The Inventor

By Steve Bartholomew

San Francisco, 1880. Jeremy Fantom dislikes his job as reporter for The Bulletin. He dreams of joining a circus or going to sea. That all changes when he meets Worrell the inventor. Worrell has a machine that will run forever without fuel. Or so he claims. Jeremy soon finds himself involved in city politics, crime, swindling and riots. Then the inventor's daughter is kidnapped. Jeremy embarks on a mission to rescue her and see justice done.

 

Miss Hollyhock is Worrell's daughter. Devoted to her father, she befriends Jeremy and reveals some of Worrell's secrets to him. She hints that powerful circles in New York are intent on suppressing her father's inventions. Jeremy Fantom writes articles for his paper about some of the wonders he has witnessed. Then he begins to have doubts, until Hollyhock disappears. He soon learns that the line between truth and humbug is not always clear cut.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Gopher Books
• Release date: Oct 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215307557

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

Chapter One

San Francisco, 1880

Jeremy Fantom heard the explosion while riding in a horse car on his way to work. Most of the other passengers looked around in the direction of the sound, but Jeremy didn't bother. He thought, Probably another damned steam engine . They were becoming all too common; there was talk of steam powered street cars some day. Personally, he didn't trust the railroad or ferry boats. He had a sour feeling in his stomach this morning; he thought seriously about handing in his resignation. In fact he had definitely decided to do that, he just wasn't sure this would be the right day. There were plenty of reasons. Being a reporter at San Francisco City Hall could be more dangerous than steam engines.

Half an hour later, he found himself en route to the scene of the explosion. Jeremy Fantom wasn't his real name, or rather not the name he'd been borne with. That was James Dooley. He'd changed it in hopes of getting a regular courtroom column at the Daily Evening Bulletin. So far that hadn't happened, nor was it likely to, but he'd kept the new name because it looked better in print. He wondered if he might get a byline for this explosion story.

Murphy, the city editor, had grabbed him when he walked in the door. I'm taking you off City Hall today. Jeremy wondered if the man ever actually lit the cigar butt he had always clamped in his jaw. He wondered if he ate cigars for breakfast. He'd not yet decided to hand in his resignation today. Well, maybe this story would prove a pleasant break. I just had word that explosion this morning was the laboratory of that crazy inventor, Worrell. You get on over there and reconnoiter the situation. Murphy liked to use words like reconnoiter. Jeremy wondered if he should try to work it into his story. He'd heard a couple of horse-drawn steam pumps with their clanging bells on their way to the fire, so maybe the explosion was worth notice. Worth reconnoitering.

The Bulletin owned several bicycles for use by the staff. Rather than try to find a buggy, Jeremy borrowed a bike and rode off up Mission Road toward where he was told he might find Worrell's place. Just get on out to Noe Valley, Murphy told him. Follow the smoke. It's next door to a dairy farm, I hear. Get a statement from Worrell if he's still alive.

So Jeremy pedaled on over. He was winded by the time he got there, not being much of a rider. But he had a good chance of being one of the first reporters on the scene. Maybe even the only one. Noe Valley, unlike most of the area, had a few good cow pastures, lying only a mile or two from the old Mission Dolores. As Murphy had predicted, he didn't have much trouble finding Worrell's place. There were three fire engines parked outside; smoke from the building still curled skyward, but by now it formed only a grey wisp. A number of men and a few women clustered in the road outside, no doubt discussing opinions. Jeremy leaned his bike on a tree and approached them.

Any casualties, sir? he asked a man wearing the uniform of Fire Captain. The man squinted at him. Jeremy grinned. Daily Evening Bulletin, sir. The Captain's expression softened, taking in Jeremy's notepad.

Naw, not this time. I guess we got here fast enough to save most of the stuff. Seems Mr. Worrell was the only person home, and he got out okay. I wouldn't know about his equipment, though. Better ask him yourself. The captain pointed toward another man standing to one side, in deep discussion with a police officer. Jeremy recognized him from drawings he'd seen in the Morning Call. Tall, lean, immaculate full beard. Jeremy approached, trying to catch a few words of conversation without seeming to.

The smoke arose from what had apparently been a cow barn in the past. One of the steam pumpers still directed a stream of water through a hole in the roof. Jeremy gave the engine a wide berth.

I tell you, all the earmarks of arson, Worrell was saying. Some of my enemies would like to— he broke off, noticing Jeremy's approach. Jeremy brought forth his best grin. Daily Evening Bulletin, sir. I was wondering if we might have a statement. How great was your loss?

Worrell looked him up and down for a moment before answering. "The Bulletin, eh? You are the first representative of that journal to interview me. Well, I suppose disaster is always news, eh? Not that we have a disaster here. Actually, I believe this will prove only a minor setback. Minor, I say. What did you say your name is?"

Jeremy produced a press card. Fantom, sir. May I inquire what sort of explosion this was? Steam, I suppose?

Worrell tilted his head back, looking offended. I should say not. I have little use for steam power these days. No, this accident was caused by a sudden outbreak of aetheric force due to overheating. I shall know more when I've had a chance to investigate properly.

Pardon me, sir, but did I overhear you mention the possibility of sabotage?

No sir, you did not. At least not for publication at this time. With additional evidence I may become more forthcoming. Excuse me, what is that rabble approaching?

Jeremy turned to look in the direction of Worrell's stare. A group of twenty or thirty ragged looking men were marching in file, headed toward Mission Road. Jeremy recognized some of the faces. Good Lord. I thought I might get a day off from that lot.

The policeman smacked his billy club into his palm. Wouldn't you know it? It's the Sandlotters, headed for more of their rabble rousing. I heard they had some sort of clubhouse in this neighborhood. But I doubt they have any interest in yourself, Mr. Worrell.

Jeremy shook his head. They might, if they knew who he is. That bunch doesn't much take to enterprise capitalists or inventors.

The Fire Captain approached Worrell, after one disdainful glance at the marching rabble. Fire's out, sir. We'll be headin' back to the station house. At least your building's not a total loss.

Worrell gave a formal bow. I am much indebted to you, Captain. You may be sure of a hefty donation to your Protective Association. I thank you and your men for their heroic efforts.

My pleasure, sir. The Captain gave a salute and turned away. The policeman as well made to take his leave. Worrell shook his hand. I'll be down tomorrow to have you sign my insurance claim. My thanks to you as well.

When the crowd began to disperse, Worrell turned back to Fantom with an expression of faint surprise. Ah, still here I see. Just as well. I'm always happy to speak to the press.

Was your loss very great? Fantom asked. I mean in monetary terms?

Worrell pulled out a large bandanna and mopped his brow. I'm afraid it was, though I haven't yet had time to survey all the damage. Fortunately, however, the important part is not lost. I refer of course to the knowledge gained by my experiments. I plan to carry on my work at once, as soon as the proper materials may be obtained.

Jeremy was taking everything down in his notebook. I have heard rumors, sir, that some of your work is revolutionary. He did not mention that he'd also heard it was crackpot. Worrell drew himself up. "Not some of it, sir. All my work is revolutionary. Would you care to see some of it for yourself?"

Jeremy glanced toward the barn, still hazy with smoke. But Worrell shook his head. I don't mean here; you might say my experiments are not ready for display at the moment. However, if you would wish to drop into my rooms at the Palace. . . He handed Jeremy a pasteboard with his name and address. Then, abruptly he turned on his heel and stalked into the barn.

Jeremy pursed his lips. It wasn't every day he was invited to a suite at the Palace Hotel. In fact, he had never been inside the doors in his life. He hoped Murphy wouldn't try to assign the story to Perkins or one of the other senior reporters. He had a hunch this might be the lead for a good yarn, or if not at least it would be different from City Hall and the Sandlotters.

He ran after Worrell, stopping at the barn door. He could see nothing through the haze. Sir!  Mr. Worrell! What time would be convenient?

The answer came back from within. Stop by for lunch tomorrow!

And so it was that Jeremy Fantom gained entrance to the Palace Hotel.

HE WAS SUITABLY IMPRESSED. The main lobby in itself had more gas lights than he had ever seen in one room. He'd put on his best suit and tie; no one challenged him as he found the stairs and climbed to Worrell's suite on the second floor. He rapped once and the door opened immediately. Worrell blinked at him, as if not recognizing him.

Who. . .? I was expecting. . . Oh yes, my journalist friend. Please forgive me, I was waiting for a small group of investors. But never mind, please come in! Reporters are always welcome. He held the door wide. Jeremy stepped in and was at once confronted by a regal-looking woman of perhaps forty years, seated in an overstuffed chair that somewhat resembled a throne. Or it could be that the chair took on that aspect by the way she occupied it. She stared at him as if he were some type of specimen. Worrell said, Please allow me to introduce our young Mr. Ah. . .

Fantom. Jeremy Fantom, sir.

Ah yes, of course. And this is Mrs. Edith Atchison, of the Philadelphia Atchisons. No doubt you've heard of them. Before Jeremy could reply, Worrell turned and yanked at a bell pull. What can be keeping the room service? I ordered luncheon a good half hour ago.

Mrs. Atchison ignored him. She said to Jeremy, The Press has not always presented my friend Hiram in a favorable light.

Jeremy cleared his throat. "I suppose that's so, ma'am. But we at the Bulletin pride ourselves on our objectivity."

"Indeed. Are you familiar, then, with Mr. Worrell's work?

As a matter of fact I'm not. You see, my editor feels a fresh outlook would be the best approach to this story. You might say I'm ignorant but willing to learn.

Hm! She raised a pair of glasses to her eyes and regarded Worrell. Perhaps Hiram might be willing to provide instruction.

Indeed, yes. I'm always happy to show off my wares to the public. If you will look over here— Just then there was a rap at the door. Worrell opened it to Room Service. A waiter wheeled in a table filled with silver-covered dishes. Worrell tipped the man with a coin and rubbed his hands together. Perhaps we should refresh ourselves before inspecting my latest little devices. He served Mrs. Atchison as she pointed out various snacks, then invited Jeremy to help himself. At the smell of food he realized he was starving, having skipped breakfast. Unfortunately, the plates were filled with tiny cucumber sandwiches, little pickles, radishes and bits of cheese.

Hiram and I are both strict vegetarians, the woman explained. It's so much more humane and healthy, we believe. Jeremy filled a small plate as well as he could, ate every crumb, and was still hungry. Worrell was checking his watch.

Well, it appears our investor group are an hour late. Much the worse for them. We shall start without them. I must say that was a divine luncheon. The Palace does understand cuisine.

Mrs. Atchison nodded her agreement, dabbing delicately at her chin with a linen napkin. Indeed. She rose to her feet. Now, you were explaining your latest discovery this morning in terms of the aetheric force.

Yes. I shall repeat some of it for the benefit of Mr. Fantom. I hope you have your notebook and a sharp pencil, young man. Jeremy glanced at the remaining food, but pulled out his notebook and smiled. Sir, I'm ready.

Worrell crossed the room to a heavy oak table covered with embroidered cloth, the kind that usually was found draped over pianos to keep off the dust. With a flourish he whipped aside part of it to display a strange looking device made of polished brass, steel, and glass cylinders. Jeremy had never seen anything remotely resembling the object.

This is what Mr. Rockefeller would do anything to get his hands on, Worrell said. Let alone J.P. Morgan.

Fascinating, Mrs. Atchison said. I recall you showing me the preliminary drawings. I must say they didn't do it justice.

Worrell gave a little bow. Of course there have been some modifications since the original design. And you can see I have scaled down the size.

Jeremy felt an urge to interrupt. But what is it, sir? What does it do, exactly? Worrell's brow creased in a frown. "What does it do, you ask? At present you might say it doesn't actually do anything. Except run. Please observe closely, young man." With that he withdrew a tuning fork from a coat pocket. From another he took a