~Wax immediately recognized the colors from a far-too-familiar company
stamp. The brass and crimson logo of Kaus-Lonhark Industries was stamped onto
every tin of Wax’s favorite smogs he’d ever purchased.
“You’ve been a great help, Jonas. Let me know if you turn anything else up.” He said, heading for the door. Jonas may not have been able to turn up a name, but perhaps a former employer would. Wax fired up his steambike and headed for Central- and the Kaus-Lonhark Industries factory.~
“You’ve been a great help, Jonas. Let me know if you turn anything else up.” He said, heading for the door. Jonas may not have been able to turn up a name, but perhaps a former employer would. Wax fired up his steambike and headed for Central- and the Kaus-Lonhark Industries factory.~
It was late
in the evening when Wax arrived outside the factory grounds. A stiff wet
heaviness fell with the sun, and amidst the industrial smog in the sky, the
clouds threatened to drizzle. The Kaus-Lonhark logo was emblazoned on the
hanging placard outside the main office door. It swung lazily in the wind as
Wax approached the door. “Can I help you?” A voice asked as he entered,
shutting out the cold behind him.
“Possibly”
Wax replied, setting another smog between his lips and lighting it with his
flinstriker. “I’m looking for information on an employee of yours.” The short
man behind the desk set his pen down and folded his hands, looking up at Wax
through thin wiry spectacles.
“And what
would you need that for?” He asked politely.
“My name is
Wax, I’m a private investigator. A man I believe to be a former employee of
this company was killed in an accident recently and I’m investigating the
circumstances of his death. I don’t have a name, but I can give you a
description if it would help.” Wax lied.
“I’m sorry,
Mister Wax, but that information is private. Kaus-Lonhark Industries maintains
a strict confidentiality policy over the personal information of its employees.”
The little man explained.
“I don’t
think he’ll mind much, considering he’s lying on an autopsy table in the morgue
at the Gardenworks. Once another man has cut you open and taken out all your
innards, I can’t imagine you’d give much of a damn over privacy.” Wax mused.
“That was a
rather crude remark to make, Mister Wax. However, until the employee’s family
has given us consent to do so, I’m afraid that even under current circumstances
I’m not authorized to give you that information.” The man picked his pen back
up and went back to his books, gesturing an end to the conversation.
“Have a
pleasant evening, then.” Wax mumbled as he left the building.
As he
closed the door behind him, Wax flipped open his smog tin. Only four of the
neatly wrapped smogs remained nestled in their grooves. He strode over to his
steambike and fired it up, roaring off down the street. When he was certain the
noise had left earshot of the factory, he cut the engine and coasted back
around. Picking his way through the streets, choosing the routes with as few
gas lamps as possible, he wove his way back toward the factory, walking the
bike alongside him to avoid the noise. He slipped into an alleyway two
buildings down from his target and parked the bike. Wax ground the stub of his
smog into the brick behind him and stood motionless against the corner of the
building, watching the door of the Kaus-Lonhark factory. A cold half-hour
passed in the damp before the small man emerged from the door, locking it behind
him. Wax waited until he was out of sight before slipping down the street like
a shadow. The windows of the building were dark when he reached the door. With
the nearest gas lamp several buildings away, Wax’s figure was barely a
silhouette against the frame. He knelt down, slipping a small leather pouch
from inside his greatcoat. Inside were three small wires, one with a flattened
surface bent at a 90 degree angle, one with a serpentine tip, and another with
a small sharp tooth bent up at the end. He slipped the flat headed pick into
the base of the lock and applied a solid pressure to it. Slipping the
serpentine tool into the top portion of the lock, he raked the tumblers twice,
set it down and reached for the pick.
The lock wasn’t particularly
challenging to pick, Wax found. Most of the tumblers gave up and settled into
their apportioned spaces without a fuss. Only two stubbornly refused to find
their homes for a moment before, with a faint click, settling into place. Wax
twisted the pressure wrench, rotated the lock, and the door swung open. The room
was still warm, and a light musty scent emanated from the walls. Wax silently
closed the door behind him and entered the factory.
Most of the building was dedicated
to the warehouse and machinery used for creating the Kaus-Lonhark brand of
vices, ranging from smogs to puffers to pipe shag and everything in between,
and the offices were isolated to a small portion of the building’s space along
an outer wall. Wax slipped through them, keeping low and using the faint light
from the gas lamps in the distance to guide his way around the sparse furniture
inside. He quickly located a room whose door was embellished with a brass
plaque with “Records” etched into it and slipped inside. The light filtering in
from the open door behind him wasn’t quite enough to see by, so Wax flicked
open his flintstriker. The small flame provided just enough light to read by.
The walls of the room were lined with file drawers, inevitably containing sales
records, dossiers and other important company documents, but they weren’t what
he was searching for. Spread open on a small desk near the corner of the small
closet-like space, Wax found exactly what he needed; the book page contained a
schedule of workers, noting absences, requested vacations, and hours worked.
Knowing he’d killed the mystery man three days ago, Wax scanned the list for
any employees to have missed three consecutive days. Only three names matched.
He took note of the last names and quickly located a file drawer labeled “Employment
Records.”
Searching by the light from the
tiny flame of his flintstriker, Wax quickly located three files and spread them
on the table next to the schedule record. Drent, Garrus and Esman. Each file
contained a spectograph image along with a copy of the employee’s résumé, a
record of grievances and conduct within the company, and a number of other
files. Wax quickly thumbed through each one, but quickly ran into a roadblock
in his plan. None of the images in the matching files were of the man in the
Gardenworks morgue. He frowned, closing the files and placing them back into
their respective locations in the drawer. He drummed his fingers quietly on the
table as he mulled over the list, when suddenly he was struck by an idea. He
quickly scanned the list for any employees with no schedules, indicating that
they’d quit, or any marked as having put in a notification of quitting. He
found only one name: Dresdin Bront. He quickly located Dresdin’s file in the
cabinet and spread it on the table. The spectograph image was immediately
recognizable. Wax carefully lowered his flintstriker to read the dossier.
Suddenly, however, a familiar sound echoed through the building- someone had
opened the front door. Wax quickly blew out the flame of his flinstriker,
cramming it back into his pocket and shutting the dossier. He drew his revolver
from his baldric and flattened himself against the wall, listening intently. He
heard the sounds of multiple voices and footsteps coming in his direction.
“-place stinks. Don’t know why I
had to come.” One voice whispered. Another shushed him and replied with a harsh
tone.
“Because some “investigator” was
pokin’ around here earlier asking questions about dead employees. Probably an
Arbitor. You can be damn sure he ain’t just gonna leave it be ‘cause some clerk
told him to shove off. They might already be here, so keep your damn voice down
and expect trouble.”
“Fine. Spread out and I’ll go get
the damn thing.” The first voice replied. Wax shot a glance at the dossier that
lie on the table beside the roster. The open door sat between him and the file,
and he couldn’t risk being seen or closing the door at this point. Footsteps
were approaching quickly. Wax cursed himself for leaving the door open and slid
his weapon back into the baldric. Shooting the man would attract the attention
of the entire lot and he’d be trapped. He pressed himself against the wall
beside the doorway and exhaled softly.
A figure about Wax’s height stepped
into the doorway, carrying a phlogiston bulb light. Wax slammed a readied fist
into the man’s throat, catching him off guard and choking his cry of alarm. He
wrenched the man’s arm up, catching the wrist beneath his armpit and locking
the elbow with his forearm, and drove his fist against the joint with a
sickening pop. The man’s light clattered to the ground. Wax immediately crushed
his heel against the figure’s knee, driving it to the ground. Feeling the man’s
balance fail, he threw his weight to the side, hurling him to the floor and
drove the tip of his boot into the stunned victim’s temple. Unconsciousness
took him immediately, and Wax dragged his body out of sight of the doorway. He
searched the unconscious body, locating a stuttergun with two spare magazines
of ammunition, a handful of coins and half-empty tin of expensive pipe shag. He
pocketed the tin, taking the gun and ammunition with him. It wouldn’t be long
before the man was missed so Wax had to work fast. Unsheathing his boot knife,
Wax hastily cut two long strips of thick fabric from the hem of the man’s coat.
He snatched up the light and turned off the beam, carrying his collection of
objects out into the office. A row of several cluttered desks filled the long
room, spaced evenly apart with a single aisle between them. Wax quickly lashed
the stuttergun to a ladderback desk chair and set it against the desk. As
quietly as he could, he then slid the desk behind it to hold the chair in
place, preventing it from falling over. The stuttergun now faced the only
doorway leading into the office room. He cut the strip of fabric with his knife
and tied a second around the weapon’s trigger, threading it along with him. He
set the phlogiston light on top of the desk just in front of the rigged gun,
facing the same direction, and grabbed a thick folder from a desk drawer,
propping it in front of the beam. He then turned the bulb on, the light blocked
fully by the folder. Finally, Wax hurriedly cut the drawstrings on all the
windows, dropping the blinds and flooding the room with darkness.
Wax took up a position behind a nearby
desk, ducking behind it just as he heard the voices from the other room pipe
up. “Damn it all, what’s taking him so long? It can’t be that hard to find a
single piece of paper.” The voice spoke. “Rest of the place is clear. No
arbitors. What is he doing back there?”
“Rodick!” another voice yelled, “You
takin’ a nap back there or what?!” When the unconscious man didn’t respond, Wax
tightened his grip on the fabric thread. He listened as footsteps filled the
room. His eyes had adjusted to the dark by then, and he peeked beneath the
desk, counting five pairs of feet.
“Why’s it so bloody dark in here?
Were these blinds shut before?” A voice asked. Wax yanked the thread. The slip
knot fastened around the stuttergun’s trigger constricted like a noose, and the
weapon began firing wildly, toppling the folder and sending a blinding beam of
light and a hail of bullets into the faces of the men at the end of the hall.
The men began returning fire at the phantom gunman with their own weapons,
panicking in the chaos. Wax ducked under the desk, vaulting the next one, completely
invisible to their blinded peripherals. He pulled his revolver form his baldric
and fired.
The stuttergun’s ammunition bled
dry as he fired his second shot, which ripped through the chest of a man near
the back of the group. Having recovered slightly from the confusion, the man
closest to him turned to line up a shot, but Wax was on him. Gripping the
barrel of his revolver in his gloved hand, Wax smashed the butt of the
iron-cased handle into the man’s jaw, punching through his teeth and sending
him sprawling. He flipped the gun quickly, snatching the grip and squeezed the
trigger, holding it down and sweeping his palm across the weapon’s hammer
firing off three shots in rapid succession. Another man fell as a volley of
bullets buried themselves in the wall behind him, sending shreds of paper and bits
of splintered wood sailing through the darkness. Wax dove behind a desk and
fired another shot, shattering the phlogiston bulb and drowning the room in
blinding darkness again. He ducked under the desk and quickly found the corner
by the entry room’s doorway, bringing up his revolver. He had three shots left.
He dug into his pocket and his fingers closed around his flintstriker. The
small device had been a tried and true companion, but it was time to part ways.
He hurled it down the dark room and it smashed through a pane of glass.
Panicked gunfire from the two remaining assailants responded to the sound, and
the muzzle flashes revealed all Wax needed to know. He quickly fired two more
shots and silence filled the room. Wax fumbled his way back to the records
room, snatching up Dresdin Bront’s dossier and quickly exited the building.
Voices and shouts from nearby told him that the firefight hadn’t gone
unnoticed, so he hastily slipped back up the street. He ducked into the
alleyway where he’d left his steambike, mounted it, and reached for the key.
The familiar sound of a pistol’s
hammer locking behind his head made him freeze. Wax slowly lowered his hand
from the key and folded his hands behind his head. “Hello, Wax.” Spoke a man’s voice
from behind him.