Page 15 of Tightrope

“It’s a living, Mom.”

“Working as an engineer is a living. The longer you associate with Luther Pell, the harder it’s going to be for you to get a respectable job. We both know that he has a certain reputation. I’m afraid that when you finally do join the family business, your own reputation will be such that your father won’t be able to let you deal with our clients. Some of our best customers are government officials. Others are respectable businesspeople. They won’t want to be seen meeting with someone who consorts with a nightclub owner who is reputed to have mob connections.”

“You know the truth, Mom.”

“What I know is that the longer you live a lie, the more it becomes real. Your uncle—”

“I’m not Uncle Jake and I’m not great-grandfather Cyrus. I’m not going to end up like them.”

“I’m worried about you. You’ve been...differentsince Margaret ended the engagement.”

“No, I’ve been busy. This has nothing to do with what happened a year ago. Mom, we both know that it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to work for Dad.”

For the first time there was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line.

“I do realize that there would be problems,” Henrietta admitted. “The two of you are too much alike. Independent and stubborn. But I’m sure something can be worked out. You’ve had enough of adventuring. It’s time to come home, son.”

Chapter 7

Detective Brandon used one hand to tilt his fedora back on his head. He eyed Futuro with a mix of frustration and dismay.

“How the hell am I supposed to arrest a robot?” he said. “Dope that out for me, will ya?”

“I don’t think there’s much point in arresting Futuro,” Chester Ward said. “It’s got a bunch of motors and an impressive amount of electrical wiring stuffed inside, but when you get right down to it, Futuro is just a modern version of a clockwork toy, not Frankenstein’s monster. I know machines and I’m telling you, there’s no way this thing could have suddenly gone crazy and turned on Pickwell.”

“Try telling that to a jury,” Matthias said.

It was seven forty-five in the morning. After a few hours of sleep, the phone call from his mother, and a lot of coffee, he was once again backstage at the Palace. He was not alone. The small crowd gathered around Futuro included Luther, Oliver Ward, and Detective Brandon. They had watched as Oliver’s uncle, Chester Ward—an inventor withseveral patents to his name—had gingerly removed the robot’s aluminum back panel.

“No need to wait for a jury trial,” Oliver said. “Within forty-eight hours the robot will have been tried and convicted in the press.”

“You’re right,” Luther said. “The killer-robot story is going to be a sensation for at least a week or two.”

In addition to the motionless mechanical man, the space was cluttered with an assortment of theatrical equipment. Lights, cables, catwalks, and pulleys dangled from the ceiling. The large wooden crate that had housed Futuro stood near the small loading dock. The front was open, revealing the empty interior.

Matthias held up the morning edition of theBurning Cove Herald.

“Mrs. Ward’s riveting report of the murder is probably going national as we speak,” he said. “Every paper in the country will pick up the story. By the end of the day, most of the population will be convinced that the robot gunned down its inventor.”

“That would be a very safe bet,” Luther said.

Oliver smiled briefly. “My wife does have a way with words.”

“She certainly does,” Matthias said.

The report of the murder of Norman Pickwell had been written under Irene Ward’s byline. It was accompanied by a photo of Futuro that had been taken before the demonstration had begun. Matthias read it aloud.

ROBOTMURDERSINVENTORONSTAGEINPACKEDTHEATER.

HUNDREDSWITNESSSHOCKINGSCENE.

Last night your correspondent was in the audience when a robot invented by Dr. Norman Pickwell opened a suitcase, took out a gun, and calmly shot his creator. A doctor, seated in the tenth row, rushed onstage in what proved to be ahopeless effort to save Pickwell’s life. Sadly, the inventor died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

Seymour Webster, one of the ambulance attendants, claimed that with his last breath, Dr. Pickwell exclaimed, “The creature turned on me. I should have known better than to play Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein’s monster was fiction,” Chester grumbled.

“Sure,” Matthias said. “But everyone has seen the movie and the sequel.”

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