Jackaby Read online

“It isn’t strange? I suppose you see people with their chests ripped open every day?”

  “What the . . . detective is saying,” came a new voice from the doorway, hesitating on the word “detective,” as if bestowing the title with great reluctance, “is that the blood that isn’t here is more of a mystery than the blood that is.”

  I turned. A uniformed policeman with two silver bars on his sleeve stepped into the room, looking down sternly at Jackaby. Heavy iron handcuffs hung from his belt and clinked against his leg in a measured rhythm until he drew to a halt just a few paces from the body. He was clean-shaven, with a hard jawline.

  Jackaby did not look up. He fished about in his pockets and continued examining the body through various vials and tinted lenses as he spoke. “Right you are, Chief Inspector,” Jackaby said. “This carpet alone should be entirely saturated, and yet it’s hardly stained except immediately about the torso. It looks as though the wound’s been daubed. Just here, and all the way across, like someone’s taken a towel to mop it up.” He packed an oblong jade disk back into a pocket and got to his feet. Speaking more to himself, he added, “Only, why bother cleaning up the body at all if you plan on leaving the scene like this?”

  “Thank you ever so much,” said Chief Inspector Marlowe, “for providing me with deductions I had reached an hour before you trespassed onto my crime scene. And now, Mr. Jackaby, any reason I shouldn’t have you in a cell for the remainder of this investigation?”

  “What, just for paying you a friendly visit at work?”

  “For that, and also for obstruction, trespassing . . . hell—I’m sure that god-awful hat of yours is worth a couple of charges all by itself. You still haven’t thrown that rag away?”

  “Obstruction? Is that what you call freely offering my invaluable insights?”

  “There’s not a lot of value in insights I can provide for myself.”

  “Wait, there’s more than that,” I piped up, instantly wishing I had stayed silently in the corner. “Er, he noticed something else . . .”

  The chief inspector interrupted. “No, no, let me guess: the culprit is . . .” He paused for mock dramatic effect. “Not human?”

  “As a matter of fact,” answered Jackaby.

  “Just like the thieves in the Winston Street Bank case?”

  “They most certainly weren’t human,” Jackaby answered. “Welsh pixies, a small clan.”

  “And the bar fight at Mickey’s Tavern?”

  “Well, not the scrawny fellow, obviously, but I maintain that big bloke was a troll. Half blood at least.”

  “And the ‘Grocery Ghost’ who kept rearranging produce after hours?”

  “Okay, I have already admitted I was wrong on that one. As we saw, that was Miss Maudie from Hampton Street, but you have to admit, the old girl is very strange.”

  Marlowe breathed in deeply and sighed, shaking his head, then turned his attention to me. “And you are?”

  I gave the inspector my name and started to explain about my arrival and the job posting. He cut me off again.

  “Another one?” He directed the question at Jackaby, then turned back to me. “A little advice, young lady. Get out before he drags you too far into his craziness. This business is not for the female temperament. Now both of you, I want you off this crime scene and out of my way. This isn’t some two-bit bar fight—this is murder. Out!” He turned and called into the hallway, “Detective Cane, between this idiot and Mr. Henderson, I’ve had quite enough lunacy for one afternoon. Please show the man and his young lady off the premises.”

  Marlowe stepped aside, and Charlie Cane appeared, looking uncomfortable and fiddling nervously with the polished buttons on his uniform.

  “Nice chat as always, Marlowe,” said Jackaby pleasantly as he passed. Marlowe grunted. I followed my new employer into the hallway and the chief inspector slammed the door behind us.

  “Well, he’s cheerful today,” Jackaby quipped.

  “Oh, Marlowe is an exceptional chief inspector,” Charlie replied.

  “I’m sure he is,” I said, “Detective Cane, isn’t it?”

  His gaze dropped, and he looked sheepishly aside. “It’s Junior Detective, to be totally accurate, miss,” he said. He met my glance again with a smile before he went on. “It really is an honor to work with Chief Inspector Marlowe. He’s just a bit edgier than usual today. The new commissioner is supervising this case very closely. He makes Marlowe tense.”

  “Who’s Henderson?” asked Jackaby.

  “Who?” said Charlie.

  “Henderson. Marlowe mentioned him. Something about lunatics.”

  “Oh, that would be William Henderson—room 313. He is . . . odd. We thought he might have some useful information, because he says he heard wailing early this morning, like someone crying very hard. Only, when the inspector asks him how long the cries persisted, Mr. Henderson looks at him funny and says they haven’t stopped. He tells us all to listen, and says they’re clear as anything, can’t we hear them? Now, we all listen—and I have very good ears. There is no sound. Henderson insists it’s as loud as though someone were weeping in that very room, and shouldn’t we do something about it? He begins to get agitated, so the inspector excuses himself, assuring the man we would look into it. Very odd.”

  “Interesting.” Jackaby started on down the hallway, glancing at room numbers as he passed. I hurried after him.

  “Wait,” said Charlie, following. “I told the inspector I would take you out of the building.”

  “And so you shall,” Jackaby called over his shoulder. “Expertly, I imagine, and to the letter of the instruction. However, I don’t recall Marlowe giving any specific directions about time, nor about the route we take, so let’s have a quick chat with someone odd, first, shall we? I do love odd. Ah, here we are!”

  Jackaby rapped firmly on the door to room 313. After a pause, it flung itself open, and we faced a poorly shaven man with bushy, muttonchop sideburns, tired, sunken eyes, and a pair of bright red pajamas. Around his head a leather belt had been strapped, holding two decorative throw pillows tightly to his ears. Little fabric tassels on one of them swayed to a stop as he stared at us from beneath a furrowed brow.

  “Well?” the man said.

  Jackaby smiled and extended a hand in greeting. “Mr. Henderson, I presume?”

  Chapter Six

  Mr. Henderson stepped back to let us into his flat, which was a nearly perfect match for the victim’s, except that this one had a worn sofa in place of the writing desk, and a mix of colorful fruit had been arranged in a bowl on the table. Mr. Henderson made no motion to remove the cushions from his ears, and instead shouted his disapproval at the police department for not having put a stop to the noise. He slumped onto the couch and scowled.

  “We are not with the police department,” said Jackaby. He pulled out a thin leather satchel and laid it on the table.

  “Well,” said Charlie, “I am.”

  “We are not with the police department, except for those of us who are,” Jackaby revised. “Mr. Henderson, could you describe the cries you’re hearing, please?” He untied the leather lace around his satchel and rolled it out on the table with a light clinking. From over his shoulder I could see that it contained three slim pockets, which housed metallic instruments of some sort.

  “How can you not hear it?” the man demanded, still yelling. “Is it . . . Is there something wrong with me?”

  “Just describe the sound, please,” repeated Jackaby.

  “It’s so . . . so . . . so . . .” The man’s voice wavered and softened with each “so,” and his eyes fell downward. “So sad.”

  “Remove the cushions, if you would, Mr. Henderson,” said Jackaby. He had selected a small metal rod that forked into two long prongs.

  Henderson glanced back up. His eyes had welled slightly with tears, and his brow, no longer knit in aggravation, melted into a pitiful, pleading look.

  “Mr. Henderson,” repeated Jackaby, “the cushions, please.�
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  Henderson slowly raised his hands and pulled the belt off his head. The cushions fell away. His eyes immediately slammed shut and his whole body flinched, tensing into itself as a silent wail apparently assaulted his ears.

  “Where are the cries coming from?” asked Jackaby firmly. “Can you tell what direction?”

  Tears dripped from Henderson’s clenched eyes, and he shook his head, whether to answer “no” or to shake away the sound, I couldn’t say.

  Jackaby held the rod loosely and tapped the metal prongs against the table. A clear, pure, sustained note rang out. It was a simple tuning fork. Henderson’s body instantly relaxed, and he nearly collapsed onto the sofa. He sniffled, and gazed up, wide-eyed. The note hummed pleasantly for several seconds, growing quieter and quieter. Before it could fully fade away, Jackaby tapped it again.

  “And now?” Jackaby inquired.

  “I—I can still hear it,” stammered Henderson, his voice a mix of relief and confusion. “But more distant. Still so sad, the wailing. It sounds like . . .” He sniffed and cut himself off.

  “Like what?” prompted Jackaby, gentle but relentless.

  “Reminds me,” the man continued with difficulty, “of the way my mother cried at Papa’s funeral. Just . . . just like that.”

  Jackaby tapped the tuning fork again. “It’s a woman’s voice, then?” Henderson nodded. “And now, can you judge where it’s coming from?”

  Henderson concentrated, and his eyes drifted to the ceiling. “From above us,” he decided.

  “Directly?” Jackaby asked. “The apartment above yours, perhaps?”

  Henderson focused again, and Jackaby tapped the tuning fork to help. “No,” he answered, “just a bit . . . that way, I think.”

  “Excellent. We shall attend to the matter directly. While I have you lucid, however, I would appreciate it if you could think back to yesterday evening. Did you happen to notice anything odd? Strangers in the stairwell, perhaps?”

  Henderson breathed heavily and scratched his hair where it was still pressed flat from the cushions. “I don’t think so. Nothing very odd. Her voice . . .”

  “Anything before the voice? Anything at all?”

  The man thought again, his head rocking back and forth. “I don’t think so. Someone upstairs was playing the fiddle earlier. I hear them a lot, late in the afternoon. Not bad. Someone was at the hall window during the night, too. Probably that Greek from across the hall. He goes out to smoke cigars on the balcony—thinks his wife doesn’t know. He isn’t very subtle about it, tromps about like an elephant. Nothing strange. Although . . .”

  “Yes?” Jackaby prompted.

  “There was another sound . . . like . . . like—ugh—I don’t know.” His brow crumpled in frustration at the effort to recall. Jackaby tapped the fork again, and the man breathed, focusing.

  “Like . . . something metal. Clink-clink. Like that. Probably just his watch banging on its chain, I guess. Not long after that, the crying started. She was so sad . . .”

  “Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Henderson.” Jackaby flipped the satchel closed with his free hand and tucked it deep into his coat. He gave the tuning fork one final tap before striding toward Henderson. “I’ll be back to retrieve this later,” he said, holding out the fork, “but I think it’s best if you keep it for now.”

  Henderson took the offering delicately, holding it carefully by the stem to avoid dampening the crystal clear tone. The rims of his eyes were nearly as red as his pajamas, but they were full of gratitude. He nodded, and Jackaby patted his shoulder, a bit awkwardly, and headed out the door.

  Jackaby was already examining the window at the end of the hallway as I stepped out. He flicked the latch open, closed, and open again, and felt along the frame. A very slim balcony was visible just outside, housing a pot of dirt, which might presumably have contained a plant before the frost set in. Before I could ask if he noticed anything unusual, he was striding back down the hallway in the opposite direction. Charlie and I flanked him, quickstepping quietly past the closed door of room 301 and into the stairwell.

  “I wonder how many floors we have above us,” mused Jackaby as he mounted the steps.

  “Should be just one more,” I offered. “There were four rows of mailboxes in the lobby, and the numbers only went from the one-hundreds to the four-hundreds. So, unless there’s an attic . . .” I trailed off. We had reached the landing. The stairs did indeed conclude with one more hallway door, and Jackaby turned to look at me with his head cocked to one side as I caught up.

  “The mailboxes?” he said.

  “Er, yes. In the lobby.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up in a bemused grin. “That’s quite sharp, Miss Rook. Quite sharp, indeed.”

  “You think so?” I found myself eager to impress my strange new employer. “Is that helpful to the investigation?”

  Jackaby chuckled, turning away to open the door. “Not in the slightest—but very keen, nonetheless. Very keen.”

  Chapter Seven

  The fourth floor of the Emerald Arch Apartments was nearly identical to the third. Light stumbled meekly out of the dirty oil lamps, testing the floor without really diving down to brighten it. Jackaby hastened to 412 and knocked loudly.

  “What are we looking for, exactly?” I whispered to my employer as we waited. I could hear the shuffling of motion from within the room.

  “I don’t know,” answered Jackaby, “but I’m excited to find out, aren’t you?”

  The door opened to a middle-aged man in an undershirt, pressed trousers, and suspenders. He held a damp towel, and daubs of shaving cream clung around the corners of his jawline. “Yes?” he said.

  Jackaby looked the man up and down. “No, sorry. Wrong room,” he declared. “You’re clearly just a man.” With no further explanation, he left the confused fellow to his morning.

  Jackaby rapped firmly on 411, and a woman answered. She wore a clean, simple, white dress buttoned neatly up to her neck, and her red hair was tied back in a prim bun. “Hello? What is it? I already told the last one that I didn’t see a thing.” Her accent was distinctly Irish, and edged with quiet annoyance.

  “Simply a woman,” said Jackaby after another cursory examination. “No use. My apologies.” He turned on his heel and advanced toward number 410.

  The woman, having been far less satisfied with the encounter than Jackaby, came out of her room. “And just what do you mean by that?” she demanded.

  I did my very best to blend into the wallpaper as she stalked after the detective. Charlie, I noticed, had taken a keen interest in the points of his well-polished shoes.

  “Simply a woman?” she repeated. “Nothing simple about it! I’ve had enough of the likes of you, going on about the weaker sex, and such. Twig like you, care to see who’s weaker?”

  Jackaby called backward without looking behind him, “I mean only that you’re of no use at this time.”

  Charlie shook his head.

  The woman bristled. “I am an educated woman, a nurse, and a caregiver! How dare you . . .”

  Jackaby turned at last. “Madam, I assure you, I meant only that you are not special.”

  I cupped a palm over my face.

  The woman reddened several shades. Jackaby smiled at her in what I’m certain he felt was a reassuring and pleasant manner following a reasonable explanation. He seemed prepared to let the whole thing wash away as a friendly misunderstanding. What he was not prepared for, apparently, was to be socked in the face.

  It was not a ladylike swat or symbolic gesture. The force of it actually spun the detective halfway around, and his trip to the ground was interrupted only briefly by the wall catching him on the ear on the way down.

  The woman loomed over him, all silky white linen and fury. “Not special? Simply a woman? I am Mona O’Connor. I come from a proud line of O’Connors, stretching back to the kings and queens of Ireland, and I’ve got more fight in me than a wet sock of a man like you could
ever hope to muster. What do you have to say about that?”

  Jackaby sat up, swaying slightly. He waggled his jaw experimentally, then snapped his attention to his attacker. Thoughts rolled across his gray eyes like clouds in a thunderstorm. “You said O’Connor?”

  “That’s right. Have a problem with the Irish, too, do you?” Miss O’Connor squared her jaw and looked down the bridge of her nose at Jackaby, daring him to confirm the prejudice.

  Jackaby climbed to his feet, dusted off his coat, which clinked and jingled as the contents of various pockets resettled, and tossed his scarf back over one shoulder. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss O’Connor. I don’t suppose you have a roommate?”

  Mona’s stance faltered. She looked briefly to Charlie and me, finding only equal bewilderment, and then back at the detective. He smiled at her again with charming, innocent curiosity. The left side of his face was red, and the outlines of four dainty fingers were slowly gaining definition. He was behaving in precisely the manner in which a man who had just been walloped across the face should not behave.

  “An old relative, perhaps?” he prompted, continuing as though nothing had happened, “Or a family friend? Been around since you were just a girl, I imagine.”

  The red left Mona’s face.

  “Getting on in years, I expect, but hard to place just how many?” Jackaby persisted. “Been around as far back as you can remember, and yet she seems just as old in your memory as she is today?”

  The rest of the color left Mona’s face as well.

  “How did you . . . ?” she began.

  “My name is R. F. Jackaby, and I would very much like to meet her, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  Mona’s brow tensed, but her resolve had clearly been shaken. “My mum . . . My mum made me promise I’d look after her.”

  “I mean her no harm, you have my word.”

  “She’s having one of her . . . one of her spells. I . . . Look, I’m sorry about—er—that business earlier, but I think you’d better come back some other time.”

  “Miss O’Connor, it is my belief that lives hang in the balance, and so I’m afraid the time is now. I promise to help in any way I can with her spell. May we please come in?”