Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

PART FIVE: The Road to Paradise

Twenty-Six

'Ollie? There' a man asking for you.'

He looked up from his work at Priscilla, who had knocked first before opening the door to his workshop at the rear of the house; it was her way never to intrude upon him unless it was important, and he appreciated her value of his privacy. Which meant concentration; which meant productivity; which meant progress.

Oliver set aside his tweezers and lifted the magnification lenses clipped to his spectacles so he could see her clearly. The lenses, ground to his exacting specifications by the optician Dr. Seter Van Kampen here in Philadelphia, could make a gnat appear elephantine and a tiny gearwheel gargantuan. Not that he worked with gnats or elephants; he did not, though gearwheels of all sizes were commonplace on his desktop and now, indeed, were scattered there. But what might have been a disorderly scatter to any other man was to Oliver a comforting variety of challenges, or puzzle parts waiting to be put into their places.

He was a man of many loves. First of all, he loved his wife. He loved the fact that she was five months pregnant, loved her plumpness and her curly brown hair, the sparkle of her eyes, the way she called him Ollie-all prim and proper in daylight, but truth be told at night she made the name sound a little wicked, indecent even, and thus the blessed event approaching-and he loved the fact that she granted him such privacy to do his work, here in the sun-splashed room with its high windows. He loved also the shine of sunlight on tweezers and calipers, metal- shears, pincers, the delicate miniature pliers, wire snippers, files, the little hammers and all the rest of his toolbox. He loved the weight and feel of brass, the grain of wood, the pungent smells of whale oil and bear grease, the beautiful God-like geometry of gear-teeth, the confidence of screws and the jollity of springs. If Priscilla would not think him too odd-and this was also why he valued his privacy-he would have professed that he had names for all his instruments, his hammers and pliers and such, and sometimes he would say quietly as he put two pieces together, 'Very well, now, Alfred! Fit there into Sophie and give her a good turning!' Or some such encouagement to succeed. Which, now that he thought of it, sounded indecent too, but who ever said an inventor had to be decent?

Or, for that matter, boring?

He also loved gunpowder. Its rich, almost earthy smell. Its promise and power. Its danger. Yes, that was part of the love, too.

'Who is it?' Oliver asked.

'He just inquired if this was the house of Oliver Quisenhunt. He said it was vital that he speak to you.'

'Vital? He used that word?'

'He did. He um he's a little frightening in appearance. I'll go back and ask his name, if you want.'

Oliver frowned. He was twenty-eight years old, had been a bachelor-a life-long bachelor, he'd assured his friends over ale at the Seven Stars Inn-until he'd met a pretty little plump curly-haired sparkling-eyed girl two years ago whose wealthy father wanted a Dutch clock in their parlor repaired. It had taken him the longest time to fix that clock. It had been strange, repairing a clock and wishing time would stop. At the same time.

'No, that's all right.' He pushed his chair back and stood up. 'Something so vital, I suppose we ought to find out what, eh?'

She caught his arm. 'Ollie,' she said, and she looked up at him imploringly. Way up, because he was rail-thin and six-feet-three-inches tall and towered above her plump little self. 'He he might be dangerous.'

'Really? Well,' he said with a smile, 'danger is my business. Part of it, at least. Let's go see what he wants.'

In the rooms there was a place for everything and everything in its place. One thing that Priscilla had taught him, an artist did not need to live in confusion. Did not need to fill up the house with books and scribbled-upon papers and little gearwheels and sacks of gunpowder and lead balls everywhere and underfoot clay jars full of different varieties of grease that made a terrible mess if they were broken. Indeed, not with the new Quisenhunt coming. So he had his workshop where what she termed confusion was his paradise, and she had the rest of the house, excepting of course the cellar.

He also loved the fact that she called him an artist. The first time she'd said that to him, in her father's garden, he had looked into her face and asked himself what the term life-long bachelor really meant, anyway.

Priscilla had closed the door when she went to fetch him. She stood at Oliver's side, clutching the sleeve of his cream-colored shirt. He opened the door, and the man outside turned around from observing the parade of wagons, carts and passersby on Fourth Street.

'Oliver Quisenhunt,' the man said.

Oliver nodded, when his flinch had passed. He thought he might have heard a note of what? relief in the man's voice. And Priscilla had been right about him: this was a raw-boned and rough-edged leatherstocking straight from the woods, it appeared. Straight from the frontier where Indians hacked your limbs off and boiled them in pots for their suppers. This man looked as if he'd seen a few of those boiling pots. Maybe had barely escaped from one, as well. How old? About twenty-six, twenty-seven? It was hard to tell, with those blue bruises splotching his right cheekbone and forehead. Both his eyes were bloodshot. The left eye had a white medical plaster laid just below it. The dark hollows under his eyes, and the general grim menace of his countenance was he twenty-seven, going on fifty? A few days' beard, a mess of black hair, the palms of his hands wrapped up in dirty leather, torn burgundy-colored breeches and a waistcoat the same color, stained stockings, filthy white shirt and a fringed buckskin jacket scabby with grime. On his feet were honest-to-God Indian moccasins.

He was a scout, Oliver guessed. Someone who goes ahead to clear the way, who takes the risks only the bravest-or most foolhardy-men can face.

He thought they called that kind of man a providence rider.

'My name is Matthew Corbett,' said the visitor. 'May I come in?'

'Ah well I am very busy at present, sir. I mean to say, it would be best if you came back some other-'

'I want to talk to you about one of your inventions,' Matthew plowed on. 'An exploding safebox.'

'An exploding oh. Yes. Those. You mean the keyless safe? The thief trap?'

'Whatever you call it. I just want to know how it got into the hands of a killer named Tyranthus Slaughter.'

'Slaughter?' Quisenhunt searched his memory. 'I'm sorry, I have no recollection of that name. I sold no thief trap to him.'

'Are you sure?'

'Absolutely. I keep strict records of who buys my ' He almost said art. But instead he said, 'Creations.'

Matthew hadn't known quite what to expect from this man. Quisenhunt was thin and gangly, had hands that seemed too big for his skinny wrists and feet like longboats. He had large brown eyes and a topping of blond hair with a cowlick that shot up at the crown like an exotic plant. Thick blond eyebrows arched up over the rims of his spectacles, as if he were perpetually asking a question. Matthew already knew he was twenty-eight years old, from his inquiries, but Quisenhunt seemed younger than that. There was something almost childlike about him, in his slightly-slumped posture, or in the inflections of his voice that seemed to rise on the last word of every sentence. This impression was aided by the multitude of freckles scattered across his cherry-cheeked face. He looked to Matthew to be a strangely overgrown twelve-year-old boy wearing his father's buckled shoes, white stockings, dark brown breeches, cream-colored shirt and yellow-striped cravat. The phrase mishap of nature came to mind.

It was time to roll out the cannon. Matthew said, 'I am a representative of the law from New York. In this case, you may consider me an arm of the royal court. I'm looking for Slaughter. You may have information I need.'

'Oh,' came the hushed response. Quisenhunt rubbed his lower lip. 'Well, then why aren't you in company with the Philadelphia officials? I personally know High Constable Abram Farraday.'

'Yes,' Matthew said. 'He sent me here.'

'I thought you were an Indian scout,' Quisenhunt said, and almost sounded disappointed.