Chapter Nine #2
Maximilian turned its handle and entered. Vesper had only taken one step inside before a gasp escaped her.
Francis Gladwell’s suite was in disarray. Clothing and shoes were strewn all about the room; a vase full of flowers had been knocked on its side; and the bed linens looked to have been ripped off the mattress. Crumpled papers littered every inch of the floor.
“Good grief,” Maximilian muttered.
Vesper pulled out her notebook and began jotting things down.
“I don’t understand.” Maximilian shook his head. “How could Francis have lived like this?”
“I don’t think he did,” said Vesper. “I think someone’s been in Mr. Gladwell’s room looking for something. The suite’s not just messy, it’s been ransacked. Look at all the open drawers. If I had to guess, they were here within the last few hours, maybe even earlier this morning.”
“How do you know?” Maximilian asked.
Vesper pointed to the desk. Nearly its entire surface was covered with papers, but her eye had gone to a small, overturned glass of water. “Those papers are still wet,” she said. “Which means that glass of water was knocked over recently.”
“Huh.” Maximilian tilted his head. “You’ve really got an eye for this, Evans.”
“Thank you.” Vesper’s cheeks warmed for a moment, but she shook her head and refocused.
“Whoever was here is long gone, and we don’t know if they found what they were searching for, but let’s look around and see if we find anything.
” She started toward one of the bedside tables, while Maximilian examined the papers on the desk.
“This is odd.” He held one up. “I think this is supposed to be a sketch of the Gladwell Machine, but it looks … well, bad.”
“Old drafts, probably.” Vesper examined an empty wineglass. Thinking about the Gladwell Machine reminded her about what Stettner had told her about the missing prototype from the museum. She made a note to look into that too.
Maximilian had moved to a sitting area next to the balcony with a love seat and coffee table. “Think this is important?”
Vesper looked up. He was holding what looked to be a hatpin, long and needle sharp, with a single golden honeybee affixed to its end. “It could be.”
“It was on the coffee table,” said Maximilian.
Vesper nodded. “That’s set for two people. It looks like Gladwell may have had company recently. Judging by the hatpin, it could have been a woman.” She paused. “Did he have any romantic partners that you know of?”
Maximilian scoffed. “It would be easier to name the girls he didn’t have dalliances with.”
“Interesting.” Vesper made another note before returning to the desk. The spilled water had blurred the ink on most of the papers and rendered them unreadable, but her eyes caught on a folded paper that had fallen to the floor and been spared. She picked it up.
“Come look at this.”
Maximilian crossed the room in a few steps. Together, they read the typed letter.
Monday, October 31st
Francis,
Gloria and I so enjoyed your company at lunch last week.
As discussed, please find my improved offer of 10,000 gild for the proprietary rights to the Gladwell Machine.
In the current market, I assure you this is a competitive offer.
I hope to discuss this with you at length in the coming days, before the exhibition.
Regards,
Charles Belver
“I knew it.” Maximilian didn’t bother hiding the disgust in his voice. “I knew Belver was involved.”
Vesper carefully put the letter back where she’d found it before writing in her notebook. “Hold on, why would Charles Belver want to buy Mr. Gladwell’s machine?”
“I’m not sure,” said Maximilian, frowning. “But what’s odd to me is his offering price.”
“Too high?”
“Too low,” Maximilian corrected her. “Belver could afford to pay much more than ten thousand gild for something he really wanted.”
“Maybe he was hoping to get a deal. Do you think he wanted to stop Francis from going public?” Vesper asked. “If he owned the proprietary rights to the machine, he could bury it.”
Maximilian shrugged. “It’s certainly the kind of thing he’d do.” He gave Vesper a significant look. “Belver’s a sorcerer too, you know, and a skilled one. Maybe he felt the same way I did about giving the public access to Thaumaric incantations.”
Vesper drummed her fingers against the desk and tried to think.
Means. Opportunity. Motive.
If Maximilian was right, Charles Belver had the means to hurt Francis Gladwell using sorcery.
His attendance at the exhibition gave him opportunity, and he’d certainly seemed unhappy with the inventor when she’d seen them together.
If he’d wanted the Gladwell Machine and Francis had refused to sell the rights to him, that was a possible motive.
But was it strong enough to justify murder?
“We could take that letter to the police,” Maximilian suggested. “Maybe that’ll be enough for them to take action.”
Vesper pursed her lips. “Look, you hired me as your private investigator because you said I had the skill and training you required, right? Well, my training tells me that you’re zeroing in on Belver too quickly. We’ve only just started this investigation. We can’t limit our scope of suspects too—”
Her words were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. She swiveled.
“Police!” said a voice she recognized. “We have a warrant to search the room. Any persons inside should make themselves known!”
Vesper turned to Maximilian in horror. “That’s the police chief!” she whispered.
Maximilian pointed to the door, murmured something, then made a gesture as though turning a knob. There was a soft click. “I’ve just jammed the lock,” he whispered. “It’ll buy us some time, but not much.”
Vesper’s hands flew to her head. Foolish. How could she have been so foolish? They should have been more careful. She looked from Maximilian to the door, then back again.
“There’s no way out.” She tried to keep the panic from her voice. “And there’s nowhere to hide. If we’re caught…”
Maximilian glanced toward the balcony. “I have an idea. Do you trust me?”
Vesper hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t trust Maximilian Kite—she barely knew him—but in this moment, she had no choice.
Maximilian threw open the balcony’s doors and stepped out, then beckoned for her to join him on it.
It was a tight squeeze. The sorcerer peered over the railing, as though assessing something, then turned to Vesper.
“Take my hand. We’re going to jump.”
“What?” She hadn’t heard him right. Surely, he hadn’t said what she thought he’d said. Maximilian looked over the railing a second time, then glanced back at her again.
“We don’t have much time.” He didn’t sound afraid, only determined. “Take my hand, and on the count of three, we’ll jump.”
“Mr. Kite, we’re on the sixteenth floor. You can’t—”
Maximilian rolled his eyes, then, without warning, wrapped an arm around her waist. Vesper barely had time to register what was happening before the sorcerer picked her up, swung his legs over the railing, then leapt.