The Three Heads of Dr. Cuba – Sample Chapter

Chapter 6: The Haunted Bookshop

[This sample chapter may not reflect the final book; elements have been removed that may act as overall spoilers.]

The Homunculus stood down the street from the bookshop, scanning the area. This was an older part of Berlin, less damaged than much of the city due to its relatively low risk of having anything of interest to the Allies. The shop itself fell within the American zone, thankfully, since the Homunculus had much experience blending into US society as one of their own. His forgers had proper papers for all the Allied checkpoints, but US control of this area made this trip much easier.

The shop itself was old and looked like a German shop from the 1800s, as imagined in a film by that animator the film world was making a fuss about, Walt Disney. The wood was old but featured ornate carvings over the doorway, and it boasted a small storefront window that held a small selection of the shop’s latest bestsellers. Through the curtains of a side window, the Homunculus could see a single lamp lighting the interior.

This was a trap.

A note left in Berlin, found by the Doktor’s men, indicated that the formula for the homunculi had been compromised. It claimed that a copy of the progenitor’s notebook had been sold from this shop, exposing the Father-Father’s most closely-held secrets. The idea seemed implausible on its face; only the Homunculus had the progenitor’s notebooks, and he had certainly not made any copies. These had been safely stored on Monito Island for years and were now held securely in the new facility on Snake Island.

But, so far, everything the message from Berlin reported was true; the Doktor and the Fantôme were dead, the homunculi operations in Berlin and Paris in disarray. If two-thirds of the information from the message was true, it was likely that the last third was, as well.

He was certain he’d been summoned here, not led by luck or chance. The Homunculus scanned the area again but saw no one out of place, nothing suspicious. A few pedestrians walked the evening street, lit by gas lamps, and some cats fought in an alleyway. Little else.

The Homunculus, still dressed in his black overcoat with black fedora, approached. Now outside the shop, he peered in. A single old woman sat behind the counter, sleeping, her eyeglasses perched on her nose. No one else was inside.

Stepping in, a bell rang above the doorway, waking the shopkeeper. She sniffed and coughed slightly. The Homunculus towered near the door, the top of his red-banded hat nearly touching the low-beamed ceiling.

“May I help you, sir?” the old woman asked.

“I believe you are expecting me.”

The Homunculus remained in place, only moving his eyes from left to right to slowly scan the room. There was no evidence of anyone else, no apparent threats. No scent of bullets or weapon oil. Nothing.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I want to know about a notebook you sold. It had medical procedures in it, with drawings and diagrams. It would have been very unique, easily distinguished from anything else you have here.”

“Does this book have a name?” the old woman asked.

“No. Just a simple notebook. The original had a leather cover, but this would be a copy. I don’t know what the copy’s cover might look like.”

The old woman shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like something we would carry. Was it fiction?”

“A scientific notebook. Most written in English. Nothing in German.”

The old woman shook her head. “I’m sure I didn’t sell it.”

The Homunculus was growing impatient. He’d have to tear the shop apart, which was not something he wanted to do, knowing he was likely standing in the middle of a trap.

“My husband,” the old woman said suddenly.

“Your husband?” the Homunculus asked.

“He must have sold it. I may have been outside or in town, doing the shopping. But we keep records, I can check.”

Perhaps this shop — and this old woman — might survive yet. “Please look,” the Homunculus asked.

The old woman retrieved a tattered old ledger from a shelf under the counter. It was thick and yellowed, but apparently the old couple still used it; the entries must have dated back decades.

“Do you know when this book was sold?” she asked.

“I can only guess, but within the past two to three years. I don’t believe it would have been any more recent than that.”

The old woman adjusted her glasses once more and began flipping pages. She did not flip back too far and yet arrived at the target date period anyway, suggesting that the store did not sell many books at all. She ran her finger down the pages, looking for something that might resemble the book described to her by this tall ivory man in black.

“A notebook, you say?” she repeated. The Homunculus did not reply. Her finger kept running up and down the pages.

“December 11, 1943,” the old woman said, her finger pausing over an entry. “A set of notebooks featuring medical notes and charts, written in English. Yes, I see it here. One was sold on January 11, 1944.”

The Homunculus held himself still. “One?” he asked.

“Yes, let me see . . .” The old woman continued to slide her forefinger along the pages. “The other one was sold . . . yes, here it is, oh, earlier, in November of 1943.”

“Two notebooks? There were two of them?”

“They were copies, apparently,” the old woman said. She looked up. “At least that’s what it says here.”

“Were there more copies?”

“No, it appears only two were sold. At least, in our shop,” the old woman said.

“Who were they sold to?” the Homunculus asked. “I have come from America for this information, so I hope you understand, this is very important.”

“Of course,” she said, looking down at the book again. “The copy sold in 1943 was sold to a Henrik Broda.” She looked up. “A Jew,” she added.

“We had to record all sales to Jews during the war.”

“And the other?”

She scanned the ledger again. “Let’s see. To a Professor Jakob ten Brinken. Or ten Brinke. It’s not very legible. But he was not a Jew.”

The Homunculus had gotten what he came for, but he said,

“I am curious.”

“Of what, young man?” the old woman said.

“Why indulge me this way? Why not have your men kill me as I walked in the door? Why give me the information at all? I cannot imagine I was meant to leave this shop alive, after such an obvious trap.”

The old woman stiffened, her gaze frozen down at the ledger. Her face, for a moment, was locked in place, her body entirely immobile, as if she had been suddenly paralyzed. But then, her head rose slowly, directly meeting the Homunculus’s gaze for the first time. Her eyes, peering over her glasses, bore into his.

“Because I know where the Rabbi is, but I do not know where ten Brinken is. I am relying on you to lead me to him.”

The Homunculus’s face remained emotionless, as always, but inside, he was running calculations. He wondered if this woman might be working for someone else, someone who wanted him as dead as his two brothers. No, he decided. She was not working for anyone; she had set the trap.

There would be no moving as she blinked, because the woman did not blink; she just stared, fearless. Her small frame and crooked back did not appear to give her any pause, any worry that her adversary was twice her size, younger, and clearly more powerful.

Something was wrong here, the Homunculus’s mind told him. His scenarios and predictions pointed to a trap, but where would it come from? Someone else must be nearby.

Whereas the old woman did not blink, it was the Homunculus who took his gaze off the woman for a brief moment. He was scanning the room, looking for the assailant who would, no doubt, jump at any moment. But in the split second his eyes moved from hers, she disappeared.

And reappeared behind him.

Her hand grabbed his neck, an iron vise as cold as steel and twice as strong. He felt his windpipe begin to flex inward. “You may not be a man, but you think like a man and underestimate a woman,” the old woman said, squeezing tighter on the Homunculus’s throat.

His arms bolted upward, snapping her grip away from him, and prepared to strike back. Again, she was no longer there. She was faster, somehow. And stronger.

The Homunculus swung around, his body now in a half-crouch, ready to defend himself from the next blow, but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the old woman was clinging, spider–like, to the beams overhead.

“I will not kill you, homunculus,” she said. “I need you to take me to the Professor.” She then leaped down, screeching, her hands held like claws, and grabbed the Homunculus by the shoulders. Her weight carried her to the floor, and she expertly transferred her momentum into his body, lifting him and throwing him through the front window. The Homunculus crashed to the dark ground outside, sliding through the mud, broken glass everywhere.

The Homunculus stood, shaking off the broken glass from his coat while he considered the old woman. She was much too strong to be a human. “You’re a homunculus,” he said, heading back inside the shop. “Who grew you?” he demanded.

The woman, now standing at the center of the bookshop, laughed. “Now you’re putting it all together? Very good.” She was mocking him.

“Who grew you?” the Homunculus demanded again, entering the shop once more.

The woman did not flinch. “A man who underestimated me and will die for it!” She leapt into the air again, her hands grasping the beam overhead, and then swung her legs at the Homunculus, kicking him with great force. Once again, he was sent flying backwards onto the street.

The Homunculus raised himself up more quickly this time, a glint of frustration appearing across his face, a rare escape of whatever passed for emotion in these creatures. Determined to kill this creature, he charged back into the shop, faster than she had expected, and grabbed her by the arm. Swinging her body like a doll, he raised her up and smashed her back down onto the shop’s floor. The floorboards cracked and splintered. Her body smashed; she would not be getting up this time.

And yet, she did. The woman shrugged off the bits of wood plank and, ignoring the lacerations all over her body and face, laughed. Reaching behind her, she grabbed a rack of books and gripped it with both hands. She flung the rack at the Homunculus, sending it crashing into him. Books and wood flew everywhere. “I won’t kill you,” she repeated. “You will take me to the !”

Buried under the tossed rack and a pile of books, it took the Homunculus a moment to stand once more. In that short time, the old woman was gone.

_____________________

Ximena met her giant German in the hotel lobby. They had agreed to try a restaurant just one block down the street, which had recently re-opened and which the hotel manager insisted had been entirely rebuilt. Thumann was suspicious and assumed the restauranteur had paid off the hotel manager, but a quick walk down the street would settle the matter quickly.

As they walked, Ximena spoke. “Inspector, I did a lot of analysis on the wire reports related to everything in this area, going back about a year. I think things are more complicated than we thought,” she said sheepishly.

“Things are rarely easier than we think, young miss,” Thumann said. “Don’t be afraid to address complexities if they are based on facts.”

Ximena inhaled. “Well, I think we are dealing with three crime waves. Perhaps three criminals. Not two.”

Thumann stopped walking. It took Ximena a few steps before she realized Thumann wasn’t at her side anymore. She stopped and turned.

“Explain,” Thumann said.

Ximena strode back to the giant German and told him what she’d found, starting with the Golem attacks and the murders of prostitutes, their wombs removed. “

Those are the easiest to track and differentiate since they happen to the north.”

“And the third?” Thumann asked.

“The remaining murders in Stuttgart are dramatically different. No prostitutes, just normal, everyday people. But always men. For these, the bodies are found in various states of decay, and — this is important — they are missing blood. Before the prostitute murders branched north, they were all jumbled up, making it hard to distinguish, but I think a third killer is here in Stuttgart, killing men and draining their blood.”

“Number three . . .” he whispered, more to himself than anything. He was thinking. “Draining their blood?”

“Right,” Ximena said. “At least, according to the wires.”

Thumann paused further, allowing this information to settle inside the space between his bushy, tangled sideburns. Then he began walking again. Ximena followed.

“Draining blood,” he said again.

They arrived at the restaurant to find that the hotel manager was not lying; it was entirely restored, with fresh glass windows, a lovely side terrace area for outside dining, and a well-furnished, immaculate main dining room inside. A well-dressed waiter invited them in and brought them to a fine table lit by candles. The environment was, perhaps, a bit too romantic for Thumann to be sharing with Ximena, but he was too lost in thought to care.

Thumann ordered a bottle of Riesling and glanced at his menu, not reading it at all. He put it down.

“This could be a plot against the Jews,” he said solemnly. “The Golem stories present the beast as the hero of the Jews, killing those that persecute them. Someone could be trying to even the score, starting a series of killings that make it look like vampires are at work. The Nazis wanted the populace to believe the Jews were vampires, sucking the blood of innocent Christians.”

“But,” Ximena offered, “the Stuttgart murders predated the arrival of the Golem.”

“Right,” Thumann said, though it was clear he had already considered that.

“You didn’t think that was the case anyway,” Ximena said with a frown. “I see it in your eyes.”

“Let’s order our dinner,” Thumann said. “Enough talk of golems and vampires. I don’t believe in any of them.”

Thumann wanted to leave Germany, even as the call of crime beckoned him to stay and investigate.