Steampunk II: Steampunk Reloaded Part 21

"'In Heaven's name,' Chief."

"Oh, honestly, Max!" Cerys exclaimed. "Don't these people have anything better to do?"

"Desk jobs, Chief," Wilde reminded her.

"And they really care about what Jervais Mutton has to say about rising coal prices?"

"Nah, Mutton doesn't discuss commodities. He's too busy falling over himself to agree with whatever Deacon Fortesque happens to think. Now, Salad Monday, he's a fun one. He'll take on five people at once and bring in arguments most of us forgot about ages ago. Frankly, it's a privilege to watch him in action. He's an oddball, that one."

Cerys had returned to her work, and only half glanced up when she replied, "Oh? Why's that?"

Wilde took her cue, and went back to skimming through the pile of pamphlets and tracts he had been given. "Oh, he just doesn't fit into the usual categories. Most of the time you can read someone and say 'he's a socialist' or 'he's a conservative' or 'he's a capitalist.' With Salad Monday, you can't do that. He's all over the place with what he's doing. Sure, he tends to agree with the lefties, but he'll blast them out of the sky when they're saying something stupid. I mean, he's probably as anti-government as the anarchists, but he has a great time pointing out how stupid anarchism is. He's just...everywhere and nowhere, I guess."

Something about the statement caught Cerys's interest. "Really? Well, who is he then?"

"Don't know, Chief. No one does. He's been around for ages, since t.i.t-tat started, I think. He was already one of the big names when I got into it a couple years back. There're plenty of theories out there, but he's one of the pen names no one's been able to crack yet. He's probably one of those university types, though. He's always quoting from this or that, and he's got the time to stay up-to-date on whatever's going on."

"But no one knows who he is?"

"Well...." Wilde hesitated. "You know, it's funny you've got me reading up on Slater, because the current view is that they might be one and the same."

There was a look in Cerys's eyes. "Really? Why?" She slowly rose out of her chair and leaned across the desk at Wilde. "You said yourself that Slater's got a distinctive voice. Wouldn't that make it obvious?"

"That's the thing. Salad Monday's got about as neutral a voice as possible. It's almost distinct in how indistinct it is. The theory is that it's someone like Professor Slater, who's got a very recognizable style, trying not to give himself away. And out of all the bigwigs Mr. Salad Monday takes on, Slater's the one who usually ends up coming out looking the best. He'll point out Slater's flaws, but he usually ends up defending the Professor's argument, with a few revisions. It's almost like they're working together. The only problem is, a busy university man like Slater wouldn't have time for it."

"How do you mean?" Cerys asked.

"Salad Monday's probably the most prolific tatter ever to t.i.t the tat, if you take my meaning."

"Barely," Cerys replied without an ounce of humor. "Continue."

"He writes so much material I'm starting to wonder if he's actually one person. It seems like he's got a witty, well-thought-out reply to just about every single topic that ever hits print, and he gets them to the printers on the same day, sometimes even by the next issue. And I'll tell you, Chief, I don't care how much free time someone has, there's only so much typing one person can do."

Cerys was scribbling notes. "Do you think it might be a group of Slater's students trying to help give his arguments more authority?"

"Maybe...." Wilde stared at Cerys with growing suspicion. "OK, Chief, I know better than to question, but enough's enough. Why's the Legion suddenly interested in F. W. Slater, of all people? I thought he was the socialist we actually liked."

"'We' don't like any socialists, Max. You know that. They're dirty, smelly, and untrustworthy, and they usually ask questions 'we' can't comfortably answer."

"I know the doubletalk, Chief. But honestly, why Slater?"

Cerys sighed, a common precursor to any conversation involving an explanation of orders from the top. "Top bra.s.s thinks Slater's trying to undermine the government with his latest batch of essays. He's launched another round of anonymous pamphlets demanding improved working conditions, health insurance, abolition of a tax-based electorate, and so on. He's smart enough to not sign his name, but, like you said, he's got a distinct voice. We're pretty sure it's him."

"How did he get them past the censor?"

"They were all printed up independently and distributed anonymously: snuck into mailboxes, left on cafe tables, the usual subversive drill." Cerys chuckled. "They even had urchins pa.s.sing them out on street corners. And you know, no one's as good as those kids at getting away from Legionnaires."

"Oh, I can just see it!" Wilde laughed, his head filled with visions of brown-uniformed Legion policemen running after hordes of street children.

"Upshot is, we don't actually know who's behind it."

"But top bra.s.s thinks it's Slater."

"Yes," Cerys agreed. "But what bra.s.s thinks is usually wrong." She rose from her desk and refilled her cup of coffee, mulling something over. "Max, I've got an a.s.signment for you."

"Whatever you need, Chief," Wilde answered, eagerly setting aside the pile of pamphlets.

"Don't sound so excited. I want you to find out who this 'Salad Monday' character is. If he's connected to Slater, so much the better. If he isn't, at least that's one little mystery solved."

Wilde rubbed his head. "Chief, I've got to be honest with you: I'm not sure where to start. I mean, he's been around for ages and no one's been able to find out who he is. Any lead I can think of has probably been tried already."

"Has it?" Cerys asked. "Or are you just a.s.suming it has?"

"Point taken."

"Start with the obvious. He's got to live somewhere, he's got to eat somewhere, he's got to write somewhere. And I may not understand how this t.i.tter-tatter thing works-"

"'t.i.t-tat,' Chief."

"Shut up, Max," Cerys instructed, before finishing her sentence, "-but somewhere along the line someone has to be getting his comments for print. Find out who, and chances are you'll find Salad Monday."

"The printing houses won't be happy to give up his name and address, you know."

"Take Kendrick with you. Five minutes with him and they'll give in."

"Do I get a warrant?" Wilde asked hopefully.

"I'll put in a call," Cerys answered, and took a sip of her coffee. "Until then, improvise."

"Yes, Chief."

Several hours later, Wilde was sipping his own coffee outside a pleasant Layer Three cafe. It was a trendy sort of place, with the intellectual atmosphere preferred by scholars, students, artists, and anyone who mistakenly believed himself to be one of the above. Wilde leaned back in his wicker chair and smiled as he looked around at the crowds of youths at the nearby tables. They were mostly young men wearing casual sack suits and fedoras, though here and there could be seen young women in shirtwaists and long skirts. A few of these women were bored sweethearts who stared into their cups impatiently or chatted with one another as they waited for their boyfriends to take notice of them. Others were female students determined to do more with their education than find a husband, and were engaged in spirited debate with their male counterparts.

As Wilde's gaze returned to his own table, it fell upon his dour-faced companion. "Kendrick, don't you ever smile?"

"Only when I'm shooting terrorists," came the reply.

Across the table, Kendrick Mernil looked like he had swallowed a radish. Inspector Mernil-of the Special Peacekeepers, as he rarely failed to remind you-was seldom comfortable out of jackboots and armor. To be dressed in the same casual clothes as undisciplined students was galling. Kendrick made a face at Wilde and reached beneath his black suit jacket to check one of his pistols.

"Do you have to do that?" Wilde asked. "You'll draw attention."

"When is your d.a.m.n friend going to show up? We've been waiting half an hour."

"It's been ten minutes," Wilde replied.

"And why are we wearing civvies? You know I hate wearing civvies."

"You hate not having socialists to shoot at. You'd be happy in a barrel if you were firing at something."

Kendrick struggled to argue with this point, and failed. "Well. ..I don't know what good this is going to do anyway. These blasted students have no respect for anyone in authority. Anarchists, the lot of them, if you ask me."

"Shut up and drink your coffee," Wilde answered, trying not to laugh. Turning to look back at the street, he spotted the young man they were waiting for. "Ah, here he is!"

The fellow in question was clearly one of the university rabble, and the sight of his mismatched clothes was enough to make Wilde cringe. The young man's coat was dark green, his vest and baggy trousers brown; yet somehow the colors failed to coordinate. More distressingly, the young man's tie, while the same green as his coat, was covered in dark spots that were as likely to be ink stains as polka dots. He sauntered across the carriage-filled roadway without a sense of urgency, as tendrils of steam and boiler smoke from the pa.s.sing vehicles licked at his back and heels. After taking a moment to exchange waves and handshakes with the other students at the cafe, he dropped cheerfully into a chair across from Wilde. He gave Wilde an affable smile, ordered a cup of coffee from a pa.s.sing waiter, and then lounged back in his chair with the ease of a man composed entirely of liquid. Then, as if he was just noticing him, the student slowly turned his gaze toward Kendrick-who sat in plain view across from him-and jumped in surprise.

"Hey!" the student hissed at Wilde. "What's this then? What's the numb on that one?"

Kendrick looked at Wilde. "The what?"

Wilde shushed him before rea.s.suring the student. "That's just Kendrick. He's gla.s.s, Manny, he's gla.s.s. He's OK."

"I'm what?" Kendrick demanded.

"You're gla.s.s. It means you're smooth. You're not...um...b.u.mpy."

"What?" Kendrick repeated.

"Just shut up and let me do the talking."

"Hey, now..." Manny was peering very purposefully at Kendrick's moustache. "He's a copper, isn't he?"

Wilde let out a sigh. "Manny, I'm a copper."

"No, you're a tatter who cops." Manny fell silent as the waiter arrived with his coffee. He hid behind the cup, peering over the brim at Kendrick like a small animal watching a dog.

"Manny, I'll vouch for him: He's gla.s.s, OK? Now, can we move on?"

There was a long silence as Manny continued to peer out over the top of his cup. "OK. Whadya need?"

Wilde sighed. "Will you please put the cup down?"

Manny hesitated for a moment, then looked at Kendrick. "No."

"Fine." Wilde sipped his coffee, not in the mood to argue with either of them. "Manny, I need some information from you. You're the top tatter I know, so if anyone's got the info I need, it's you."

Manny snorted, but he finally relaxed a bit and lowered his cup. "Don't b.u.t.ter me up, Max; I'm not a sticky key. Just post me the t.i.tles."

"Fine, fine. I need the skinny on Salad Monday."

"Ha!" Manny laughed. Then he realized that it was not a joke. "You're not t.i.tting me, are you?"

"'t.i.tting'?" Kendrick interjected, sour-faced.

Wilde turned to him in irritation. "Yes. It's....Well, it means you're playing a joke on someone. Pulling their leg, but obnoxiously."

"Being a t.i.t," Manny added, helpfully.

Kendrick's unpleasant expression darkened further. "A 't.i.t'?"

"Yes," Wilde answered. "It's a tatter who-"

"I know what a 't.i.t' is, Max, though the tooters sound a bit confused. Probably never seen a real one in their lives."

Manny made the mistake of trying to be helpful again. "Actually, it's 'tatters'-"

Kendrick growled and almost launched himself across the table at the young man.

"Down, Kendrick," Wilde ordered, mimicking the sharp tone of voice Cerys often used when dealing with Special Peacekeepers.

"Uh. . . eheh. . . . "Kendrick caught himself leaning across the table and gave an awkward smile. "Right, right. . . . Sorry. Got, uh, carried away."

"Yes, well, save that for someone who deserves it." Wilde drained his cup and set it down. "Look, Manny, I need to find Salad Monday, and I need to find him by this morning's edition, read me?"

Manny was hiding behind his cup again. "Sharp and fresh, Max, sharp and fresh. But cite the facts: Salad Monday's been tatting since tatting first hit paper, and no one's cracked him yet. Eye-moth, cracking Salad Monday's potsy."

Kendrick's eye twitched as he tried to follow the conversation. "What was that?"

"In his opinion, finding Salad Monday's true ident.i.ty is like putting one over on the censor. That is to say, impossible." Wilde turned back to Manny. "But someone out there has to know. Look at it this way: Salad Monday comments on all the big tatting papers. That means he reads all the big tatting papers. We both know you can't just pick up a broadsheet on the street corner...not yet, at least."

"Gla.s.s," Manny agreed. "You get the sheets posted special."

"That means someone's delivering them to him, and if no one's cracked him yet, it's because there's a reliable middleman. So, Manny, I want you to tell me who that middleman is."

Manny hesitated for a moment. "What's in it for me?" Across the table, Kendrick snarled, but Manny pushed on. "Max, you know I can't go posting you people's private letters. What kind of a tag would I buy myself with that? Giving out private numbs to coppers, Max. . . . I'd be for the furnace if I did that."

Wilde sighed. "Manny, you know me. You know I wouldn't tell anyone where I got my info. And I'll tell you what, you point me in the right direction and I'll take you with me to the Martyrs next week. August Mars is playing, and I think I can get you backstage."

Manny gave Wilde a wide-eyed stare over the top of his coffee cup. "You'd do that?"

"Of course, Manny. We're friends." Wilde smiled sincerely, and then turned the screws. "But if we're going to go, I need to be done with this case, and I can't finish the case without your help."

Manny made a face. "You're turning the cop on me, Max."

"Manny, you know I'd never do that. But I have a job to do, and I need your help doing it. Just point me the right way. I swear I won't so much as think your name for the rest of the investigation."

There was a long silence as Manny stared into his cup. Once or twice he glanced toward the other students, clearly expecting the worst; but as was often the case with young university types, Manny's friends were too busy talking amongst themselves to realize that he was having another conversation nearby, let alone with whom.

"OK. If you want Salad Monday's house, you'll be looking at the tops. Big type printers who won't be b.u.t.tered into selling his number, else he'd be cracked already. I only know three: Maynard and Sons; Edgewood, Franklin, and Co.; and Belle Street Printers, Ltd. If they're not posting for him, I don't know who is. Read me?"

"Sharp and fresh, Manny," Wilde answered. "Which one's the biggest?"

"Belle Street, but I wouldn't start there."

"No?"

Manny shook his head and looked around cautiously. "Edgewood's the only one of the three that printed t.i.t-tat when it first came out. If Salad Monday's tatting for one of the other two, then he jumped ship from another house a few years back. And when you change houses in t.i.t-tat-"

"The old printers have no incentive to keep your real name a secret," Wilde finished. "They'd have sold Salad Monday's ident.i.ty to the highest bidder by now. Manny, you're the best. For this, I'll get you that backstage meeting with Mars."