thumb, ninety-nine times out of a hundred."
"And how exactly does it come that you're the expert this time?"
"Well," Latham said, "we need to talk out of earshot about that." He nodded toward the nearby glass-walled stationmaster's booth and asked, "Can we talk alone in there?"
"Sure."
"You've trusted me several times in several important criminal cases."
"And not had cause to regret it yet."
"Thank you. Now I'm going to have to trust you. I'm going to tell you something about myself, and ask you not to tell anyone else. Not the boys at the pub, not the Superintendent, not even your wife."
"Alright."
"I mean it. It could make things very difficult for me."
"I can see that you're asking seriously. I promise, it's between you and me. Like a priest at confession."
"So," Latham said. "The thing is, I can understand Evans there a lot better than I can understand you, or Smith, or my own father, or the great majority of the people I meet. Because I'm much more similar to him than to the rest of you."
"W-what? I mean, you both seem to have a thing for watches."
"That's just a coincidence. It's very lucky for old Charlie there that you called me. The way the doctor was going at him, it looked like he might be headed for what is ironically known as an 'asylum,' and iron chains and daily ice-cold baths and such. Do they still flog inmates in asylums, Raymond? Attempt to beat the demons right out of 'em?"
"Um... I don't know."
"Evans and I are both autistics. Our condition is known as autism. Well -- it will be known as autism, I'll wager. Eugen Bleuler coined the term. A Swiss psychiatrist. A colleague of Freud's. You know Freud."
"Yes. Die Traumdeutung.
You gave me a copy, thanks. I'm still working on it. My German isn't half as good as yours. Still, it's really fascinating stuff. So, this... Bleuler? Came up with a name for something you and Evans both have. Called autism.""Yeah, that's what it's known as. Well, known to a half-dozen people, maybe. Seven, now that I've told you. I imagine that's what it will be known as, soon as Bleuler publishes a paper on it. But that probably won't happen for another ten years or so. Anyway. I'll wager Evans hasn't looked any of you in the eye."
"Not that I've noticed."
"Have you noticed I don't make eye contact often?"
"I have."
"It's uncomfortable to make as much eye contact as I do. But I try to blend in."
"D'you go into agony when someone touches you? Evans definitely doesn't like it."
"At times. At times I do. And I'll wager there are times when Evans doesn't mind being touched. And he might make eye contact now and then. With his parents, perhaps."
"Parent. Stepfather. No one knows who the real parents are. He was found on the doorstep of a pub when he was a baby. I gather the pub's owner has raised him as his own, and that Charlie is happy there. He's said several times that he wants to go home. In fact, I believe that's the only thing he's said since he fainted. He was talking to himself a mile a minute, then he fainted, and since then we can't get anything out of him except 'I want to go home.'"
"Well then I'd strongly recommend letting him go home. In fact it's rather a mystery how he ended up here to begin with. The noise and the crowds can't be comfortable for him. Ah," Latham said and pointed to a clock partway down the platform. "Brand-new clock. He must've been here to have a look at that."
"Well, Latham. I feel for the bugger. I do. But he very likely saw the man we're chasing. We need to get a statement from him."
"And how's that going? Getting a statement from him? Look. Where's this pub? He lives next to the pub?"
"Yeah. Not far. round the corner."
"Brilliant. Send Charlie, me, Charlie's friend and a constable to Charlie's place, let him relax and recover from a severe shock, and that'll be our best chance of getting a good statement out of him quickly. So, what'd he say so far?"
"Oy. He hasn't actually said the word 'watch,' but he was talking about something in a man's pocket, a man who was running fast, something coming out of the man's waistcoat pocket attached to a chain. Sounds like a watch. The man we're after -- "
"He have a name, by the way?"
"I can't tell you."
"Can't tell me his name? Well, that sounds very ominous and murky. Fine, I'll just assume he's a Crown Prince. It'd be pointless, I suppose, to ask why you're chasing him?"
"Utterly. But I can tell you that the man is fat. Probably runs very rarely, so that when he does, it's possible he bounces up and down in a way that would cause objects to come out of his pockets. Such as this object on a chain which caught Charlie's eye, which he said didn't match the chain it was on, and which he said had a scratch near the stem -- "
"Sounds even more like a watch now."
"Indeed. -- and which he referred to as an 1883."
"Aha."
"So there is a watch called an 1883?"
"There's the Waltham 1883. There may be others."
"Charlie said there are millions of 1883's."
"It'd be the Waltham, then."
"Any chance Charlie was using the term 'millions' as a euphemism?"
"Sorry. I'm afraid you'll find that autistics -- me included -- use euphemisms exceedingly sparingly. And it so happens that there are quite literally millions of Waltham 1883's, manufactured from 1883 until the present day, and no sign of sales slowing down."
"Damn. I was so hoping this would be a rare watch. Easy to track down, easy to spot." Raymond gave a loud sigh of discouragement. "But it's a needle in a great bloody haystack of identical 1883's, eh?"
"Similar, not identical. I have several different 1883's, I'll have them brought around to the pub, see if Charlie can tell us which one most closely resembles the watch which was coming out of the mystery man's pocket. And Waltham's an American firm, I'm pretty sure that most of those millions of 1883's are still in the US. But yes, I'm afraid that that still leaves us with a great bloody stack of them in London. In fact..." Latham opened the office door and shouted into the crowd: "Gentlemen! Gentlemen, if you please! Are any of you wearing a Waltham model 1883 watch?" Two men that Latham could see took 1883's out of their pockets and held them up. "Thank you!" he shouted, closed the door and laughed. "Now, don't look so glum, Inspector. Charlie said that the chain didn't match the watch?"
"He said it was very unusual to see an 1883 on a chain like that."
"There you go. The 1883 is the quintessential ordinary watch. Sounds as if the chain may be extraordinary. Chains are sold with watches. Maybe we've got something like a solid-gold chain here. The chain may be very helpful after all, if, for example, you find a pawnbroker who bought a gold watch from someone who purchased an 1883 at the same time and put it onto the gold chain. Some scenario like that. The chain may be very, very helpful indeed."
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