The Wrench Assistant

"I have some bad news," I say, tapping on the copper oxidation chamber with one knuckle. The usual groans answer me. I hear wet flopping that is reminiscent of an octopus in a bowl as Humphrey shifts around in his tight, metal prison. The oxidation chamber sits next to the furnace and boiler that supply our steam pressure and, through the converter, the electricity for the workshop. The man must be hot as a lobster in a boiling pot in there.  

"I saw uniforms coming down the street. You have one minute to get in a comfortable position," I say, standing.  

"They're not coming here, they don't know I did it," Humphrey calls, his voice nasal and thin through various copper and steel tubes. 

"You could be right." The bell at the front door warbles an off-tune ditty. "But, unfortunately you're not. You have thirty seconds to find a comfortable position and to hope on your mother's good name that they didn't bother to bring a truth chimer." 

I hurry off, lifting my skirt to climb the steep stairs, and knowing perfectly well that his mother never had a good name. Not that I hold that against her; 'Ezmay the Crab Charmer' has such an alluring ring to it.  

At the end of the hall, I peek through the crystal viewer. There is always a chance that it is not someone carrying a club or pistol. Such as a street urchin trying to fob off platinum pocket watches, but no such luck this time. On the other hand, it is the most handsome man I have ever seen - dark tussled hair, grey-blue eyes, pencil line moustache, broad shoulders and more, more, more as my gaze moves downwards. Unfortunately, the silver triple sails badge he is holding up blocks most of the view. 

"Graftin Port City Police, you are asked to open promptly," he says. 

Mental checklist before opening promptly: Goggles off? Check. Clothes on? Check. No tools in hand that could be misconstrued as dangerous weapons? Check. Village idiot smile ready? Check. Hair brushed? Too late to worry about. I open the door wide. 

"Good morning, officers," I say. "Can I help you?" 

"Good morning, Miss. We have orders to find and bring Mr. Humphrey Stricton to the station. I believe he lives here?" the handsome officer in front asks. 

I blink, taking in the group. Apart from the speaker, there is the commanding officer with deep creases on either side of his mouth (which do not come from smiling too often) and three junior officers. The junior officers are there in case they need to exert brute force in order to remove my employer from the premises. They obviously do not know him. And they have a truth chimer in a leather case; I'll have to talk fast. 

"This is Mr. Stricton's home. He is my employer, but I'm afraid he is not here. I haven't spoken to him in days."  

The commander motions and a junior officer snaps open the rectangular case right there on the doorstep.  

"We would like to come in and inspect the house. We will have to ask you a few questions, as well. May we?" the handsome officer asks. 

"Of course. Please," I say.  

The five police officers crowd into the narrow hallway, forming a line along the wall. I squeeze past them, still smiling and bobbing my head like Ma Bertha who sells three day old clams at the market. I might have batted my eyes at the handsome one. 

"This is the hallway," I say, pointing. "The kitchen is through that door, the sitting room is there, the-" 

"One moment," the commander interrupts me to speak to the junior officer with the truth chimer. "Calibrate to my voice for questions. Now, state your name." 

"Ana-Anabelle, but I go by Nabel." The truth chimer bell rings with a cheerful ping and all three buttons pop up. It is ready. 

The chimer is a thing of beauty, and I can't help myself for thinking so. Floral lattice casing in brass, precision-cut mechanical innards twirling and whirling harmoniously, silver plated corners and quite a bit of gold wiring give it airs of a music box fit for a king. There are three holes at the top for three buttons: black obsidian for a lie, red garnet for uncertainty and three golden sails for truth. A delicate calf stomach membrane unfolds from the back to form a half-circle fan to catch the speaker's voice. 

No one outside a select few in the government knows how it works. Personally, I would be tempted to sell my eye-teeth for a couple of minutes alone with its diagrams. Or better yet, Humphrey's eye-teeth. The person who invents a trompe-voix and sells it to the highest bidder could retire to an easy life of grandiose style.  

"Papers," the handsome officer orders me to verify my first statement and I fish my identification from the hall desk. My fingers brush his and an electric jolt jumps between us. His eyes meet mine, slightly confused; he felt it, too. Could it be...? Ah, yes, the sparker baton I thought was dead and put in my pocket just electrocuted his hand through my hip and body. 

"Miss Nabel," the commander continues, "do you know where Mr Stricton is?" 

I swallow. 

"Just answer the questions," he says, a tad impatient.  

But answering is tricky. Tell a lie and they would know. Bend the truth too much and they would know. Let slip the truth that my employer is downstairs, trapped inside his own invention, and they would arrest him, seize the house, strip the workshop and throw him in a dank, deep, rat-infested cell leaving me (most importantly) with no tools, no money, no job and no home in a city particularly unfriendly to women who were not independently wealthy. 

The commander steps closer-too close for my personal comfort, which is probably his intention. From here, the lines in his iron cold face dredge up images of breaking bones, chains pulling in opposite directions, cat-o'-nine tails, moldy bread and oddly enough, the smell coming from the feeder orifice where Humphrey is stuck. Wherever this police officer spends his afternoons, I do not wish to go.  

"I know where Mr. Stricton should be," I say. Ping! 

"Where?"  

"He should be here in the workshop." The chimer rings after each answer and up pops one button. So for it has given me two gold ones for telling the truth, which I find very encouraging. 

"Show me." The commander was not a man who wasted words.  

I have no choice but to smile and bob my head vapidly. One false word would land me in the sewage running down the middle of the street outside, if not in the dungeon alongside Humphrey. Five police officers follow me down the hall.

******Thank you so much for reading! I greatly appreciate seeing any comments or critiques you want to leave. Updates to come soon.********