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“And what is our metal friend's story, do you think?” askedBurton.
“Like I said, Captain, it's clockwork. My guess is that it'swound down. Why it was out walking the streets, I couldn't ventureto guess.”
“Surely if it was walking the streets, it would have attractedattention before it got here? Did anyone see it coming?”
“We've been making enquiries,” Trounce said. “So far we've foundfourteen who spotted it crossing the square but no one who saw itbefore then.”
“So it's possible-maybe even probable-that it was delivered tothe edge of the square in a vehicle,” Burton suggested.
“Why, yes, Captain. I should say that's highly likely,” thedetective inspector agreed.
“It could have made its way through the streets, though,” Bhattisaid. “I'm not suggesting it did-I simply mean that the device iscapable of that sort of navigation. You see this through here?” Hetapped a finger on the top porthole at the front of the machine'shead. “That's a babbage in there. Can you believe it? I neverthought I'd live to see one! Imagine the cost of this thing!”
“A cabbage, Constable?” Trounce asked.
“Babbage,” Bhatti repeated. “A device of extraordinarycomplexity. They calculate probability and act on the results.They're the closest things to a human brain ever created, but thesecret of their construction is known only to one man-theirinventor, Sir Charles Babbage.”
“He's a recluse, isn't he?” Swinburne asked.
“Yes, sir, and an eccentric misanthrope. He has an aversion towhat he terms ‘the common hordes’ and, in particular, to the noisethey make, so he prefers to keep himself to himself. He hand-buildseach of these calculators and booby-traps them to prevent anyonefrom discovering how they operate. Any attempt to dismantle onewill result in an explosion.”
“There should be a law against that sort of thing!” Trouncegrumbled.
“My point is that when wound up, this brass man almost certainlyhas the ability to make basic decisions. And this here-” Bhattiindicated the middle opening on the thing's head “-is, in myopinion, a mechanical ear. I think you could give this contraptionvoice commands. And these-” he flicked the projecting wires “-aresome sort of sensing device, I'd wager, along the lines of a moth'sante
Trounce pulled off his bowler hat and scratched his head.
“So let's get this straight: someone drops this clockwork man atthe edge of the square. The device walks as far as Nelson's Column,then its spring winds down and it comes to a halt. A crowd gathers.According to the people we've spoken to, the machine got here justfive minutes or so before you arrived on the scene, Constable. Andyou've been here-?”
“About an hour now, sir.”
“About an hour. My question, then, is why hasn't the owner comeforward to claim his property?”
“Exactly!” Bhatti agreed. “A babbage alone is worth hundreds ofpounds. Why has it been left here?”
“An experiment gone wrong?” Swinburne offered. “Perhaps theowner was testing its homing instinct. He dropped it here, wentback to his house or workshop or laboratory or whatever, and iswaiting there for it to make its way back. Only he didn't wind theblessed thing up properly!”
Burton snorted. “Ridiculous! If you owned-or hadinvented-something as expensive as this, you wouldn't abandon it,hoping it'll find you, when there's even the remotest chance thatit might not!”
Spots of rain began to fall.
Trounce glanced at the black, starless sky with impatience.
“Constable Hoare!” he shouted, and a bushy-browed, heavilymustached policeman emerged from the crowd and strode over.
“Sir?”
“Go to Saint Martin's Station and hitch a horse to a wagon.Bring it back here. On the double, mind!”
“Yes, sir!”
The constable departed and Trounce turned back to Burton.
“I'm going to have it carted over to the Yard. You'll havecomplete access to it, of course.”
The king's agent pulled his collar tightly around his neck. Thetemperature was dropping and he was shivering.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” he said, “but we were justpassing. I don't think there's anything here we need to take a handin. It's curious, though, I'll admit. Will you let me know ifsomeone claims the thing?”
“Certainly.”
“See you later, then. Come on, Algy, let's leg it to theVenetia. I need that coffee!”
The powerfully built explorer and undersized poet left thepolicemen, pushed through the throng, and headed across to the endof the Strand. As they entered the famous thoroughfare, the drizzlebecame a downpour. It hammered a tattoo against their top hats anddribbled from the brims.
Burton's headache was worsening and he was starting to feeltired and out of sorts.
A velocipede went past, hissing loudly as the rain hit itsfurnace.
Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed-a litter-crab warningthat it was about to disinfect a road with blasts of scaldingsteam. It was a waste of time in this weather, but the crabs wereautomated and clanked around London every night, whatever theconditions.
“It's a good job brass doesn't rust,” Swinburne observed, “orthis weather would be the death of the clockwork man!”
Burton stopped.
“What is it?” his assistant asked.
“You're right!”
“Of course I am. It's an alloy of copper and zinc.”
“No, no! About it being a coincidence!”
Swinburne hopped up and down. “What? What? Richard, can weplease get out of this blasted rain?”
“Too much of a coincidence!”
Burton turned and took off back in the direction of TrafalgarSquare.
“We're already too late!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Swinburne scampered along behind him, losing ground rapidly.
“What do you mean? Too late for what?”
He received no answer.
They raced into Trafalgar Square and rejoined Trounce andBhatti. The latter had managed to open the uppermost portal in themachine's head and was peering in at the babbage.
“Oh, you're back! Look at this, Captain!” he said, as Burtonreached his side. “There are eight tiny switches along the insideedge of this opening. Maybe they adjust the machine's behaviour insome ma
“Never mind that!” the king's agent snapped. “Tell me the routeof your beat, Constable!”
“My beat?” Bhatti looked puzzled.
“What's happening?” Trounce asked.
Burton ignored the detective inspector. His eyes blazedintently.
“Your beat, man! Spit it out!”
The constable pushed his helmet back from his eyes. Rainwatertrickled down the back of his uniform. “All right,” he said. “Fromhere I proceed along Cockspur Street and around into WhitcombStreet. I walk up as far as the junction with Orange Street thenturn right and keep on until I reach Mildew Street. I turn rightagain, at the works where they're shoring up the underground river,enter Saint Martin's, and foot-slog it back down to thesquare.”
“And that takes fifty minutes?” Burton demanded.
“When you figure in all the alleyways that I poke my nose into,the shop doors that need checking, and so forth, yes.”
“And places of note on the route? Places you check with thegreatest diligence?”
“What's this about, Captain Burton?”
“Just answer the confounded question, man!”
“Do as he says, lad,” Trounce ordered.
“Very well. There's the main branch of the Bright Empire Bank onthe corner of Cockspur; the Satyagraha Bank is on Whitcomb;Treadwell's Post Office is on Orange Street, with SPARTA justopposite-”
“Sparta?”
“The Swan, Parakeet, and Ru
“Ah. Continue, please.”
“The League of Enochians Gentlemen's Club is at the corner ofMildew, with the works on the other side; then going down SaintMartin's, there's Scra