Jackaby (13 page)

Charlie nodded. “Mr. Henderson, sir. Yes, sir.”

“Shame.” Jackaby nodded, thoughtfully, but without surprise. “Same manner of death as the last one?”

Charlie nodded again. “Just the same. Only more blood, this time, sir.”

“That accounts for the stains on your knees, then,” said Jackaby. “I take it you’ve been to examine the corpse?”

The last word seemed to thump into Charlie like a sandbag. I watched as he breathed in deeply, collecting himself. His knees were, indeed, stained a deep merlot, but it was hardly discernible against the dark blues of the uniform fabric. Looking more intently, I noted that the mirror polish of his shoe had been marred by a smudge of red across the pointed toe as well. “I was there,” Charlie said. “I was there all night, and I couldn’t save him.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Jackaby answered dismissively. I shot my employer a stern glance. The junior detective looked stricken. Jackaby caught my expression and reached out stiffly to pat Charlie on the arm. “No one could have saved him,” he amended. “No escaping it, once he heard the cry. Good of you to try, though. The silver lining to this tragedy, of course, is that we have a new, fresh crime scene. After Miss Rook and I have had a quick breakfast, we’ll come see what clues our villain has left for us, this time.”

Charlie shifted his feet impatiently. “Detective, surely time is of the essence! A man is dead!”

“Lamentably so, and no amount of hurry and bother will revive him. He will still be dead when we reach him, I assure you. Now, a good bit of hot breakfast will only help to improve our faculties and ensure that we don’t miss—”

But the detective’s sentence was cut short by a sudden, deafening boom, and the crunch of an iron skillet lodging itself halfway through the wall, its black handle poking out into the hallway at a jaunty angle, the metal visibly vibrating from the impact. The ringing silence that followed was broken by a few tinkles and thumps from within the room, and a half-dozen ripe, red apples rolling into the hallway.

“Too much paprika?” I offered.

“On second thought,” Jackaby continued with nonchalance, “it wouldn’t do to weigh ourselves down before we’d even gotten started, would it?”

Charlie’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly as he blinked at the pan.

“Yes, just a quick bite should do the trick. Apple?” Jackaby bent and retrieved one, and I accepted the proffered fruit.

“I’ll just fetch my shoes, then?” I asked.

“Do hurry,” Jackaby instructed. “Time is of the essence, Miss Rook. A man is dead.”

T
he Emerald Arch was even more heavily guarded than it had been the previous day. The police presence appeared to have doubled, and official-looking rope now stretched around the entire building. A glance down the alleyway as we passed proved that there would not be a repeat of Jackaby’s sneaky business with the balconies, unless he felt like pulling his maneuver in the company of three uniformed officers. From what I had seen of the strange detective in the last twenty-four hours, he might have even pulled it off. In fact, it would probably have come to them giving him a leg up and wishing him all the best.

Charlie marched us past the guards at the front door. I recognized one of them as the thick, hawk-nosed policeman we’d slipped past yesterday. His pinched, suspicious expression hadn’t changed. “Cane,” he said without affection, but this time he didn’t try to stop us as we followed our escort past the cordon.

“O’Doyle,” Charlie answered in a matched tone. That being the apparent limit of their cordiality toward each other, we passed quickly and were soon through the front doors. Charlie had already shared a few details of the scene as we rushed through town, but it had all been a blurry, fragmented mess of information. As we entered the stairwell, Jackaby asked the detective to repeat his story from the beginning, leaving nothing out.

“Well, let’s see. I suppose it began after I left you yesterday, sir,” Charlie began. “I returned to my post outside Mr. Bragg’s room—that is, the late Mr. Bragg’s room. When Chief Inspector Marlowe arrived, I told him that I thought it would be wise to post guards tonight to protect Mr. Henderson. He asked me why. Now, you must understand that the chief inspector is very . . . selective about what he is willing to believe. Some of the other men are more open-minded—Officer Porter told me he attended a séance once, and I’ve even seen Lieutenant Dupin knock on wood—but not Marlowe. Marlowe does not even believe in luck. I couldn’t very well tell him about the banshee, so I just told him that something Henderson said when I revisited his room made me believe he had information about the murderer, and that he was too afraid for his life to come forward.

“The chief inspector just looked angry about that, and asked when I had spoken to his witness without permission. I told him we just stopped by on our way out, and that you had actually had a calming effect on the poor man. That was a mistake. He got all red and asked why the hell I had let that lunatic crackpot—sorry, sir, his words—wander around the building against his orders. He reminded me who was in charge, and told me he would have my badge if I couldn’t recognize the chain of command.

“It was my fault. I should have been more careful with my words. Commissioner Swift had arrived, as you know—he came into the hallway while we were speaking, breathing hard as he came out of the stairwell. Having the commissioner around always puts Inspector Marlowe on edge. I apologized and assured him it would not happen again. Then I asked if he would still be placing any officers to watch Henderson. That was another a mistake. He used quite a few unpleasant words to tell me no. Well, I could not argue with the chief inspector, especially with the commissioner present . . .”

“But you couldn’t stand idly by while a man’s life was in danger, either?” Jackaby offered. “You came back anyway, didn’t you?”

“I had to try to help him. Yes, I returned after my shift had ended and all of the rest of the police had gone.”

“Your time might have been better spent comfortably at home with your family.”

“I have no family here, Mr. Jackaby, and I can think of no better way to spend an evening than in service to my city.”

“That sounds terribly lonesome,” I said. “I mean, isn’t there anyone . . . ?”

“My life is . . . complicated,” said Charlie. “I find it much more convenient to live alone.”

I might have liked to know a bit more about the stoic policeman, but Jackaby pressed forward with the matter at hand. “So, Henderson was already dead when you arrived?”

“No, not at all. I knocked on his door to check, and he opened it, looking a bit tired and holding on to that tuning fork, but otherwise healthy. I did not wish to alarm him, so I told him I was just keeping an eye on the whole building. He bade me good night and went back inside, his lock and deadbolt clicking soundly after the door was shut. I took up a position in the hallway. I knew he was still there for several hours, because I could hear the chime of the tuning fork every minute or so on the other side of the door.

“My hearing is very good, sir, and I was watching and listening for anything strange at all in the building. It must have been close to midnight when there finally came some sort of clinking sound from the stairwell. It was terribly familiar, but I couldn’t place when I had heard it before. The hallway was dark, and I kept to the shadows as I crept over to investigate. The floorboards must have given me away as I got nearer, because when they creaked under my footstep, the noise stopped. I raced in and had a look, but there was nothing in the stairwell.

“I did not dare leave the third floor with Henderson unguarded, so I slipped back down the hallway toward my post. I could see his door clearly as I came nearer—the hallway lights are kept lit at night, and the moonlight through the window was even brighter. As I drew close, I could swear I heard a noise in his room, just a bump in the night. So, quiet as a mouse, I listened at the door. I must have listened for five or six minutes, not moving, barely breathing, but not another sound came from Henderson’s room. That was when I knew something was terribly wrong.”

“You knew something was wrong because you . . .
didn’t
hear anything?” Jackaby asked.

“Sorry to say, it took a few minutes to realize it, but yes, sir. Specifically, what I did not hear was the ping of your tuning fork. Henderson’s room was, as they say, as silent as the grave. I knocked first, and announced myself, just as we’re taught to do. I got no answer and the door was still locked tight, so I had to”—Charlie, ahead by a few paces, shot a glance over his shoulder at Jackaby—“to kick it in. It was a horrible sight, Detective, and the smell! He was there, still wearing those red pajamas, only the red was spreading across the floor. More than the last one, much more. The window was wide-open, and the room was so cold, you could see the heat rising off the body in thick, steamy clouds.

“I scanned the room and hurried to the window, but there was no one in sight. I heard him, though. The sound rang like horseshoes on pavement, but the rhythm was a man’s steps. He was moving fast, so fast he was blocks away before I could even pick out a direction from the echoes. I was too slow. Too slow and too late.

“I looked around for any clues, but there was nothing at all out of the ordinary—except, of course, the body bleeding on the floor. I ran for the station on Mason Street and sent a runner to alert the chief inspector. I brought a few of the night shift back with me, and then waited for Inspector Marlowe to arrive.”

We reached the third floor just as his story came to an end. A guard had been posted at either end of the hallway. As we approached the first, he narrowed his eyes, but he gave Charlie a nod of recognition and let us pass. That same strong, coppery smell spilled through the hallway, and I noticed Jackaby was feeling at the air with his hands, just as he had when we approached the first victim.

“Speaking of Marlowe,” Jackaby said, his hand still gently coasting beside him, “where is the old boy? I should think he would be keeping a tight grip on the scene this time.”

“He is.” The voice came from the doorway ahead as the chief inspector stepped into the hallway to meet us. In spite of his midnight awakening, Marlowe looked as clean-shaven and pressed as he had the day before. The handcuffs still swung from his belt as he moved, and the silver bars on his uniform caught the morning light streaming through the hallway.

“Ah, Marlowe, good morning!” said Jackaby, a little too cheerfully. “You’re looking well.”

“And you look like you’ve been dragged through hell, as usual. Enough pleasantries. I’ve had a short night and a long morning, and I’m overdue an explanation.”

“Ah, yes. Don’t be too hard on the junior detective—it isn’t his fault. We were just in the area and thought it would be rude if we didn’t stop by to—”

“Detective Cane is not working behind my back . . . not
this time
.” Marlowe shot a finely sharpened glance at Charlie, who shrank into the collar of his uniform. “He brought you here on my orders. He didn’t tell you? I mean that I am overdue an explanation about this.” The inspector stepped back and gestured toward the open door of room 313.

The door was splintered and raked with gashes, and the frame had come apart around the lock. The smell was strongest here, metallic and sickly sweet, like pennies and spoiled fruit. Inside, beside his worn sofa, lay the body of Mr. Henderson.

My breath caught in my throat. This body was worse than the last one, and the blood was everywhere. A splash of deep burgundy had painted a sloppy scar across the wallpaper, and it had dripped dark lines back down to the floor. The late William Henderson’s bright red pajamas were dyed an even deeper crimson, and the wound on his chest was a match to Arthur Bragg’s, down the hall. The blood had poured across the room, rivulets tracing the corners of the floorboards and mapping the topography of the room with dark pools. My vision swam and my stomach lurched, but try as I might, I could not pull my eyes from the horrible scene. Marlowe stepped forward, cutting off my line of sight, and I blinked and breathed again, the trance broken.

“May I?” my employer asked, and Marlowe nodded his permission to enter. Jackaby stepped carefully into the chamber, taking wide, uneven strides to avoid the spill. I remained by the doorway behind Marlowe while Jackaby examined the body. He followed a trail of drips to the window and glanced out.

The chief inspector watched closely, but he did not interrupt or question the detective as the man danced around the crime scene, peering through the vials and lenses he produced from his pockets, and even leaning in to sniff the windowsill. Jackaby moved with all the gangling grace of a newborn foal, but he kept clear of the puddles of liquid evidence. At length, he hopscotched his way back to the door, where he knelt and ran a finger gently across the splintered gashes in the wood. With one fluid, almost imperceptible motion, he plucked some small sample from the splinters and, like a street magician with a tricky coin, made it vanish in his hands before he rose.

“You said you saw no one in the hall, and the door was still secured from the inside when you forced your entry?” he asked, turning around.

“That’s right,” Charlie confirmed. “I found the window open, inside.”

“And the scene has not changed since your first impression?”

Charlie looked inside and swallowed hard, nodding. “It’s spread. But otherwise, yes, it’s just the same.”

“Not forgetting something?” Inspector Marlowe prompted his detective, not taking his eyes off Jackaby.

“Oh. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. There has been one item removed as evidence.” Charlie grimaced and pointed to Henderson’s hand, which was clenched, but empty.

Marlowe nodded and reached into his own pocket, producing a small cloth packet. “Mr. Jackaby,” he said, shifting the bundle from one hand to the other as he spoke, “you’ve had a look around. Anything to share?”

Jackaby glanced from Charlie to Marlowe before answering. “We are obviously faced with the same villain. Rushed, this time, but otherwise consistent in every detail.”

“And what details would those be?” Marlowe pressed. His voice was flat, and his eyes locked on Jackaby like a raptor on a field mouse. “Be specific.”

“The chest wound, most obviously, and the removal of blood. Avarice is clearly not a motive in either killing—there is a rather expensive pocket watch on the end table, just there, by the window, but the culprit passed it by, just as he left Mr. Bragg’s wallet. He also left Mr. Henderson clutching my tuning fork, which I assume is the object you have tucked in your handkerchief now, an item of considerable value to me, and one I would like back when this business is all over.”

Marlowe raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and made no motion to relinquish the parcel. “Would you, now? Anything else to say?”

“I
would
also mention the residual supernatural aura, which is exceptionally strong and clear inside the room, but we both know you’ll dismiss it as hokum, so I refrain from wasting any time describing it.”

“Your restraint is appreciated,” said Marlowe drily. “But what was that you said about the blood? You were right that the last victim was surprisingly clean—but you can hardly say the same about Henderson.”

“You must have noticed the smearing on the body?” Jackaby asked. “And the trail?” Marlowe’s face was impassive and unreadable, and after a pause Jackaby resumed. “Just there, along the torso, and continuing a short way up the side of the sofa. The rest of the blood appears to have dropped, splattered, or run in a natural fashion, but there you can see it’s been smeared. Someone was soaking up a bit of it, perhaps with a simple rag. There are then droplets of blood on the arm of the sofa marking a trail, obscured briefly by that pool, but resuming on a straight course for the window. One can only deduce that the culprit daubed some item in the wound, then ran for his exit. I imagine the trail continues on the pavement below. If followed, it might just lead to—”

“It doesn’t,” Marlowe interrupted. “I followed it myself with two of my best detectives.”

Jackaby glanced at Charlie again for a moment, and addressed his next question to him. “And all three of you lost the scent?”

“Detective Cane was not present during the pursuit,” Marlowe cut in. “But yes, the blood droplets petered out by Winston Street. I was able to track his footprints a few blocks farther, to Market, but there the trail became impossibly lost.” The inspector continued to stare at Jackaby, his gaze locked as tight as a pair of manacles.

Jackaby, whether by mere affectation or true obliviousness, paid no mind to the inspector’s focused attention. “Interesting. And why wasn’t he present during the pursuit?”