Magic Lantern

“We don’t play.” Sullenly, Doug put her on hold.

After a couple minutes, during which the light changed and Annja crossed the street, Doug was back on the line with the requested information.

“And keep me up to date. We’re paying for your little trip over there and we don’t want to have to put this program together from YouTube videos. Make sure Detective Scarecrow keeps you in the loop.”

“I’ll get right on that.” Annja broke the connection, tried Edmund’s number one more time, got no answer and flagged a passing taxi.

7

A few tense minutes later, Annja got out of the cab in front of Edmund’s apartment building in Chelsea. She paid the driver and walked up to the security door. Frustrated, she rang Edmund again, but he still didn’t answer.

She knew it was possible the professor was asleep and had turned his phone off. However, she couldn’t get the Triad members—if that’s who they were—out of her mind. She didn’t doubt they’d go after Edmund.

She retreated to the back of the building. Studying the old metal fire escape, she leaped up, caught hold of the bottom rung on the ladder leading up to it and was pleasantly surprised when the ladder rolled down more quietly than she would have figured.

For a moment, she lingered in the shadows, watching the windows of the back apartments to see if any lights came on or if anyone looked out to check on the sound. Then, when nothing happened, she went up the ladder. There was still the chance that someone could have called the police, but she was willing to take the risk.

On the third-floor landing, she stayed low, duckwalking under two windows to reach Edmund’s flat. The window was locked. The room was dark. When she peered inside, she couldn’t see anything.

She liked Edmund. She wanted to know he was all right. But if she got caught breaking into his flat—either by Edmund or by the police—the situation was going to be really embarrassing.

She could finesse Edmund. He’d wanted to show her the magic lantern, and her news that someone was searching for it, even to the point of shooting at her, would gloss over the forced entry.

The police would be a different matter.

Taking out the Leatherman multitool she’d purchased after arriving in London, because she hated to travel without some sort of tools, she opened the longest blade. Working carefully, she ran the blade around the glass and removed the plastic liner that held the window together.

When she finished, she set the liner aside, then used the knife blade to leverage the glass free. The pane popped out easily and she set it aside, as well. She folded the knife and put it away. Then she stepped into the flat.

Inside the room, after negotiating a small sofa, Annja moved to one side and waited for her vision to acclimate to the darkness. She also listened intently. Someone in another flat was watching television, a program with an obnoxious laugh track. In another flat, farther down, people were in the midst of an argument. And there was a crying baby somewhere in there.

Annja wished she had her backpack, where she kept her Mini Maglite. Abruptly, she realized her possessions might not be safe in the hotel. Her mysterious abductors had mentioned that they’d missed her there, but she didn’t know if that meant they’d broken in or merely seen her leave.

Eyes adjusted, Annja looked around the small studio flat. It was basically a tiny office under a miniloft that held a modest bed. Two separate areas for Edmund to work and sleep.

Clutter covered the floor. Most of the mess was books and papers, but Annja knew Edmund wouldn’t have left them like that. He was responsible for the corkboards on the walls and the books piled on the small dining table, but not for the haphazard way everything had been thrown.

The door was ajar and light from the outside hallway leaked in. Someone had broken in.

Remaining calm, Annja closed the drapes over the windows and crossed the room by memory to find the lamp mounted on the wall. She switched it on with a curled knuckle and soft yellow light filled the studio.

She closed the door, then picked up three of the biggest books she could find. She used her sleeves to cover her hands so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints behind in case any crime scene techs got overly industrious.

Moving quickly, she stacked the books against the bottom of the broken door. They wouldn’t keep anyone out, but they would serve as an early warning system if anyone tried to enter.

The small desk had once held a notebook computer. A network cable lay abandoned on the desk. She checked through the drawers, but it was obvious they had been searched. Judging from the clutter in front of the desk, the searchers had simply emptied the drawers onto the floor.

There were no thumb drives, no CDs or DVDs, nothing that could have been used to store files. A business card file folder lay abandoned upside down. Evidently the searchers had been instructed to find anything high-tech.

Again using her sleeves, Annja picked up the folder and flipped through it. Most of it was contact information for various agencies, libraries, library staff, other Oxford professors, plumbers and electricians. She guessed that Edmund didn’t entirely trust his computer to remember everything for him. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t, either. That was one of the reasons she maintained her journals as well as her private blog.

One of the cards caught her attention.

Gaetano Carlini stood out in a heavily embossed but simple font against the grayed image of a rabbit peering over the edge of a top hat. The number on the front of the card was to the club. With difficulty, Annja extracted the card from the plastic holder using her sleeved fingers.

When she flipped the card over, she found another telephone number. Feeling a little better, she tucked the card into the back pocket of her jeans, then continued her search.

Twenty minutes later, Annja was satisfied she’d combed the entire flat. Edmund Beswick lived the cramped life of a confirmed scholar with too much to do and too little space to do it in.

Although Edmund had spoken proudly of the collection of magical props he’d assembled, only a handful of small things occupied the built-in bookshelves in the office area. Decks of playing cards, coins, scarves, cups and balls, and even a gibecière, the large pouch street magicians used to hold props while putting on shows, shared space with the books on magic.

That meant Edmund kept his collection somewhere else.

Annja returned to the card file and flipped through the thick plastic pages till she found three business cards for storage units. Two of the storage businesses were in Chelsea and one was in Mayfair.

She’d been relieved to discover there was no blood in the apartment. If the men had gotten to Edmund, they’d taken him easily enough. She didn’t know if he would tell them about his storage unit. Then she realized almost in the same thought that he would. He would be fearful for his life, for good reason, and wouldn’t hold back when asked.

But what would the Triad do with Edmund when it recovered the magic lantern?

Antsy, ready to move, Annja retreated to the window and climbed out. She took a moment to replace the glass pane in the window so others—less altruistic—wouldn’t be tempted by an easy mark. Then she clambered back down the fire escape.

* * *

ANNJA BOUGHT A CUP OF COFFEE at a pub around the corner, fended off a couple halfhearted attempts at picking her up and retreated to the back area and the phone. She was happy to find one there because public phones were a dying business now that everyone had cell phones. Still, cell phones were known to go dead at inopportune moments.

She switched off her sat-phone because it had a GPS chip in it that would allow police to track her if they wanted to. After she finished speaking with DCI Westcox, she was pretty sure the man would want to find her.

She dialed Westcox’s office and was greeted by a polite male voice. She identified herself and asked to speak with Westcox.

“I’m afraid DCI Westcox is unavailable at the moment, Ms. Creed.”

“I know. He’s working the fourth Mr. Hyde murder.”

The assistant didn’t respond to that.

“I just left him less than an hour ago.”

“I understand that, Ms. Creed, but DCI Westcox asked not to be disturbed—”

“A man has been kidnapped and it might have something to do with Mr. Hyde. Do you think that will interest DCI Westcox?”

“Wait a tick, Ms. Creed.”

Annja sipped her coffee and waited anxiously. She didn’t know if Edmund’s disappearance was connected with the Mr. Hyde murders or not, but it was a way of getting Westcox’s attention. She didn’t have to wait long.

“Ms. Creed, where are you?”

Annja ignored that, but she felt certain that the chief inspector already knew. The landline would show up immediately. If he really wanted to see her, a patrol unit would already be en route.