The Dark Deeps (17 page)

“Yes, and don’t think that doesn’t anger her.” Griff continued to massage his throat. “Always complaining about those stupid, know-it-all men! She’s the one who had the great idea to send me to the doctor. To be changed.”

“Which doctor?”

“Doctor …” Griff paused. “Kilvore. His lordship was a brilliant chemist. I was—I was an orphan from Liverpool.” Griff knew it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. “My parents drowned at sea and Lady Artemis took pity on me. She brought me to Kilvore. A crotchety collection of bones, that one! But I learned! And as I grew older, they
placed a concoction in my food every day. Yes, the illustrious creation of the invisible man. Me! Well, first I turned yellow, then paler and paler each year. ‘You’re to become a god,’ Kilvore told me. ‘It’s your great destiny.’ ”

“But how can such an alteration be possible?”

“How can a cog as small as myself explain the brilliant doctor’s plans? He drained me of all color, pink to yellow to white. All my organs, all my cells. My hair no longer grows. Not even whiskers. Do you understand how your eyes work? What allows them to see?”

“I—I believe so. They absorb the light.”

“Yes! Yes! It’s light that reflects off objects and gives us color. Color reflects light. See, it’s so simple. I’m colorless. I do not reflect light, therefore I am invisible. Bone. Flesh. Blood, nails, nerves. All invisible as hydrogen. Of course, I can’t float.” Another giggle squeaked out of him. Oh, this is so much fun! he thought. I should have revealed myself earlier.

“It does make a certain amount of sense,” Modo said.

“Of course it does, old boy. The joke is—I’m naked. The price I pay for invisibility.”

“Naked?”

“People can see clothing. I tell you, that ship, the
Hugo
, it was freezing. But Ol’ Sawbones adapted me to the cold. He would place me in his ice room until my blood slowed and I became impervious to cold. Well, almost. I still need some heat.” Griff ran his hand over his face. “I haven’t seen myself for over five years. I forget what I look like. Isn’t that funny? Oh …” He paused. “I suppose you’d like to forget your looks.”

The anger and shame that flashed over Modo’s visage was an exquisite sight. “I could never forget my appearance.”

“With a mug like that, who could? Ah, don’t be offended, Modo. Perhaps I once looked as horrid as you. Who knows?”

A knock at the door. “Mr. Warkin.” It was Colette. “I’ve brought you some food. How do you feel now?”

“I—I am much better.”

“I heard you talking.”

“I was reciting poetry, a habit when I am ill. My governess taught me.”

“Ta-hee!” Griff whispered. “Good thinking!”

“What was that?” Colette asked.

“Oh, just my throat.” Modo cleared his throat for effect.

“Will you open the door?”

“I can’t. Please leave the food outside the door.”

“She’ll slit your throat while you sleep, that one,” Griff hissed.

“All right, Mr. Warkin, but”—and this she whispered—“I wish you would explain this ailment to me, Modo.”

“I will. I need my rest, Colette. Thank you for coming.”

Griff heard her footsteps fade away. He opened the door—the hall was deserted. “She really is gone, sneaky cat.” Griff lifted the plate, knowing it would look to Modo as if it were floating. He took a huge bite of the bread and laughed at Modo’s shocked look as the bread appeared and disappeared behind invisible lips. Griff enjoyed performing that trick!

He pushed the plate at Modo. “You can have the seaweed. It’s worse than fish!”

Modo took the plate and set it on the dresser. “What did you mean about Colette?”

“Oh, don’t trust her. She’s quick with a knife, that one. I tracked her in New York and caught her sticking a knife into one of our agents, a man named Matthew Wyle. She watched him die. She’s got a frosty heart, believe me.”

“You saw this?”

“With my very own peepers.” He’s the puppet and I pull the strings, thought Griff.

“I—I don’t believe it.”

“She’s very well trained. Do you think she climbed to the top of the list of French agents by being nice? You’re a lovesick oaf.”

“I’m not! Why didn’t you stop her?”

“It happened too fast. A stiletto right between the ribs into the heart. A perfect blow. I saw it from a distance and tried to save Wyle, but I had no clothing to staunch the wound. He died in my arms, not even knowing who was holding him. I don’t imagine it was her first kill.”

“But that’s terrible!”

“It’s the nature of our business, eh, Modo? She’s a stunner, she is. But being invisible, I can see right into people’s minds.” He let that sink in. Was the fool actually buying it? “Anyway, Modo, our masters must learn about this submarine ship. What did you see on your little perambulation?”

“I saw …” He paused.

Griff rubbed his hands together. This was the real test. Would Modo give him secrets?

“Out with it! What would Mr. Socrates want to know?”

“I saw the beginning of a city under the sea. They call it New Barcelona. It was—it was truly amazing.”

“A city. So the grumpy captain isn’t mad. Well, well, well. Our masters must know of this.” Griff picked up the pieces of the wireless telegraph. “You’ll fix this. I’m sorry. I was mad. I get angry when things don’t go my way.”

“And if our message fails to reach them?”

“It’s obvious, Modo. We’ll kill Captain Monturiol and take control of the ship.”

M
odo couldn’t hide his shock. “Kill her?”

“Gut her like a fish. She won’t see it coming. Well, won’t see
me
coming. Ta-hee!” Griff chuckled, trailing off into another high-pitched giggle. It still seemed impossible to Modo that this man—this invisible man—was sitting right in front of him. “I’m jesting! I don’t believe it’ll come to that. Besides, how do you pilot this damned contraption? No, we would do better to force her to beach the metal beast in Liverpool.”

“I doubt she’ll submit to force,” Modo said.

“Everyone will submit to force, Modo. It’s just a matter of applying enough of it.” He emitted a clicking cricket sound from deep in his throat. Modo feared that Griff had spent far too much time alone; he had several odd tics. “Anyway, we will find a way off this barrel. Then the Permanent Association can return in force to capture it and the city.”

“Capture it?” asked Modo, wondering if Mr. Socrates and his colleagues would actually try to take the submarine ship. The thought of stealing it from Captain Monturiol made him sick to his stomach. Yet wouldn’t it be better if a ship such as this was on Britain’s side?

“Of course they’ll want it. Or at least the plans to build one of our own. It’s a staggeringly ingenious design.”

“What have you learned about the
Ictíneo?
”

“I sneaked into the crow’s nest, at the front. There are observation portholes there and a massive ram on the prow that’ll tickle the underbellies of any military ships. Ha, get that? Tickle the underbellies. Ta-hee!” The sheet moved as Griff laughed. “They also have retractable bronze claws for cutting and pinching! I haven’t been able to get into the engine room, at the aft. It’s cleverly locked. I can only guess what she’s hidden there.” He gave a phlegmy cough. “Well, that’s that. We wait for our moment, then we strike. I’ll tell you when. We should shake on it.” The blanket moved. “I’m holding out my hand, Modo.”

“Oh, sorry.” Modo put out his hand and it was grabbed by a cold, small hand that squeezed tightly.

“Long live the Permanent Association! I’ll be the eyes and the ears, Modo. And you”—the sheet fell to the floor—“the ugly brawn. Toodle-oo!” The cabin door opened and closed.

“Griff?” Modo said quietly, looking around. He was pretty sure his visitor had left, but how could he know for certain? “Griff?” Modo held his arms out wide, touching either side of his cabin. He walked its length, arms spread. Griff was gone.

Modo’s thoughts swirled about. Had he really been talking with an invisible man? But Griff had been on the
Hugo
, had followed them down the streets of New York, had heard private conversations. All that time Griff had been spying on him and Octavia, prying into their lives. He knew so much about them.

And he’s seen my face! Modo touched the rough outline of his cheeks, the pockmarked skin and sunken nose. Griff’s words still stung. Modo tried to keep his emotions at a distance—he couldn’t get upset about such things. Yes, he was ugly. That was a fact. Another fact was that Mr. Socrates had told him never to show his real face to anyone. That way he couldn’t be identified. But here he’d had no choice! It was impossible to hide from an invisible man.

Then he remembered that many others had seen his face. Mr. Socrates had saved him from a traveling freak show. He had no memory of that period of his life, for he had been only a year old. He imagined that hundreds had paid to see his ugliness. The idea made him tremble with anger.

He was still hungry. All that was left was the dulse and some other green seaweed. It was cold and salty, but at least it stopped his stomach from growling.

As he chewed he thought about Griff. Modo didn’t completely trust him. There was a sense of madness and deep anger in him. Where did he sleep? As for what he’d said about the Association, it wasn’t beyond reason that Lady Burton would have her own agents following a similar assignment. From the little Modo knew of the Permanent Association, it was a cohesive group, but its members sometimes operated independently.

He had to get a message to Mr. Socrates. Modo fiddled with the telegraph; the key was broken, but using a pin, he managed to click the machine on and off. That idiot Griff had broken the electric cell! It was doubtful there’d be replacement electric cells anywhere on board. Otherwise it seemed the device might work. He hid it under the mattress again.

Could Colette have killed Wyle? If what Griff had said was true, she was a consummate actor. She was a trained agent, just like him. She would know hundreds of ways to quietly kill an opponent, and had threatened to kill Monturiol, after all. Will she kill me when I’m no longer needed? Modo wondered. She might do so to keep the secret of the
Ictíneo
all to herself and to France.

He lay down on the cot. It took a long time to fall asleep.

M
r. Socrates was very aware of the ticking of the grandfather clock in his study. It chimed eight times and his mind automatically calculated: thirty-six hours. That was how long it had been since Modo had fallen from the ship. He would most certainly have frozen to death by now.

Mr. Socrates hadn’t heard from Octavia yet, but that didn’t surprise him. She would have been out on the water until sundown, then would need at least three hours to return to Reykjavik.

The door chimes rang and his heart quickened. Would this be the message? Had she found Modo? It was all he could do not to get up and answer the door himself. He maintained his composure. The news would come to him.

Soon Tharpa came into the room with an envelope. Without a word, Mr. Socrates opened it. There were two
telegrams inside. He translated the first one, which was from Octavia.

No luck. Stop. Permission to search tomorrow. Stop. Bring his body home. Stop
.

Mr. Socrates inhaled, his breath catching in his throat. “The news isn’t good. Even Octavia has finally come to the only logical conclusion.”

Tharpa nodded, his eyes moist. Mr. Socrates looked away so his servant wouldn’t see the grief beginning to well up inside him … .

They were silent for several moments. But why do I still feel hope? Mr. Socrates asked himself. The chance of another ship finding Modo was infinitesimal. Few ships crossed that area anymore; he’d recently learned that from the Admiralty.

His fingers found the second telegram. A note was attached that read:
This partial message was received yesterday at 6 p.m. GMT. Since it was insufficiently addressed, our delivery was delayed. We remind you that all communications must have a full address
.

Mr. Socrates unfolded the telegram. Some twenty letters spotted the page. He wrote them down, applying his code, and came up with:

A odo ard ubmar shi

He stared and stared at it, but it made no sense. Too many letters were missing. It could be from any one of his agents. Afghanistan? India? Australia?

“I can’t make head or tail of this,” he said to Tharpa, and handed the paper to him.

Tharpa tipped his head this way and that. “I see no words.” He held the paper closer. “This
odo
. That word could be ‘Modo.’ ”

“You may be right.” Tharpa set the telegram on the table and they both looked at it. If it was received at six p.m. yesterday Modo would have already been in the water for eight or nine hours. How could he have sent it? Perhaps he had found safety.

Mr. Socrates chastised himself for not being rational enough. Was he letting his hope that Modo was still alive affect his thoughts? But, if this
was
a message from Modo, then he had still been alive only twenty-four hours ago.

“Can you guess at any other words, Tharpa?”

“I cannot make head or tail either, sahib.”

“Well, send a telegram to Octavia. Tell her to assume Modo is alive and to keep looking.”

It wasn’t until later in bed that the answer came to him:
ubmar
. Submarine. Modo was under the ocean. The
Ictíneo
wasn’t a trained whale. It was a submarine ship!

Good lord! Could it actually be? He pulled on his dressing robe and ran down to his study and examined the note again. “Yes, submarine ship.” He rang the servant bell.

Tharpa arrived a minute later. “Send another message,” Mr. Socrates commanded. “Tell the Admiralty that we need a fast, well-armed frigate ready by tomorrow morning. We have important cargo to pick up.”

M
odo awoke several hours later. The lights were slowly growing brighter, so the sleep cycle was over. The
Ictíneo
was thrumming. He now understood that this meant they were traveling at a good clip through the ocean. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. Assuming they kept the same hours as the outside world, he’d spent two nights on the
Ictíneo
. On impulse, he felt around to be sure Griff was not in the room.