Automatic Woman

  Table of Contents

  Appetizer:

  Book Cover

  Title Page

  Main Course:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dessert:

  About the Author

  Copyright & Publisher

  One

  Statement of Jacob Fellows aka Jolly to Whitechapel Metropolitan Police. Transcribed from audio-cylinder, August 17, 1888.

  I am a jolly fellow. My name is actually Jacob Fellows. The gentlemen in my office refer to me, literally, as Jolly Fellow, which is their euphemism for my rotund figure. There’s a long precedence of fat men also being funny men. I don’t regard myself as a man of mirth or good humor. In truth, I’m more apt to crack skulls than I am to make silly gestures, but the assumption stands and it’s easiest for my mates to pigeon-hole me in what they already hold true.

  I’ve often looked for a solution to my roundness. I’m physically active at work and in leisure. I love football and am bloody hell on gears in the goalie box. Nevertheless, my cheeks are round and my jowls hang.

  Whenever blokes find out that I’m a thief-catcher by trade, that I’m an operative for the Bow Street Firm, their eyes light up and I am forced to tolerate the inevitable comments.

  “Oy, what kind of man are you going to run down?”

  Or, “business must be good, my friend!”

  Or my personal favorite, “your wife must be a jolly good cook, mate.” I’m not married, never had much luck with the female folk, and any reminder of this is liable to put me in an ugly disposition. An ugly mood means ugly deeds and I’ve hurt fellows over the odd comment. I’m not proud of that, just stating the truth.

  My size does give some advantages. In the firm I’m generally referred to as a Front Doors Man. Sometimes we have to burst in on thieves or break into unsavory dens to retrieve that which belongs to our good paying clients. A man like me gets through the door first so I can throw in a little rough-and-tumble in case any bloke has a problem. I also do leg work and one-man investigations, but my services are best rendered in the grapple.

  So they call me Jolly Fellow, or just Jolly. You can call me Jolly. I’ll call you officer, or guv’nor, or boss, or whatever you prefer. I know how authority likes titles; been round that bend myself. I know the value of a good dose of respect. It was working for authoritarian blokes like you that got me into this quandary. I’ll lay it out, and you can tell me what might or might not stick with the magistrate, savvy?

  It all starts with the doctor. Dr. James Saxon, my client, a man of strange habits and stranger reputation. He telegraphed my office a report of theft, as all our clients are wont to do. One of our machine clerks filed the initial proceeding through Central Bureaucracy and I was in rotation for the assignment. The doctor’s credit punch card showed limited means, so it was me and only me who took the house call. Keep in mind, the good doctor wasn’t a bone saw or a physician; he was a doctor of science. I imagine him useless with a scalpel or any of the other trade tools of what I’d consider a legitimate doctor. Also, he was clearly beneath the financial and social standing of a regular doctor. Regardless of trade or social standing, his pound notes, though limited, were real and I took to the investigation with my usual enthusiasm.

  I hired a hansom cab to his home address, a penny theater in one of the lesser neighborhoods of London. I imagined he kept house in an apartment in the upper floors, but made no confirmation of that assumption.

  “Come into my home, lad,” the doctor said with an offered hand.

  I don’t like being called “lad,” but he was really quite distressed and I gave him a pass. Besides, this sire was an old one, and by old I mean venerable. His pate was bald and pink and his eyebrows bushed out like hummingbird nests. I figured by that age, he’d earned the right to call anyone lad or lass. In respective age I can’t imagine many who’d be his equal.

  I shook his hand and shuffled into his homestead. I waited for him to give me his story, but he was distraught and at an obvious loss for words.

  “Please Mr. Fellows, you must find her!” he spat out, and gripped my wrist with more strength than I would have credited him for.“I’ve poured so many years of my life into her, I must have her back.”

  “Look granddad, I’ll get the job done, don’t you worry, but you have to set me on the right path. Who are you talking about? Who got snatched?”

  “Better I show you.”

  The doctor beckoned me to sit in the front row of the playhouse. I claimed a squat and he left me by my lonesome. The gas lamps dimmed; curtains drew back and dancers leapt and pirouetted onto the stage. An orchestra started into the second act of Swan Lake and the dancers followed suit. I was shocked at first, having neither seen nor heard any musicians tuning in the pit. I’d been to Swan before and these blokes were giving a spot on performance. Normally I know better than to stand and meander during a performance, but given I was an audience of one, I figured convention did not apply. The pit was lifeless; not a single musician sat or played and yet still there emitted Pytor Tchaikovsky’s pounding notes in all their liquid fury. The crafty doctor had rigged a cylinder phonograph to a dozen brass amplifying tubes. The contraption boomed gloriously and it was no wonder the quality was so good. The old doctor had committed the original Bolshoy score to wax. His tubes arched and formed a line of mouths along the outer edge of the orchestral pit. The great contraption amplified sound in all directions at once. Every horn’s blow and timpani’s pound resounded off of the theater walls. I’d never seen nor heard anything quite like it and my high opinion of the doctor was solidified in that moment.

  I looked up to the dancers. Their arms and legs moved fluidly, but their eyes remained cold and expressionless. They gazed forward into the empty audience seats without response or reaction. None of them noticed me and continued through their stances. Suddenly, a right handsome bloke, the prince as it were, spun onto the stage. He took to the center stage and lifted his arms, as though to catch the beautiful Swan Princess, only he held his arms to empty air. The prince swung about, without lady accompaniment, and performed what I credit as a perfect, though partner less, completion of the first dance. The house lights came back on and the music stopped suddenly, as did every dancer.They froze in place; arms in hold, legs extended, not a shiver or groan of discomfort.

  “Do you know anything about gear ratios, Mr. Fellows?” The doctor called from backstage.

  “I’ve heard the term,” I called out. The doctor gave no response.

  I ascended the stage stairs and had my first close-up of the doctor’s dancers. Words fail me in describing them. They were man-sized statues with fully articulated arms, legs, fingers, necks, and probably toes, though I did not get the chance to inspect. Instead of skin, they were encased in stained white pine, which gave the hue of human dermis from a distance. Their eyes were custom glass orbs, of the type ordered for soldiers or sailors who’ve lost an eye and are too vain for the patch.

  The doctor strode to center stage; he was now wearing the leather gloves, tool belt, and apron of a mechanic.

  “Gear ratios, Mr. Fellows. Smaller gears link with larger gears, all connected with belts. A little power turns to a lot of movement and with enough gears, anything is possible.”

  “What do you mean, then?” I was still taken aback by his dancers. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

 
; The doctor lifted the tunic of the frozen prince. His torso was smooth and sculpted. The doctor had obviously studied anatomy. Muscle outlines formed in the wood to account for the mechanism’s chest and abdomen. It seemed the doctor had designed this thing with perfection in mind.

  The doctor pulled a thin chisel from his belt and wedged it into the automaton’s skin. There was a distinct pop and then the creature’s left pectoral fell to the floor.

  “Please, come closer, Mr. Fellows.”

  The doctor beckoned me to his creation. Inside this fake man, this thing, lay an endless labyrinth of gears and belts and pendulums. Everything was still but the pendulums, which rocked in silence.

  “I oil everything daily; otherwise you’d hear the ticking, like the beat of a thousand hearts.”

  I reached out to touch the work. It seemed like a thing of madness, all those gears and belts. I couldn’t imagine such a work being constructed in a hundred years. Not by a single old man. Again I was speechless.

  “They move according to my design. The vibrations of the music starts master gears, a set for each act.”

  “But how…?”

  “Gear ratios, Mr. Fellows. We are not so different creatures from these. We react to that which is before us based on what the mind has learned prior. If I were I to thrust a torch at you, you would jump back because you already have the knowledge of flame and the damage it may do. You have undoubtedly been burned, probably as a child. The recesses of your mind recall the threat and act accordingly. My dancers are no different. Every motion is pre-ordained by gears articulating in the interior frame. They are skeletal, but their skeleton is steel. They have skin, but it’s wood and lacquer. They are powered by a heart, but rather than one clumsy muscle I have granted them four-thousand two-hundred and eight micro pendulums and two full pendulums. The pendulums transfer motion to energy and wind four-thousand two-hundred and eight springs. The springs compress and grant power to three-hundred ninety-one thousand six-hundred and eleven gears. The gears are fitted with eighty-three thousand, four hundred thirty-one belts, ranging in size from one inch to one one-thousandth of an inch. The gears and belts give reactive motion to the limbs as I have preordained. Gear sets give way to specific, particular motions. I programmed them. They step because I programmed them to step. They dance because I programmed them to dance. I am the god of these creatures much like the being on high who wound the springs that run you and I and all of mankind.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Doctor.”

  “There’s nothing to say. I showed you this to make a point.”The doctor retrieved the prince’s breastplate and snapped it back into place.

  “These dancers are my life’s creation, and one of them was taken from me!”

  The doctor shoved the prince to ground. He struck the stage heavily. The noise was like a thousand tiny splinters of metal ringing out at once. The automaton jerked and twitched.

  “Someone stole my Swan Princess!”

  Now, I see the incredulous look on your faces and I respond to that with a guarantee. When you telegraph my office, you’ll find I’m a man of impeccable reputation. I stake my reputation on the assertion that everything I witnessed in the doctor’s theater is true. He’d made statues dance to Swan Lake and someone had run off with his prize ballerina, the Swan Princess.

  I felt fortunate to have been assigned the case. The doctor’s work fascinated me.

  The whole affair should have been an easy resolve. Some things are hard to track: pocket watches, silver spoons, China plates. Things get nicked and sold to fences and if they aren’t engraved or personalized I tell the owners to let them go.London has a robust black market, and the retrieval of certain valued works is nearly impossible. However, an unusual and rare item, a life-sized automatic ballerina for instance, is impossible to move. Whoever nicked it did it for profit or pleasure. If the theft was for profit, then the pawnbrokers union would find it soon enough. If for pleasure, Bow Street or the Metropolitan Police would probably have files on art house wank-enthusiasts. Either way I expected a short investigation and voiced as much to the good doctor.

  I have many friends in the pawn business, as comes with the trade. Thief-catching is really about understanding the ebb and flow of money. Thieves steal to survive, not necessarily to better themselves. Some have habits to feed. Some have families to feed, which is as costly as any opium hook. The point of their trade is to move items for cash quickly. Neither pocket-slasher nor lock-smasher gets into the trade for investments. They need cash-in-hand. That’s where the brokers come in.

  Goods change hands, money changes hands. There are some brokers who don’t even sell to the public, just to other men in the pawn trade. The more times a hot parcel changes hands, the quicker it changes hands, the less likely anyone will be popped for the larceny. Lucky me, some of these quick traders owe me favors for not getting you fine gentlemen involved in their dodgy transactions.

  “I’ll find her, good sir. She can’t have gone off far. Do you know anyone who had an interest?”

  “No,” the doctor said.“Aside from myself, you’re the only one who has ever seen my dancers. They were for my pleasure alone.”

  I gave him a long stare on that admission. His face was sweaty and anxious. He nervously nibbled on the tip of his forefinger. It’s right to note the doctor was a boffin and a confirmed bachelor for reasons both complex and obvious.

  I left the doctor in his theater with many assurances and took a stroll to Panzer’s warehouse. Panzer is one of the aforementioned quick brokers. I would use the cliché, “He had his ear to the ground,” if it weren’t for the fact that both his ears had been cut off during a spoiled transaction.

  “Hello, Panzer,” I said and puffed up my chest, just so he knew I was present on business.

  “Jolly,” he replied and raised his hand for a shake. I always love a good shake. My hand completely engulfs most men’s hands. I’ve got a good tough guy squeeze, too.

  “Seen any fancy statues? One about this tall? Moves about on her own?” I looked him square in the eye and kept my grip on his mitten. He gave a revealing smile.

  “Haven’t seen anything like that, Jolly. Hearing is a different matter, though.”

  “Alright, mate. I’ll bite. What have you heard?”

  “Hold on, sound is money and all that, what’s it worth?”

  I tightened my grip on his hand.

  “It’s worth me not giving you a smack and tipping the Metros to your moody gold sales.”

  His face showed a bit of the pain I was inflicting on his hand.

  “Hey now, Jolly, no need for ugliness. Just give me a taste of the bounty when you collect.”

  I had to laugh. Here I am, crackling the man’s bones and he’s still negotiating for quid. Bloody pawn brokers. I let him go.

  “You’re my kind of criminal, Panzer. A deal’s a deal, so what do you know?”

  “Jacques Nouveau’s got some kind of moving statue. There’s a lot of talk of it in the union.”

  “Nouveau?”

  “He’s a gallery owner and art fence; he moves sculptures and the like. All the rotten heads are abuzz about it. I’d be careful about walking in if I were you. A man’s liable to make more enemies going where he isn’t wanted.”

  I flipped Panzer a sovereign.

  “Keep your worries, mate. Here’s your bounty. Cheers.”

  I telegraphed the main office and left an address for where I was headed. That’s standard procedure. In case I go missing the firm’s retrievers have a starting location. I left the telegraph office and took the tube train to Whitechapel.

  Nouveau’s gallery looked more like a butcher’s shed than an art shop. It was purposefully rustic and pretentious. The walls were made of more splinters then planks and no two pedestals were of the same height. Statues adorned the place, standing and staring from behind velvet rope lines. The ropes separated masterworks from gawkers, one group staring at the other. For all I know they were bloody g
enius works. The jade and porcelain statues looked marvelous in contrast to the dingy patrons. But I’m no art critic.

  Nouveau immediately picked me out from the crowd of men and statues. I guess I don’t give the proper impression of wealth or interest on my fat face.

  “Do I know you, sir?” he asked with open palm extended.

  Bloody Frenchman! His accent rolled out of his mouth like a silk handkerchief.

  “Are you looking for a piece in particular?”

  I’ve thought long and hard about the whole French/English animosity. It’s not the Hundred Years War, nor Napoleon, nor any of that shite. It’s that their men always sound like they want to kiss us right on the lips with all those soft cake-eating words. I turned to the Frenchman.

  “Yeah, friend, I am looking for a particular piece. A woman, about your size, white skin, automatic, dances the Swan Princess.”I flexed and puffed as I spoke. If you lean in close to a man, and he leans back, and you know he’s afraid. If he’s afraid, you own him. To his credit, Frenchy didn’t lean back.

  “Perhaps we can talk. Please come with me.”

  I followed his silky kimono arse to what I can only assume was a private dining room. Like the rest of the warehouse, the decor was rustic chic. The standing table was a converted barn door. Chairs were cut from apple barrels and lacquered into luminous hues. Servants lined the room, still as corpses.Frenchy took a seat at one end of the barn door and motioned me to sit master at the other. He rang a bell. The servant nearest me shook off her robe. Underneath stood a glistening naked body, shimmering in the gaslight. My mouth fell open. As I told you gents, I’m not a fellow well loved by the fairer sex. I can count naked bodies that have graced my presence on one hand with fingers left for snapping. This woman made me hate the ugliness, the imperfection of those I had beheld. She was slim with muscular lines set to milk skin. Her breasts were pert and lifted, nipples stood as hard rubies. I couldn’t fathom what the Frenchman was saying, but his words rattled somewhere behind me.