Some days, Roman Torchwick wondered why he was surrounded by idiots.
Other days, he knew why he was surrounded by idiots: the so-called criminal classes were filled with them. There were a fair amount of those who were too dishonest, too mean, too lazy, too stupid, or all of the above to hold down a regular job. The best henchmen, he'd found, were often those who'd been driven to crime to escape the misery of grinding poverty, as a survival technique, rather than because of some inherent flaw in their character.
The irony of this thought—considering his own privileged background—was not lost on Torchwick. And in fact, the Phantom Gentleman was gritting his teeth, mentally speaking, over the fact that this time one of the idiots he'd surrounded himself with was…himself.
There was no getting around it. He'd signed up the Malachite twins on impulse, because their fanciful style and reasonable competency in a fight would play well alongside the flamboyant persona he'd adopted for his crimes. Like a magician's assistants, they would distract the eye and at the same time perform important roles.
It wasn't a bad idea, taken on its own. The problem was that ideas didn't operate in a vacuum. Junior Xiong was no threat to Torchwick personally, but his knowledge was a different story. The man, as the old saw went, 'knew too much,' and the traditional antidote for people who knew too much wasn't something he could have relied on doing without drawing so much attention to himself that it defeated the entire purpose of shutting the fellow up.
What he should have done was make Junior an offer, not unlike asking a father for his daughter's hand in marriage. Idly, he wondered if that metaphor might be why he'd shunned the idea; his own family background made him…unsympathetic…towards parents who attempted to curtail their children's freedom.
And if I'm allowing my family history to affect my business decisions through oblique references, then I need to trade this snappy bowler in on a dunce cap.
"I still don't see why we had to wait here in London, sir," one of the men said. "You should have left that first night."
Torchwick pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Schwartz, you're an excellent engineer, but please, leave the thinking to those of us equipped for it."
"Yes, sir, but I don't see it." He squinted at his employer from behind thick spectacles.
"Then let's just hope that the police are as afflicted as you are."
~X X X~
"I just don't see it, sir," Constable Ivory said. "Why are we looking for warehouse purchases and leases?"
Burns scowled at the fresh-faced young man.
"Don't call me sir; we're both constables."
"Um, yes, Mr. Burns, but…"
The bearded policeman sighed. He wished he was back working with Heyman again instead of shepherding Ivory around, but that was the price of seniority, he supposed. Those who'd been on the Phantom Gentleman investigation since the beginning had been given leadership roles in the follow-up.
"Weren't you listening when Inspector Arc explained? Roman Torchwick's got himself a private dirigible. You need a building big enough to hide one."
"Yes, but…a warehouse? Why wouldn't it be docked at one of the airship stations?"
Burns made a mental note to thank his old sergeant for not punting him into the Thames back in the days when he'd been that young and ignorant.
"That's right, Ivory, because it wouldn't be suspicious at all for an airship to take off and land in the middle of the night on the same night as a notorious thief was using one to commit a theft that was all over the papers."
"Well, then, why not someplace private, out of town?"
"Because he's got to be able to get to it, take off, commit the theft, get back on, fly away, land, and get back home without raising any eyebrows."
"I thought he got away by glider?"
"Yeah, but that's because Miss Rose cut his rope down before he knocked her off the roof. Inspector Arc mentioned all this already."
Looking at Ivory, Burns realized that the wet-behind-the-ears constable was no more than a year or two younger than Arc. No wonder, then, that the Inspector kept getting the short end of the stick from their superiors.
"So we're looking for a big, empty building that could serve as an airship hangar, and one that wouldn't get a lot of attention. A warehouse is just the thing. Nobody goes there but workers, and they could bring in all kinds of equipment for the airship and people would just think it was cargo coming or going. You get it now?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Burns."
"Then I suggest you pick up an index and get back to work. You didn't see that girl lying there after she fell, but I did, and let me tell you, you see enough of that, you start to take what some crook does real personal-like."
~X X X~
"I am sure that I wish I could be of service, Constable Heyman," said the clerk, "but our company records are absolutely confidential to assure the privacy of our clients. I told you all this on the telephone."
The clerk's voice sounded like he was one of those effete, prissy, weasel-like types. Constables Heyman and Mondegreen had been a little taken aback, therefore, to find that the man was, in fact, well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a thickly muscled torso, sporting a bushy growth of aggressively red beard and matching eyebrows. It just went to show that you couldn't jump to conclusions about looks and personality matching one another.
"Yeah, you did, and that's why we're here in person."
"I fail to observe what sort of difference you believe that could make," Redbeard said in his odd cadence, which didn't sound like any accent that Heyman recognized. Rather, it was as if someone had carefully calculated the precise intonation that would most make a man want to knock the speaker's teeth out on general principles.
"It makes a pretty big difference. You see, we can't haul you off to jail for obstructing a police investigation if we're not here in person."
"The telephone ain't that good yet," Mondegreen chimed in regretfully. The younger constable was quite enthusiastic about scientific breakthroughs, and was always happy when some new device could be turned to police use. He'd been given the chance to make that comment because the clerk was staring at Heyman like a pop-eyed fish. His mouth, a little round O, was even making little fishlike movements, lips pushing in and out.
"That—but—it's—" he babbled. "You can't do that?"
"Can't I? You're about to leave this room. Either you're getting up to ask your manager if he wants you to protect a dangerous criminal, or you're getting hauled out in handcuffs. Your choice."
"I—well—that is—" he continued to babble even as he rose from his seat.
"You might want to mention how it would look in the papers: 'Renton Chemical Supply Aids Escape of Phantom Gentleman. Company Conceals Thief's Location While He Flees Country' has kind of a ring to it."
Paling to a pasty white complexion, Redbeard scurried towards the door. When he was gone, Mondegreen looked up at the senior constable.
"You couldn't really have arrested him for that, could you, Mr. Heyman?"
"Arrested, yes. Get called on the carpet, fired, or worse because we had no right to do it, also yes. Work this job long enough, Mondegreen, and you'll soon learn how useful it is that most people don't know their legal rights."
"That doesn't sound very honest."
"Not if we don't actually try to cart anyone away. Otherwise it's just…motivation to be a responsible subject of the Crown."
Redbeard returned in only a couple of minutes, and was rubbing his hands together in an odd little gesture as if washing them.
"The manager has instructed me to offer you whatever help you may require."
"Just think, you could have done that from the first and saved yourself the unpleasantness."
"But would it have been as fun?" Heyman asked.
~X X X~
Superintendent Blackford scowled down at Jaune, his bushy gray Donegal bristling pugnaciously.
"Is this what you're doing? Sitting here in your office, Inspector Arc? When I granted you additional authority and manpower to pursue the Phantom Gentleman, it was under the assumption that you intended to do so rather than sit here drinking tea!"
Since Jaune didn't have a cup of tea or anything else on his desk, Blackford's complaint seemed excessively petty to him, but then again that was only to be expected. The Superintendent knew that Jaune had gotten his job through family connections rather than working his way into it, which was one strike against him. Moreover, that connection was to the previous commissioner, Warren, while Blackford was Commissioner Munro's hand-picked man. It was hard to blame a man for disliking being saddled with a political appointee from a previous administration lacking the experience needed to do the job.
"I'm not sitting here drinking tea, I'm—" Jaune started to defend himself, but was interrupted by a constable barging in.
"Inspector, I have the—Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting, Superintendent. I'll come back." He started to leave, but Jaune stopped him.
"Wait; let me see that," he said, rising from his chair and beckoning for the sheet of paper the young constable held.
"Yes, sir. It's just the latest sulfuric acid report, though, sir. This one's from Constable Heyman."
Blackford's eyebrows shot up as Jaune took the page.
"Sulfuric acid? What nonsense is this?"
The constable scurried out the door, showing the sensible response of small fry in the presence of dueling superiors.
"We think that Torchwick plans to escape London in a private dirigible. I was just able to question a witness this afternoon who confirmed one was there on the night of the theft." He hoped that Blackford didn't push too hard as to the nature of this witness, since he still hoped to keep Ruby's name out of official channels.
"This is your master plan? Sending men haring off on the word of one person?'
"This witness is absolutely reliable, in my judgment. And I've taken statements from others in the neighborhood who heard the engines that night." That was a slight deception; he'd sent a couple of constables out to canvass the area but they hadn't reported back in yet. He trusted Ruby enough to act on her word at once, but having confirmation made the case file look good to people like Blackford.
The strategy seemed well-chosen. Blackford stroked his beard, the curl of his lip becoming less belligerent.
"So, you think this airship is how Torchwick plans to get away?"
"That's my best guess. He can't enjoy his money with the police hounding him, now that we know his identity. He has to get out of the country, and his airship is the fastest and safest way. Under cover of darkness he could fly away without any particular trouble, even from our coastal defenses. I have teams of constables searching for possible hiding spots for the dirigible, and I have others reporting back on purchases of sulfuric acid. They're reporting back to me here, while I try to correlate the reports and narrow down the possibilities."
"Why sulfuric acid?" Blackford asked, this time sounding genuinely interested.
"It's used in the production of hydrogen gas, to fill the dirigible. Generally, the gas is produced on-site and used to fill it right away." He grinned sheepishly. "I didn't know that until I asked; I'd just assumed at first that it was the gas itself that he'd be buying."
"But why buy acid or gas now at all?"
"He didn't know until yesterday that he'd been identified. That means he didn't expect to have to make a dirigible flight so soon after the last one, and I can't imagine he'd be laying in a supply of expensive chemicals without reason. If I can put together chemical purchases with access to electricity and a suitable building to serve as a hangar and hide the works, then that's when I'll get out from behind this desk.
"I see." He didn't say any more, but his expression had definitely softened since he'd first come into Jaune's office.
An apology would have been nice, but Jaune figured that wishing for pipe dreams to be real wasn't a very productive course.
Instead, he turned and headed back behind his desk to get back to work. As he pulled out the chair, he glanced down at Heyman's report, not even really reading it, just happening to look in its direction by reflex since it was in his hand. Then he stopped suddenly, and instead of sitting dropped the report on the desk and began to shuffle through the other papers with both hands, skimming and tossing them aside until—
"Ha!"
He seized a page, then glanced back at Heyman's latest report. The names were different, but the address…and, at second glance, what the names were…
"Rotherhithe! Yes, of course!"
"The docks?"
Jaune nodded.
"Exactly. A warehouse would make the perfect hangar, so I told the constables checking the land records and property management firms to focus on them. What's more natural than a big, empty space that people expect to see cargo getting hauled into? Also, it's perfectly natural if Torchwick wanted to post guards, since legitimate warehouse owners are wary of thieves. Also, in a residential neighborhood, everyone knows everyone else's business; it's hard to keep comings and goings secret. A well-dressed toff sticks out like a sore thumb in Whitechapel, for example. But if anyone saw Torchwick visiting a warehouse, they'd just assume he was some kind of company manager or director overseeing his business affairs."
Blackford glanced down at the page in Jaune's hand.
"And you've got a lead, there?"
"The property's owned by a 'Tiber Properties' and they lease space to 'Highlighter Experimental, Ltd.,' which is the firm that made the order for sulfuric acid."
"I see…'High' as in aeronautics, 'lighter' for 'Torchwick,' is that what you think?"
"His Phantom Thief routine tells me that he likes to be cute. He thinks he's smarter than the rest of us, and thus far he's been right. I'd like to change that."
Jaune shoved the report into his jacket pocket, then reached for his coat and hat.
"What about the other name, 'Tiber Properties'? How does that fit in?"
Apparently, all of Jaune's classics courses as a boy at Eton had done him some good, because he had recognized the name at once. "The Tiber is the river from Rome. Like I said, he likes to be cute."
Blackford nodded, absorbing the point.
"Then you'll be going to Rotherhithe?"
He was surprised, though, by Jaune's answer.
"What? Oh, no, I'm going to Vale Court Hospital."
His superior looked at him in obvious confusion.
"How does that fit in? Were some of your suspects taken there?"
"No, sir. But there's someone there that I think Torchwick really, really doesn't want to see right now, and I'm all too happy to ruin his evening for him."