Noir

Chapter Two – A Brief History Of Crime

The explosion lit his face up like a Christmas tree, the green glow fading but the smile staying. White teeth glitter with the glow of the vat.
“It’s moments like this that make all this worthwhile, you know?” he said, the whistful look still lingering as he padded back down to floor level.
“An important result?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably in my old, musky suit and squeezing on the handle of the borrowed briefcase. As my friend Butterfield once told me, it’s the details that count.
“No, I just like blowing things up. One of the perks of the job, you know?”
We walked on. “Of course, it’s not all pyrotechnics here at Beaver Labs. A lot of hard work goes into our research, which pays dividends when it goes to market. Our latest product might be of interest to you, Mr… I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
“Doyle. Arthur Doyle.”
“Ah, yes. From AD Venture Inc? I must admit your unannounced visit is a little unorthodox. Still, funding is always appreciated… ah, here we are.”
We approached the chamber. Maybe ten feet by twelve. Would barely fit my old mother. Instead of a harridan with arms like sides of ham, there’s a pair of giant contraptions, with a single glass flask hung between them.
“What is it?” I ask, suitably impressed.
“These are called Tesla coils. We’re experimenting with the effects of electricity on pink fluids.”
“What’s supposed to happen?”
“No idea. But this is research! If we didn’t try things, how would we know anything? Did Einstein give up science because of a few failures? Did Von Braun give up when his rockets failed to hit London? No! He built thousands of rockets, and surely some would hit their target.”
“You build rockets?”
“All in good time, Mr Doyle. Now, if you care to stand here, I shall go and activate the device.”
I waited patiently for the Doctor to take his place in the control room above us. His voice came across the tannoy.
“Can you hear me, Mr Doyle? Good. Now Mr Doyle, I shall demonstrate to you my invention. That is, if your real name is Mr Doyle. Perhaps you are familiar with the name Dick Turpentine? Ah,” he said, registering my expression, “I thought you might be. Bjorn told me you were coming. Tell me, Mr Turpentine, what did you hope to achieve by coming here? Do you know what you are dealing with?”

I turned and tried to open the door. It was locked. I shook the handle in desperation, kicking at it. No dice. The thing was tougher than my mother, and you didn’t want to know what happens if you try to kick her.
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Mr Turpentine. This room is a converted meat locker. The only way you are leaving here is looking like one of its previous occupants. Now,” he said, turning to the panel in front of him, “what would you prefer to be? Roasted? Char-grilled? Southern fried?”
The machine began to whir. I huddled in a corner as the Doctor roared with laughter.
“A budding detective, tragically killed in an accident. I’m sure the barmen and whores will mourn your loss.”
Sparks started to fly from the machine, leaping about the room and arcing through the flask. The Doctor’s eyes were like a Christmas tree on fire. “It’s working!” he cried, temporarily forgetting my presence.
Suddenly, one of the coils jolted, sending a huge flash of lightning across the room. The coil toppled, exploding against the wall like a Christmas tree on fire with Semtex strapped to it.
“No!” The Doctor cried, as I dashed for the burning hole, flinging myself through the gap into the next room.

A large blob was staring at me. Snarling, it leapt. I rolled, my lab coat smouldering gently. Instinctively, I grabbed for a large pipette, jabbing at it as it recoiled, fighting to escape the room.
As I wrestled for the door, I could hear the Doctor’s laughter in the distance. As the creature made one last lunge, I swung the door out and hit it on the snout, diving through the opening and slamming it behind me.
Following the laughter, I tossed off the white jacket and felt for the cool, reassuring grip of my .45.

As I reached the room, I kicked at the door, shattering it inwards, swinging my gun arm towards the figure behind the workbench. He was holding some kind of glowing vial, his face lit up by lightning, like a Christmas tree on fire covered in Semtex, on the surface of the Sun.
He smiled, his white, buck teeth glowing blood red. “Tell me, Turpentine, how do you like the cool, refreshing taste of radioactive hydrochloric acid?”
He flung the vial. I fired, high, the vessel and its contents shattering over me. I flinched, waiting for the pain.

Nothing. I put a finger to my jacket. I licked it. It tasted good.
“Cherryade?”
The Doctor broke down. “I only wanted to be a good scientist,” he bawled, “but it’s just so hard to get the funding. Bjorn, he came to me one night, just like you, and offered me money if I used my labs as a front for his drug factory. I couldn’t say no – the bank was asking too many questions, and if I went down I’d lose everything. Even this Nobel Prize is a fake.”
“Where do the drugs go?” I demanded, motioning with the gun. The Doctor looked too pathetic right now to make any funny moves.
“He ships them back to Home Country, I don’t know how. My go-between’s some painter, goes by the name of Renfield. Handles the money. Talk to him.”
As I made to go, he pleaded with me. “Please don’t turn me in. I don’t want to go to prison.”
I turned. “Oh, I’m not the one you need to worry about. If I were you, I’d start running, because if the police don’t find you, then Bjorn sure as hell will.”
It was raining. I pulled my collar up and strode into the night, as a discarded Christmas tree gently smouldered in the car park.
Renfield. The name whispered along the dark, damp alleyway. I’m coming for you. And by the time I’ve finished, you’ll be no oil painting, I can assure you.