Jackaby Page 16

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Looking,” he managed, without glancing up. He tucked two of the tomes under his arm and leafed through a third as he brushed past me, back into the hall. Jenny scowled as he passed right through her shoulder before she had time to pull away.

  “Haven’t you already been through all these?”

  “Yes, but now I know what I’m looking for!” He zipped down the crooked corridor.

  “And what, precisely, is that?” I was yelling after Jackaby, as he dashed out of sight. He either didn’t hear me or couldn’t be bothered to respond. I gave the still-scowling Jenny a quick apology. As I hurried out, I noticed that the frying pan had been removed from the wall. The rough hole it had carved still remained, and orange light from the sunset was trickling through it into the hallway. I found myself thinking that, all things considered, the poor ghost really was a remarkably patient roommate.

  I caught up with Jackaby again halfway down the block. He was so buried in one of his books, I was surprised he was able to notice my arrival, let alone navigate the walk, but as I drew near, he pitched the other two books into my hands. His lips moved silently and rapidly as his eyes zipped over the pages.

  “Jackaby—what are we looking for?” I demanded.

  He pried his eyes slowly up from the page and caught my gaze. “Lead.”

  “Lead? What—as in the metal?”

  He dropped the last book into my arms atop the others. “That might help, at least. And some decent kindling.”

  He picked up the pace again and hastened toward the center of town. It was all I could do not to drop his books or crack my tailbone on the icy roads as I struggled to keep up.

  The sun was melting into a reddish haze behind the buildings and treetops, and I turned my collar to the biting cold. Here and there, stars were beginning to peek through the gaps in the dark sky, but the moon was nothing but a diffused glow behind the shifting curtain of clouds. It did little to illuminate the shadowy streets. Terraced with well-kept brickwork, a broad stretch of sidewalk opened ahead of us, forming a semicircle around a statue of an important-looking soldier on a rampant horse. A few large flower boxes had been erected at some point to lend color to the block, but the frost had long since finished off the blooms. Across the street sat the city hall, regal, white columns dominating its façade and leaving the recessed entrance a sheet of inscrutable black.

  Around the rampant statue, a crowd of a dozen or so uniformed officers had begun to collect. They milled about, some attempting to look alert and attentive, others unabashedly sitting on the edges of flower boxes and puffing away on cigarettes.

  Curtains in the surrounding buildings darted open here and there, revealing the curious faces of residents taking notice of the gathering. A few passing workmen stopped to lean against the fence, passing a silver flask around while they waited for something interesting to happen. By the evening’s end, they would not be disappointed. I caught sight of a pair of ladies whispering and casting severe and condescending looks in my direction. One wore a bonnet overloaded with flowers, and the other was in a canary yellow dress.

  “Yes, exactly,” came flower-bonnet’s nasal drone over the dull murmur of the square, “she’s that sort.”

  “Shameful,” intoned yellow-dress.

  I had no intention of playing their repentant lost lamb, withering at their glances. Instead, I threw them a cheeky wink as I jogged up the steps into the square. They looked mortified and bustled away, noses raised, in the opposite direction. I drew up to my employer’s side as he halted at last, my heavy breaths puffing out in pillowy, white clouds ahead of me. He was scanning the assembled officers, and those still trickling in from Mason Street, when his eyes narrowed slightly and his posture straightened.

  I tried to slow my labored breathing and spot the target of his interest. “What is it?” I whispered.

  Jackaby nodded in the direction of a slender alley through which a figure was approaching, wearing a dark cloak and stiff top hat. The drainage grates billowed steam across the alleyway, shrouding the figure in a pale silhouette at first. As he neared, his features grew slowly more distinct, until he reached the street and came out of the fog and shadows, revealing a bushy-bearded face with rosy cheeks. Jackaby relaxed. “No one. Never mind.”

  “Wait, I’ve met him,” I realized. “Let me see . . . Mr. Stapleton, I think. He tried to buy a tin of Old Bart’s from me.” He spotted me as we passed, and gave a polite nod of recognition, which I returned before he continued out of sight down the lane.

  Jackaby looked at me. “Why were you selling tins of—wait, Stapleton?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “As in Stapleton Foundry? As in Stapleton Metalworks?”

  “Maybe? I don’t know. He was nice. He told me to keep my chin up.” Jackaby was already hurrying off after the man.

  “Wait here!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going to see a man about some lead!”

  I stood, alone, clutching Jackaby’s old books to my chest and stamping my feet to keep out the cold while I watched the police officers collect.

  “Hello again, Abigail Rook,” called a familiar female voice behind me, and I turned to see who had spoken. All around were men in uniform, and none of them appeared remotely interested in me.

  “Something different about you,” she continued. She was only a few feet away when I finally spotted her.

  “Oh, hello, Hatun! I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you at first.”

  The old woman smiled knowingly. “Findin’ a place in the world, I see,” she said, and brushed her shawl casually with one mittened hand. “And how are the new lodgings? Comfortable?”

  “What’s that? Oh, yes, I suppose. Jackaby has lent me the use of a room. Speaking of which, did you happen to see where—”

  “That isn’t it, though,” she cut me off, subjecting me to the same suspicious, narrow-eyed examination as she had during our first encounter. “Somethin’ else . . .”

  “Right, well,” I said. “I would love to talk, but I really must be . . .”

  “Oh dear.” Hatun shook her head and blinked several times, as if trying to clear from her eyes the drifting spots that come of looking at bright lights for too long. “Oh dear, oh dear, indeed. You oughtn’t go looking for him. No, not a wise idea. Really for the best you stay clear of him tonight. Keep away from Jackaby.” Her eyes squinted at me. “That’s what’s different about you, I think.”

  I hesitated. “There’s something different about me, and it has to do with Jackaby?”

  “I’m afraid so, dear. You must not follow him. It’s simply dreadful.”

  “What is, exactly?”

  She shook her head again, and her whole face tightened as though she had chomped down on a lemon. She looked up suddenly, and patted my cheek in a surprisingly sweet, grandmotherly gesture. “The—what’s the word? Immense, innocence, imminence, yes—that’s it. The imminence of it,” she said, “your demise.”

  “The imminence of my demise?” I stared at the woman, with her tender eyes and layers of wrinkles, and let her words sink in.

  I believed her, I realized, but I had already come to terms with my death so many times in the span of a day, I found it difficult to be frightened by the announcement. I had crested that emotional hill already, and the view was becoming familiar. “Thank you, earnestly,” I said, all the same. “Your concern is touching.”

  Her omen delivered, Hatun seemed to, as Jackaby phrased it, “oscillate” instantly back to normalcy. She nodded and wished me well, as if we had just met at a casual luncheon, then shuffled away, melting into the milling crowd.

  Soon the ranks of police had crept to nearly a hundred men, and they continued shuffling in from the streets and alleys. Some wore full uniforms; others had hastily pulled their navy blue jackets over evening clothes, clearly roused from their homes while off duty. One chilly-looking young fellow wore a pair of spotted pajamas, with only his stiff blue hat a
nd black baton to identify him as a man of the law. I was impressed that Marlowe had agreed to Jackaby’s wild request at all, let alone that he had managed to summon so many men so quickly, and at this hour of the night.

  The chief inspector himself strode through the crowd at the far end of the square. The officers most familiar with him turned at the sound of the handcuffs, jangling at his side, and they were at attention the moment they caught sight of the imposing figure. Even those who must have been from different departments made at least a token effort to sit up straighter on their flower boxes. The inspector made a beeline to stand beside me, surveying the men as he spoke.

  “Where is he?”

  “He’ll be right back,” I assured the inspector, wishing all the more that I had kept a line of sight on my employer. I shifted my grip on Jackaby’s books, feeling small and awkward beside the chief inspector. The last time we had been this close without Jackaby, he had been accusing me of murder. At least this time he was on our side. “You’ve certainly assembled an impressive crowd, sir. Is this every policeman in New Fiddleham?”

  “Of course not,” Marlowe grunted. “Most of the on-duty officers will stay right where they’re assigned. It would be irresponsible to leave New Fiddleham unprotected. There are, however, runners rousing available men from every district in the city. I hope you understand, Miss Rook”—the chief inspector turned his head in my direction, looking down his arrow-straight nose at me—“that I have used the very last of my pull with Commissioner Swift to draw this much manpower. I have taken responsibility for what is becoming a remarkably public spectacle. It is of the utmost importance to me that this not become a colossal waste of time and resources. So where, I will ask you again, is Jackaby?”

  “He’s . . . about.” I scanned the square frantically for any sign of that silly knit cap. I recognized a few faces in the crowd. O’Doyle, the barrel-chested brute I had first encountered at the Emerald Arch, was there, along with the two guards who had been given the unfortunate task of searching Jackaby’s building. It appeared those two had at least had enough time to change into fresh uniforms. The portly officer with the walrus mustache was huddled with a few of his colleagues, chatting and rubbing his arms to stay warm.

  Toward the back of the crowd, to my surprise, I even spotted Charlie Cane. The poor, tired detective had pulled his uniform back on—if he’d even had time to remove it—but he was clearly in bad shape. His well-polished buttons and pointed shoes still glistened, but his uniform was no longer crisp, and his posture sagged. He kept to the rear, not socializing with his comrades, and kept glancing back down the street, as if longing to return to his bed. I tried to catch his eye to offer a sympathetic smile, but the detective’s head hung low and his gaze was downcast.

  I finally spotted Jackaby on the far side of the statue, working his way inward through the field of uniforms, when there erupted a hubbub to my left. I turned and watched as idle chatter rapidly died away, and the wall of blue coats parted to allow through the commissioner himself. The officers’ reactions to Marlowe’s entrance now seemed lackadaisical compared to their instant metamorphosis in Swift’s presence. Guts were sucked in, lit cigarettes vanished, and orderly ranks miraculously formed from the chaos. Charlie, uncharacteristically, seemed the exception to the spreading current of professionalism. He stayed to the back of the crowd and continued to glance from side to side, as if thinking of slinking away at any moment. Something else seemed odd about him. It took a moment to really see it across the square, but in spite of the icy chill, I realized Charlie was glistening with sweat. He was nearly obscured by the crowd’s foggy breath and fading cigarette smoke, but I now noticed the steaming heat rising off him like a furnace. He was breathing hard, and I worried that his overexertions had made him terribly ill. Something in me ached to rush to his aid. My attention, however, was dragged back to the commissioner as he crossed into my line of sight.

  Swift had taken the time to pull on his long, dark coat with the deep red trim and matching crimson derby, but below the charcoal hem of the coat, a pair of silk pajama legs was visible. His leg braces had been strapped over these with haste, leaving the material creased and folded. He marched with his usual determined, steady stride, sheer force of will driving him past pain and into general malice. Whether from cold or because he had not had time to oil them, the braces punctuated each step with a louder-than-usual squeak and clink.

  “This had better be good,” he snarled to the chief inspector, drawing to a stop beside him. The commissioner’s voice was deep and ragged, and although he stood half a foot shorter than Marlowe, the chief inspector still straightened, looking like a boy called to the front of the class. Like Marlowe, Commissioner Swift now stood, surveying the crowd of men, scowling darkly as he did.

  Shuffling through the crowd in the commissioner’s wake came the scrawny fellow in the straw boater I had seen at the station. He drew up beside Swift and whispered something in his ear. I caught the word “constituents.” Swift’s eyes darted up to the faces in the windows and to the pedestrians beginning to gather on either side of the square. He met an eye here and there and attempted to turn his scowl into a congenial and reassuring political smile. The expression failed to extend to his eyes, and the result was an even more unpleasant grimace.

  His eyes caught mine and lingered; then he turned his gaze to Marlowe. “Didn’t I tell you to leave that one locked up until this was over?” he growled through a forced smile.

  “Yes, sir.” Marlowe gave me an annoyed glance, as if my existence were a regrettable irritation. “There have been some substantial developments in the case.”

  Jackaby had made his way to the center of the square when I spotted him, at last. He was not carrying any metal that I could see, lead or otherwise, but seemed to have collected a few small, broken branches. Amid such a gathering of stoic, uniformed officers, he looked especially ridiculous as he grasped one of the horse’s marble hind legs and scrabbled to climb atop the statue’s base. At one point he hung nearly upside down, with his coat dangling beneath him.

  Swift, of course, took notice. “Who the hell is that idiot?”

  Before Marlowe could answer, Jackaby addressed the crowd.

  “Excuse me! May I have your attention, please!” he called out, completely unnecessarily. Every eye was already on the mad detective, who was hunching slightly under the rearing hooves of the marble horse. “Yes, hello, everyone. Many of you know me, but if you have never had occasion to work with me—or to arrest me—my name is R. F. Jackaby. I would like to thank all of you for coming out tonight. I’d have liked a slightly larger showing, but I suppose you will have to do. And thank you, Inspector Marlowe, for pulling this together on my behalf.”

  Swift’s head turned very, very slowly to Marlowe. “This is your informant?”

  Marlowe, in turn, deflected the attention to me. “What is that lunatic doing?”

  “I’m afraid I really can’t tell you, sir,” I said.

  Jackaby continued from atop the pedestal. “Now then, I would like to assure you all that we will have our man tonight if we all work together. We shall need to prepare a few things first, so pay attention. First of all, it would be helpful if one of you toward the front could get a small fire going. It needn’t be overly large, no bonfire, just a little campfire should do. Yes, you, there, with the turquoise aura and the cigarette tucked up in your ear—have you got a matchbox? Yes? Splendid. I’ve already collected up a bit of kindling that isn’t entirely damp—here you are.”

  A soft ripple of subdued laughter and hushed voices was sneaking through the crowd, and the man Jackaby indicated was pushed forward. Jackaby reached down and dropped the branches into his hands.

  Commissioner Swift’s face was reddening to nearly the same tone as his hat. “Marlowe . . .”

  “His methods are . . . unconventional.” Marlowe stared at the detective as if the strength of his glare could will Jackaby to be less, well, Jackaby. “But, strange as it s
ounds, his meddling has managed to push investigations to their turning point on more than one occasion.”

  A voice from the ranks called out, “Come on, then! Make him a fire, Danny! He can’t cast his magic spells without a good fire!” This was quickly followed by a round of barely muffled chortling.

  Jackaby straightened and called out, “I assure you, I am a consummate professional. I do not cast spells!” Which might have done a better job of quieting the crowd had he not clocked his head on the horse’s rampant hoof as he said it. That would have been enough, but he insisted on defending himself further. “And, for your information, seldom has an open flame been requisite in the successful spells I have observed, and it appears to be a negligible factor in spell casting on the whole.” He said it with such earnestness that the crowd paused for a moment, holding its collective breath before launching into another round of jeering and laughter.

  Jackaby looked mildly hurt. Swift looked homicidal. “This is on your head, Marlowe. If your crackpot imbecile makes a laughingstock of my police force—a laughingstock of me right in the damned center of town, so help me . . .”

  “Understood, sir.” Marlowe was still staring daggers at the detective. “If he can point us to our killer, though, even if he is making an ass of himself publicly, then there’s no harm done to the department’s reputation.”

  “Gentlemen,” Jackaby said, resuming his announcement, “this will not be easy news to bear, but the villain we’re after is hiding behind a badge. I mean to say, he is here among us, even now, hidden in plain sight—a terrible creature in the guise of not just any man, but a policeman.”

  As he spoke, the clouds drifted apart, washing the square with moonlight and illuminating the faces of a hundred policemen—suddenly uncertain whether to be amused, offended, or afraid. The onlookers lost their smiles, and still more faces appeared in the surrounding windows.