The Difference Engine by William Gibson & Bruce Sterling

Mallory was anxious to soothe his raw throat with a huckle-buff, but it seemed smokier inside the Palace of Paleontology than out. There was a harsh stench, like burnt linen. Perhaps Kelly’s imperial gallons of manganate of soda had eaten through the pipes. In any case, this Stink seemed to have finally defeated the Palace guests, for there was scarcely a soul in the lobby, and not a murmur from the dining-room. Mallory was looking for service in the saloon, amid the lacquered screens and red silk upholstery, when Kelly himself appeared, his face taut and resolute. “Dr. Mallory?” “Yes, Kelly?” “I’ve bad news for you, sir. An unhappy event here. A fire, sir.” Mallory glanced at Fraser. “Yes, sir,” the concierge said. “Sir, when you left today, did you perhaps leave clothing near the gas-jet? Or a cigar still smoldering?” “You don’t mean to say the fire was in my room!” “I fear so, sir.” “A serious fire?” “The guests thought it so, sir. So did the firemen.” Kelly said nothing of the feelings of the Palace staff, but his face made his sentiments clear. “I always turn out the gas!” Mallory blurted. “I don’t recall exactly — but I always turn out the gas.” “Your door was locked, sir. Firemen had to break it in.” “We’ll want a look,” Fraser suggested mildly. The door of Mallory’s room had been axed in, and the warped floor was awash with sand and water. Mallory’s heaps of magazines and paper correspondence had blazed up very fiercely, thoroughly consuming his desk and a great blackened swatch of the carpet. There was a huge charred hole in the wall behind the desk and the ceiling above it, with naked joists and rafters gone to charcoal, and Mallory’s wardrobe, replete with all his London finery, burnt to cindered rags and smashed mirror-glass. Mallory was beside himself with anger and a deep foreboding shame. “You locked your door, sir?” Fraser asked. “I always do. Always!” “May I see your key?” Mallory handed Fraser his key-chain. Fraser knelt quietly beside the splintered door-frame. He examined the keyhole closely, then rose to his feet. “Were there any suspicious characters reported in the hall?” Fraser asked Kelly. Kelly was offended. “May I ask who you are to inquire, sir?” “Inspector Fraser, Bow Street.” “No, Inspector,” Kelly said, sucking his teeth. “No suspicious characters. Not to my personal knowledge!” “You’ll keep this matter confidential, Mr. Kelly. I assume that like other Royal Society establishments you take only guests who are accredited savants?” “That is our firm policy. Inspector!” “But your guests are allowed visitors?” “Male visitors, sir. Properly escorted ladies — nothing scandalous, sir!” “A well-dressed hotel cracksman,” Fraser concluded. “And arsonist. Not so good an arsonist as he is a cracksman, for he was rather clumsy in the way he heaped those papers below the desk and the wardrobe. He’d a skeleton bar-key for this tumbler-lock. Had to scrape about a bit, but I doubt it took him five full minutes.” “This beggars belief,” Mallory said. Kelly looked near tears. “A savant guest burned out of his room! I don’t know what to say! I have not heard of such a wickedness since the days of Ludd! ‘Tis a shame. Dr. Mallory — a foul shame!” Mallory shook his head. “I should have warned you of this, Mr. Kelly. I have dire enemies.” Kelly swallowed. “We know, sir. There’s much talk of it among the staff, sir.” Fraser was examining the remnants of the desk, poking about in the litter with the warped brass hanger-rod from the wardrobe. “Tallow,” he said. “We carry insurance. Dr. Mallory,” Kelly said hopefully. “I don’t know if our policy covers exactly this sort of matter, but I do hope we can make good your losses! Please accept my most sincere apologies!” “It scotches me,” Mallory said, looking about the wreckage. “But not so great a hurt as perhaps they hoped! I keep all my most important papers in the Palace safety-box. And of course I never leave money here.” He paused. “I assume the Palace safe remains unrifled, Mr. Kelly.” “Yes, sir,” Kelly said. “Or rather — let me see to that at once, sir.” He left hastily, bowing. “Your friend the Derby stiletto-man,” Fraser said. “He did not dare dog you today, but once we’d left, he crept up here, cracked the door, and lit candles among your heaped-up papers. He was long and safely gone before the alarm was raised.” “He must know a deal about my schedule,” Mallory said. “Knows all about me, I daresay. He’s plundered my number. He’s taken me for a cake.” “In a manner of speaking, sir.” Fraser tossed the brass pole aside. “He’s a trumped-up amateur. Your skilled arsonist uses liquid paraffin, which consumes itself and all it touches.” “I shan’t make that dinner with the Agnostics tonight, Fraser. I’ve nothing to wear!” Fraser stood quite still. “I can see you face misfortune very bravely — like a scholar and a gentleman. Dr. Mallory.” “Thank you,” Mallory said. There was a silence. “Fraser, I need a drink.” Fraser nodded slowly. “For Heaven’s sake, Fraser, let us go somewhere where we can do some genuine, blackguard, poverty-stricken drinking, with no false gingerbread glitter thrown over everything! Let us away from the fashionable Palace, to a house where they don’t mind letting in a man with nothing left but the coat on his back!” Mallory kicked about in the rubble of his wardrobe. “I know what you need, sir,” Fraser said soothingly. “A cheery place to let off a bit of steam — where there’s drink and dance and lively ladies.” Mallory discovered the blackened brass toggles of his Wyoming military-coat. The sight of this stung him deeply. “You wouldn’t be trying to nanny me, would you, Fraser? I suppose Oliphant told you to nanny me. I think that would be a mistake. I’m in a mood for trouble, Fraser.” “I don’t mistake you at all, sir. The day has been very unkind. But then, you’ve yet to see Cremorne Gardens.” “The only thing I want to see is the stiletto-man in the sights of a buffalo-rifle!” “I understand that sentiment perfectly, sir.” Mallory opened his silver cigar-case — at least he still had that possession — and lit his last prime Havana. He puffed it hard, until the calm of good tobacco hit his blood. “On the other hand,” he said at last, “I suppose your Cremorne Gardens might well do in a pinch.”

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