Chapter 8: Rotterdam

The address was in Rotterdam, which required Crane to pack a bag, close his flat, and explain to Kepler (via the neighbor who would feed him) that the case had, as cases do, exceeded its initial boundaries. He traveled light: his investigative kit, Dr. Crane's monograph, his notes, and the coded records he'd extracted from the chess player in a format only he could currently read. He did not contact the local police in advance. This was a judgment call, and he was comfortable with it — he needed to understand the situation before he created official complexity around it. Rotterdam in November was gray and direct in the way Dutch cities are — no sentiment in the architecture, no decoration for decoration's sake, just the functional clarity of people who had learned over centuries to make the most of difficult terrain. The address was a machine shop. Not a small one. A significant commercial enterprise occupying three connected buildings, with a sign above the door that read VINCLAIR MECHANICS — which resolved, when he saw it, into the initials he'd been looking for. R.V. Not a name but a business designation. Vinclair. The proprietor was not blond. He was in his fifties, built like someone who had spent decades in physical work, and he looked at Crane with the cautious assessment of someone who had learned to assess strangers quickly. "Inspector Aldous Crane," Crane said. "I've come from London in connection with the death of Mrs. Emmeline Farquhar. I believe you were acquainted with her." The man was still. "I was," he said. "Come inside." The interior of the shop was extraordinary — machines of every size and purpose, in various states of assembly, with the particular organized chaos of genuine expertise. On a bench near the back: an automaton in early assembly that Crane recognized as a design cousin to the chess player. "You continue the work," Crane said. "She would have wanted it continued." The proprietor — Van Cleef, his full name, Rutger Van Cleef — looked at the automaton with the expression of someone managing grief by working. "The commercialization proposal was not mine. It was presented to the Society by a man named Harwick, an English industrialist. I opposed it. Emmeline opposed it. We were in the minority." Crane recalibrated rapidly. "You are not R.V.," he said. "R.V. is Harwick's designation for his faction in the Society. The faction that wanted commercialization. Emmeline was documenting what they intended. She wrote to tell me she was frightened." Van Cleef sat down heavily. "Her death was reported as a cardiac event. I have been trying, for three months, to find a way to prove what I believe happened without putting myself in the same position." He looked at Crane. "How did you find me?" "She built a witness into the machine," Crane said. "And the machine sent me to you." Van Cleef's eyes closed briefly. "She was extraordinary," he said. "Yes," Crane said. "She was. Now: tell me about Harwick. Everything you know. I'm going to need all of it."