Weird Detectives (35 page)

The rope twisted tighter.

“Did your cousin Agnes steal it from you?”

“Yes.”

He glanced my way again, questioning. It was up to me. He’d need my help and not just to watch his back.

“Count me in,” I said. I wanted to see what a cursed jewel looked like.

He nodded and turned to our new client. “You may trust us, Miss Weaver.” It was both acceptance and an instruction.

“All right,” she agreed, almost sounding normal.

I quietly shut the door. The darkness crowded close around us. She’d wake on her own shortly. My head hurt. I think it had to do with guilt. The more guilt, the sharper the pain. I didn’t like doing that to people, but especially to women. I have my reasons.

Miss Weaver would not recall the interlude. Just as well. She might have popped me one, and I’d have deserved it.

Escott was satisfied we weren’t being duped into committing a criminal act—not much of one, anyway. When Miss Weaver woke, they shook hands, clinching the deal.

Stealing back a stolen item was nothing new to him. The work was no great mental challenge, but paid his bills. This would be a legal cakewalk. Agnes the thief wouldn’t dare report it to the cops, especially since Miss Weaver’s boyfriend and his family would swear she was with them all evening, wearing the heirloom pendant.

The cat shot out of the dark, lancing between us for the street. I shoved our client behind Escott and rushed the other way, pulling my gun from its shoulder holster. Yeah, I’m a vampire, but Chicago is a tough town . . . and I have bad memories concerning alleys.

A man crouching behind the garbage barrels slowly stood, hands out and down, his hat clutched in one of them. He had an egg-shaped balding head, thick arching black eyebrows, and plenty of teeth showing in his smile. “Easy, there, friend. No need to get bothered. Me an’ Charlie over there are old acquaintances. You just be askin’ him.”

An Irish accent combined with a sardonic tone. I didn’t turn to check on Escott; he’d moved next to me and had his own gun out, a cannon disguised as a Webley. A small flashlight was in his other hand, the beam on the man’s face.

“Riordan,” my partner said. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“That would be tellin’. We two bein’ in the same line, I’m sure you understand I have to maintain a bit of hush about me business.” He spoke fast with a glint in his eye, as though daring the world to call him a liar, even if it was true.

Escott held his gun steady. “Following Miss Weaver, are you? Working for Cousin Agnes?”

Riordan didn’t blink, just kept grinning. “Now is that civilized, asking a man questions he can’t answer while tryin’ to blind him? Not to mention threatenin’ him with no less than two deadly weapons. I ask you now, is it?” When he got no reply, he looked my way, squinting against the light in his eyes. “So you’re the mystery fellow who’s been keepin’ this lad out of the red. Pleased to meet you. Shamus Riordan, me name is me game, spell it the same.” He put a hand out.

I took my cue from Escott and kept him covered.

Miss Weaver came cautiously forward. “Is that true? Agnes hired that man to follow me?”

“Circumstances favor it,” said Escott. He looked tense and—rare for him—unsure of himself.

Riordan raised his hat. “Pleased to meet you, Miss. We appear to be at a partin’ of the ways, so if you don’t mind I’ll be takin’ me leave.”

“Jack . . . ” I’d seen this coming, even if I wasn’t clear on the why behind Escott’s caution. Gun holstered, I stepped forward to grab Riordan and pin his arms, but he bolted an instant ahead of me. He dragged a garbage can down to block my path, but I had enough speed when I jumped it to land square on his back and tackle him. That should have finished him, but he twisted like a snake, hammering short, powerful blows under my ribs with one hand, while his other covered my face, pushing me away, his fingers curled for eye-gouging.

Before that happened I vanished.

I’m good at it. It drains me, but damnation, it’s the second best thing about my change from living to undead. The first best has to do with my girlfriend, but I’ll talk about that some other time.

My abrupt absence didn’t faze Riordan; he scrambled up and sprinted, but by then I’d reformed in front of him and landed a solid fist to his gut that almost stopped him cold.

Struggling for air, he staggered and stubbornly kept going, but I swung him face-first against a brick wall and hauled his arms back just short of dislocation. I was fresh for more fight. Vanishing heals me: no bruises in my middle. Even my headache was gone.

Escott caught up, our client in his wake.

“What do we do with him?” I asked. Let him go and he’d phone Cousin Agnes.

“I suggest a refreshing nap.” Escott held the light; I turned Riordan around and made myself calm. I couldn’t let myself get emotional. It adds extra pressure to things that can permanently damage a mind.

Riordan was gasping, his face red under the sweat, but his brown eyes were alert and suspicious, his forearms raised to ward off a physical attack. I fixed my gaze hard on him and told him to listen to me, just as I’d done with Miss Weaver. Only nothing happened. The noose went tight around my head from the effort, but Riordan stayed conscious. His breath told me he was sober, leaving one alternative. “Charles . . . he’s crazy.”

Riordan grinned. “We Irish . . . are a mad race . . . or so I’m told,” he puffed out. “What concern . . . is it t’you?”

Escott snorted. “I’m not surprised. He still wants a nap.”

“No problem,” I said, and popped Riordan one the old-fashioned way. His eyes rolled up, and he slithered down the bricks as his legs gave out.

Miss Weaver gaped. “My God, did you kill him?”

“Not yet.” I hauled him up over one shoulder like a sack of grain. He was heavy, all of it muscle. “Let’s find his car.”

Escott knew the vehicle—a battered black Ford—got the keys from Riordan’s pocket, and opened the trunk. It was full of junk, but there was just room enough to stuff him in.

“He’ll suffocate in this heat,” she said.

She had a point. I found a tire iron in the junk and used the prying end to punch half a dozen air holes into the trunk lid before slamming it shut. They looked like bullet holes but larger.

“He can get help in the morning if he yells loud enough,” I said, trying for a reassuring smile.

The businesses along this street behind the restaurant were closed. There was little chance of a stray pedestrian passing by, especially with a storm looming.

“Who is he?” Miss Weaver asked, voicing my own question.

“No one important,” Escott said. He took the tire iron from me, dropping it and the car keys on the front seat of the Ford. “He fancies himself to be a private investigator, but his methods are sloppy and his personal ethics questionable. If you offered him a dollar more than your cousin’s payment, he would cheerfully switch sides until such time as he could solicit her for a counteroffer.”

I’d talk to Escott later about Riordan. The way he grabbed the crowbar while glaring at the car trunk told me that it was just as well there was a locked steel barrier between them.

Escott drove us to Bawks House; Miss Weaver—Mabel now, she insisted—sat next to him. I had the backseat to myself, slumping low in case she noticed I wasn’t reflecting in the rearview mirror.

She fussed with her hat, trying to secure it better. She was cheerful, almost relaxed, and made a point of turning around to beam at me now and then as we talked. Escott had instructed her to trust us. With her, trust must also include liking a person. She acted as though we were all old friends. I’d have been uncomfortable, but she’d forget it in a few weeks.

We had the windows down on his Nash; the hot air blowing in was viscous as tar. Through breaks in the buildings we saw restless clouds thickening, making plans. Lightning defined their shifting forms for an instant, thunder grumbled, and they went dark until the next flash. We headed north, right into it.

Escott gently plied questions under the guise of conversation.

Since discovering the fake gem, Mabel had been careful not to give anything away to her cousin, otherwise the real diamond would evaporate to a safer hiding place. For the present, it was still in the house, cached in a shoe in her cousin’s bedroom closet.

“How did you find that out?” he asked.

“Agnes is always eavesdropping on the extensions, but until now I had no reason to do the same to her. She thinks I’m too goody-goody. Well, I started listening, too, and got an earful on everything.”

“You must have had opportunity to switch pendants prior to this.”

“No, I have not. One or the other of them is always home, they keep their bedroom door locked, and I don’t have a key. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more time, but only this morning did I learn about the collector coming tonight. Agnes’s husband found him. Agnes married him just a few months ago. He saw the big house, met our sick grandmother, and assumed he’d be coming into big money soon enough. Agnes didn’t set him straight. She and Clive were made for each other: both sly, greedy Philistines.”

Escott came subtly alert. “Is he English? That’s not a common first name in America.”

“Clive Latshaw’s no more English than I’m Greta Garbo. He puts on a good show, though. He’ll high-hat anyone if he thinks he can get away with it. He even charmed Grandma, but not enough so she’d change her will.”

“Who is this private collector?”

“I didn’t get a name, but they’re meeting at Bawks House at ten. We’ll be able to sneak in with no trouble. Agnes and Clive are always in the parlor with the radio on. She won’t go up for the Eye unless she sees the money.”

“This is very uncertain, if they should catch us—”

“Then I came home early from dinner, and you’re my invited guests. If we’re caught, I’ll be embarrassed, but I’m getting my property back. If it was me facing just Agnes I’d be fine, but Clive would step in, and he can be mean. I can’t fight them both.”

“Your gentleman friend did not put himself forward as a protector?”

“Bartie’s a good egg but no Jack Dempsey. Clive won’t try anything with you there, but if we’re careful, we can be in and out, and they’ll never know a thing. I just wish I could see Agnes’s face when she tries to palm off a piece of glass as a diamond.”

A reviving gust of cooler air hit my face. “What about this curse?”

Mabel was thoughtful. “I know it sounds silly, but I’ve always believed it. Grandma told stories, lots of them, about what happened whenever someone tried to take Hecate’s Eye away from its . . . well, Grandma called herself and the other women before her its guardians.”

“It kills people?”

“Men. It kills men. The Eye has always brought bad luck to them and good luck to women, but I don’t want to trust that too much.”

“How so?”

“If Agnes sells it, I think something terrible will happen to her. I don’t like her, but she’s family. I have a duty to try to protect her from herself.”

The storm hit just as we made the turn to Bawks House, and even I couldn’t see much of the joint through the heavy gray sheets of rain. It was big, and a single vivid lightning flash made it look haunted.

Mabel directed Escott to a branching in the drive that went around to the rear. He cut the headlamps, and we had to trust to luck that more lightning wouldn’t suddenly reveal us to anyone watching from the house.

She pointed toward a porte cochère serving the back door.

Escott glided under its shelter, parking next to a snappy-looking Buick coupe, which was parked pointing outward. The rain drumming on our roof ceased. We’d put the windows up to keep out the water and rolled them down again to let in the air.

“Feels like winter,” said Mabel in a more normal tone, sounding pleased.

“Whose vehicle?” Escott asked.

“Clive’s. He never uses the garage. Likes to leave quick when he has someplace to go.”

“Aren’t we a bit obvious here?”

“They’ll stay in the parlor so they can watch for their big buyer.”

“I’m curious about this providentially wealthy collector of rare gems—how would Clive Latshaw find such a person?”

“He must have asked around. Maybe he went to a jewelry store.”

“What about his background?”

She shrugged. “He said he was from New England—but his accent says Detroit. We must get moving. For all I know, Agnes might have brought the Eye down early, and all this effort will be wasted.”

I cleared my throat. “Say she did. We can still get it.”

Mabel gave me a sideways look. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing violent, but I can have a talk with them, make them see reason.”

“If it’s nothing violent, why mention it?”

“My associate has a very persuasive and calming manner even with the most obstreperous of types,” Escott explained. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

She waved a hand. “All right, but let’s try my way first. I’ll get the door open and you two follow. And be
quiet
.”

On the drive over, she’d given us her plan of attack, which was to sneak upstairs, have Escott pick the bedroom lock, and I’d keep lookout. Of course, I had my own way into the room that involved vanishing and sieving under the door, but Mabel Weaver didn’t need to witness it. This was her party; let her have her fun. She left the car, carefully not slamming the door. Escott and I did the same, following her through the back entry into a sizable mudroom. I had no need of an invitation to cross the threshold. Bram Stoker, go jump in a lake.

Mabel took her shoes off and gestured for us to do likewise.

Escott leaned close to whisper. “We’re shod in gumsoled shoes, Miss Weaver.”

“Really? I thought that was just in the movi—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, apparently remembering her own order about silence.

The mudroom opened to a dim kitchen, also large. There were dinner leavings forgotten on the table in the dining room on our left. The parlor was the next room over, visible through an open door; a comedy show played on the radio.

In silence, Mabel led us to a plain hall with stairs going up. The house had been built for a large family with a lot of servants, all long gone and moved on. It seemed a shame to have it wasted on two thieves, but I was just the hired help and not entitled to an opinion about the wisdom of Grandma Bawks’s bequest.