“It would seem so,” Ernst said. “Someone is threatening to do great damage to the Order. We would like to prevent that.”
No need for more specificity than that. Belgiovene would know exactly how Ernst meant for him to prevent that damage. His skill was in making murder look like an accident or suicide.
His smile was as thin as the rest of him. “Only one?”
His last assignment had involved eliminating a group of hackers the Order had assembled to provide unwitting help with the assault on the Internet.
“Only one.” Ernst slid a slip of paper across the desk. “He’s a writer and here’s his address.”
The smile broadened as he read it. “Alphabet City. Practically a neighbor.”
“Your preventative measures should involve confiscation of whatever computers he might possess—for practical reasons, since they hold the damaging materials, but also to make robbery appear the motive.”
Belgiovene gave a little bow. “Consider it done. Any timetable?”
“ASAP. Before he can publish his drek.”
“I’m get right on it.”
The door had barely closed behind Belgiovene when Slootjes entered.
“I saw Belgiovene,” the loremaster said. “Is he…?”
“He’s on his way.”
Slootjes sighed with relief. “Good. I’ve been watching Winslow’s website and he’s made no announcement.”
“Perhaps it was all bluster,” Ernst said. “I hope I didn’t send Belgiovene out for nothing.”
Not that it really mattered. Belgiovene enjoyed the work. As a member of the Septimus order’s security and enforcement wing, he followed orders. But Ernst was aware that he freelanced on the side.
Slootjes said, “Winslow sounded genuinely angry when he stormed out last night. I wouldn’t put self-publishing past him. He—”
A knock on the door and then the acolyte acting as the Lodge’s receptionist stuck his head inside.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s a woman out here insists on seeing you.”
Well, she obviously wasn’t a member—Septimus didn’t accept females—and Ernst had a busy morning ahead of him.
“Put her off.”
“I’ve already tried that but she won’t go.”
“Then have her bodily removed.”
“She says she has a memoir written by her grandfather in which the Order in general, and your grandfather in particular, play a very large part.” He gave a shy smile. “That’s pretty much a quote.”
Ernst froze. “Did she now?” He glanced at Slootjes who gave a quick nod. “Very well, send her in.” When the acolyte had disappeared, Ernst turned to the loremaster and saw the same question in his eyes. “Yet another manuscript?”
“Let’s hope it’s not as damaging as last night’s.”
“It had better not be.” He jabbed a finger at Slootjes. “You stay right where you are. This might concern you as well.”
“A memoir about your grandfather, the famous and mysterious Rudolph Drexler?” The loremaster smiled. “Oh, you couldn’t get me out of here with a pry bar.”
The acolyte admitted a rather plump woman who looked to be about sixty or so. Her gray hair was wound up in a bun at the back of her head. She wore a simple dress with long sleeves. She might have been Amish except for that fact that she was bareheaded. She had a large shoulder bag from which a fat manila envelope protruded.
“Grace Novak,” she said, striding in and extending her hand. “You must be Mister Drexler. I was told you wear a white suit year-round.”
“Oh, and who told you that?”
“I made enquiries about you. That’s how I traced you here.”
Ernst made a quick introduction of Slootjes, then…
“What is this about a memoir, Mrs. Novak?”
“You can call me Grace. I’ll make this quick. My mother died recently—”
“My condolences,” Slootjes said. Ernst didn’t bother.
“She was the only daughter of a man named Charles Atkinson who left this memoir of his years working with Nikola Tesla in the early nineteen hundreds. She in turn left it to me.”
She placed the envelope on Ernst’s desk. As she rattled on, Slootjes picked it up and removed a thick sheaf of papers from within.
“In it he talks about Tesla’s wireless experiments with his tower at Wardenclyffe out on Long Island and how your Septimus order funded him after J.P. Morgan backed out. He also says the funding was overseen by a Septimus member named Rudolph Drexler who, I gather, was your grandfather.”
“You gather correctly, Mrs. Novak. But what—?”
“This is heavily redacted in certain sections,” said Slootjes who’d been flipping through the pages as the woman was speaking.
“Yes. My mother took a black marker to areas she said were ‘too personal.’”
Too personal…interesting.
Ernst’s grandfather had disappeared in 1906 and was never seen again. The archives contained photos of Rudolph Drexler taken just across the hall from Ernst’s office, posing with the remains of the chew wasps he had killed at Wardenclyffe in the spring of 1904. A dashing figure, grinning as he casually cradled the broomhandle Mauser he’d used to shoot them out of the air. The chew wasps eventually had rotted to dust, but the photos remained. Ernst was sure Slootjes could locate them on a moment’s notice.
Two years later his grandfather vanished without a trace. His car and his silver-headed cane—the very same cane Ernst carried every day—had been found parked in the alley behind this building. His fate had long been one of the Order’s great ongoing mysteries.
“What do you want for this?” Slootjes said.
She blinked in surprise. “Want for what? The memoir? I’m not—”
“Well, you came here to sell it, didn’t you?”
She looked offended. “Not at all. I just thought Mister Drexler would want to learn a piece of his family history that he could not possibly obtain from any other source.” She smiled. “My grandfather talking about your grandfather…it seems only right that you should have a copy, don’t you think?”
The loremaster’s expression and posture radiated skepticism. “You’re giving it to us?”
“Of course. As I said, it’s a copy. The original’s back in Schaumburg. I’m here sightseeing with my husband and thought I’d use the opportunity to drop it off.”
Ernst pointed to the manuscript. “Does it reveal my grandfather’s fate?”
Her expression became uncertain. “I’m not…I’m not sure.”
“Oh? I’d assumed you’ve read
