Jackaby

by William Ritter

  He glanced about the station and then met my eyes. “Interesting,” he said.

  “We’re alive,” I said.

  “So it would seem.” He crossed to the window and looked outside. Everything had returned to normal, except for the oppressive quiet. The usual patter of footsteps and carts on the street had stopped, and the faintest of noises hung too clearly in the absence of other sounds.

  “Do you think they caught him?”

  Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “It’s possible. It would account for the rapid shift in our fates.”

  “I thought for sure the whole lot of us were dead,” I said, letting the idea warm up inside me. “But, no one died at all! We’re safe! Everyone’s safe!” I smiled at my employer, who allowed himself a hint of a grin in response.

  And then a distant scream cut across the silence. It was a woman’s voice—not the banshee’s, but a very human cry, full of shock and sadness and distress. It sounded very small and alone as it echoed across the quiet streets.

  I swallowed hard, the elation of our survival draining out of me. “Who do you think . . . ?” I left the question hanging in the air.

  “I haven’t a clue.” Jackaby’s voice took a hard edge, and he scowled out the little window for several silent moments. “I need to get out of this cell. This has gone on long enough.” He began to pace.

  “And how do you intend to go about that?” I asked him. The constant stresses that seemed to be riling my employer had the opposite effect on me. No longer in immediate danger, I felt my adrenaline rapidly wane, and the exhaustion of a day full of heady emotions weighed heavily on my eyes. I slid down to sit on the cool ground against the wall, and rested my head on my knees.

  “I’ll have to employ delicate and deliberate elocution. I’m sure our jailer can be persuaded to see reason.”

  “You’re going to try to talk your way out?”

  “Don’t sound so skeptical. Just you watch, Miss Rook. We’ll be back out and on the trail in minutes. I’m very good with people.”

  Many hours later, I was roused from near sleep by the loud rattle of my cell door opening. Jackaby was restlessly waiting by his own door, his persistent but fruitless efforts to negotiate our release having apparently abated some time earlier. A glance showed me that my release had come at the hands of Junior Detective Cane. He gave me a reassuring smile, and opened Jackaby’s cell while I shook myself fully awake and rose. Charlie’s posture was alert and professional, as usual, but I doubted very much if he had slept at all in the last two days. His hair was mussed, dark stubble was coming in thick across his jaw, and his eyes still looked bloodshot.

  “So,” I said, “we’re free now?”

  “We’re being released on our own recognizance, Miss Rook,” Jackaby announced, dusting off his sleeves and stretching.

  Charlie nodded. “Marlowe’s still not happy with you about hiding evidence, but he agreed that being in police custody during the murder is a fairly convincing alibi.” His voice was hoarse and a little gravelly, and even his accent was slipping slightly, more Slavic syllables inserting themselves in his words.

  “So there has been another murder?”

  Charlie nodded. “Yes. We were nearly on the scene when it happened. That Irish woman, Miss O’Connor, was there when we found the body. It was just the same as the others, sir.” His voice was solemn. “Mrs. Morrigan is dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Charlie nodded to the duty officer as we left the cell, and the portly man slid the door closed behind us. “The banshee,” I said as we walked. “She was singing her own last song, then. That poor thing. We listened to her die, and we didn’t even know it!”

  Charlie led us down the same hallway we had taken to reach the interrogation chamber. This time we took an early turn, and he rapped on the barred window of a desk set into an alcove. Beyond a panel of glass and thin bars stood long shelves of wire baskets. Peeking out of the tops were items ranging from gentlemen’s hats and gloves to a bullwhip and what appeared to be the top of a bowling pin. A few items, obviously too large to fit into the baskets, were arranged along the walls. While we waited, Jackaby chuckled to himself and pointed at an oversized Mexican sombrero with fine beadwork along the brim and a massive hole on one side. It looked as though some great beast had sampled it like a dainty chocolate, then returned it to the box. “That was a memorable afternoon,” he said.

  The clerk arrived at last, rolling his eyes as soon as he caught sight of Jackaby. Charlie began to state our names officially, but the man waved him off. He handed Charlie a clipboard through the big slot at the bottom of the window and then trudged back out of sight. When he reappeared, he had a large metal tray and a sheet of paper. He slid the tray onto the desk and read from the paper.

  “A. Rook. One coat. One handkerchief. Please sign that all personal effects are accounted for, miss.”

  I pulled on the coat Jenny had lent me and tucked the handkerchief back in my pocket. Charlie handed me the clipboard, and I jotted my name on the line where he indicated. The clerk vanished again momentarily, and then returned, hefting three very full trays onto the desk with a loud clank. He sighed and stuffed Jackaby’s empty coat through the slot first. Thick though the material was, with all its pockets emptied, the thing looked like a deflated balloon.

  “I hate it when you spend the night,” grumbled the clerk. “I only barely got finished cataloguing this stuff. Always takes me forever just to find all the damned pockets.” He coughed and returned to a flat, professional drone as he slid the first tray out and read from the paper. “R. Jackaby. One coat—brown; one hat—various colors; one rabbit’s foot on chain; one vial, unidentified liquid—blue; one vial, unidentified liquid—amber; one matchbox containing dried beetle; one . . .”

  I had nearly nodded off again when Jackaby, once more loaded to nearly twice his body weight with paraphernalia, took the clipboard from Charlie and scrawled his mark. “Always a pleasure, Thomas. See you next time!”

  The clerk took the clipboard with a grunt, then waved us away, trudging back to the recesses of his office.

  I was surprised by how late it had gotten when we exited the police station. The sun was already approaching the horizon, and the innocuous shadows of the daytime were stretching to form a foreboding carpet of dusk. Lights had begun to sprout in a few city windows, reflected in broken patterns on the damp streets. They served only to darken and add menace to the shadows around them—although, admittedly, my perception was tinted by the knowledge that a serial murderer, one with motive to deliver us to our own horrific deaths, was lurking free in the city. My only consolation was that we were, at least, traveling with an escort. In spite of my earlier doubts about Charlie, I found I was once again grateful for his company.

  “I think I had best excuse myself.” Charlie’s words drew us to a stop at the first intersection. “It has been a very long day. I’ll be no good to anyone until I have had some rest.”

  It was no use arguing. The bags under Charlie’s eyes had collected bags of their own. His face was wan and badly in need of a shave, and the sweat and rain had plastered short, dark curls of hair to his temples. Weather and weariness had done nothing to diminish his strong jawline or the luster of his deep brown eyes, however, and I found myself doubly relieved that he was neither our villain nor the latest victim.

  “Certainly,” Jackaby answered. “Do see that you are safe and secure before retiring, of course.”

  “Of course. You, as well,” Charlie replied. “I have seen more bodies this week than I ever care to see again. I should not like to wake tomorrow to find yours.”

  With a nod, he turned down the street and quickly plunged into the shadows. Jackaby continued on straight, and I double-stepped to keep close. It was hard to ignore the eeriness of the deserted roads and encroaching chilly dark. While I doubted very much that one more companion would cause our dastardly villain anything but the slightest delay in dispatching us, I still lamented Charlie’s a
bsence, and mentioned as much to Jackaby.

  “Really?” My employer zigzagged up the cobbles in his usual rush. “You seem to have a renewed faith in the man.”

  “Well, it is certainly a relief to know he’s an ally, after all.”

  Jackaby slowed his pace and faced me, an eyebrow raised in my direction.

  “What?” I asked. “You can’t still suspect him! You saw him at the station, same as I did. He’s as much at risk as we are.”

  My employer pursed his lips and looked as one might while deciding whether or not to reveal the truth about the tooth fairy to a child who has failed to receive a coin beneath her pillow. He spoke in a measured tone. “Miss Rook, I’ve not decided on Mr. Cane’s guilt by any means. He did say that his life is complicated, and I believe he was telling the truth about that. Do consider, however, the circumstances by which you found him innocent. During his visit to the cell, it became clear he could hear the banshee’s wail—which suggested that he, too, was going to be a victim. As it turns out, though, everyone heard the wail, so we must assume that the murderer heard it, as well. The incident proved nothing.”

  I let the idea sink in. The shadows to every side darkened, and terrible fangs and bloodshot eyes inserted themselves behind every tree trunk. Something rustled in the foliage beside us, and—I’m not proud to admit it—I squeaked and leapt backward. A pigeon burst from the leaves and settled itself into the eaves of a building half a block down the lane.

  “Then again, it may have proven slightly more than nothing,” Jackaby amended, oblivious to my outburst. I hoped that he would be more aware of my distress if I were ever ambushed by a real nefarious fiend, but for the sake of my dignity I chose not to mention it. He went on, burrowing into his thoughts. “It reveals that the murderer was aware of Mrs. Morrigan—aware of who and what she was. With the banshee still living, each victim was alerted before the kill. So long as Mrs. Morrigan remained alive and keening, we had at least a clue as to where our killer was going next. He slaughtered her to eliminate our advantage.”

  We crossed the street, and I recognized where Jackaby was leading us. Half a block ahead stood the Emerald Arch. “Think we’ll find any new clues?” I asked.

  Jackaby shrugged. “Possibly. But I’m not here for that.”

  “Then, why . . . ?”

  “This time, I am here to pay my respects.”

  Marlowe was at the front door, giving instructions to a few of the uniforms when we arrived. He spotted our approach and held up a finger for us to wait while he wrapped up with the officers. Once he had sent them on their way, he turned and fixed us with a stare for several long seconds.

  “I told that boy to go get some rest, and we’d release you two in the morning. I swear, before you got involved, Cane was one of my best detectives. Reliable. Loyal to a fault. He would never ignore a direct order. You’re a bad influence.”

  “I do what I can.”

  “Well, try not to ruin him, would you? He still has a sense about these things. He was first on the scene again, did he tell you?”

  Jackaby shook his head.

  “Got a funny look on his face just as we neared the building. He yelled something about the fourth floor and bounded up the stairs three at a time. By the time we caught up with him, he was at their door, and that O’Connor woman was answering. She didn’t even know. She said she felt something was very wrong . . . but so did we all, I guess. She had been in the next room, and she didn’t even know what had happened until Cane pushed open that bedroom door. Hell of a sight. She let out a scream and just fell to pieces. Can’t say I blame her. Like I said, this sort of thing is not for the female temperament.” He directed that last sentiment at me, making eye contact for the first time.

  “I dare say you’re right, sir,” I conceded, meeting his gaze. “Out of curiosity, though, is there someone whose temperament you do find suited to this sort of thing? I think I would be most unnerved to meet a man who found it pleasant.”

  I wondered if Marlowe was going to tell me off for my forwardness, but he only grunted and shook his head. “Nothing pleasant about any of this.” He fell silent again for several seconds. Finally, he sighed, and his eyes cast upward for a moment before turning back to the door.

  “Come on, then.” He trudged inside the building without any further explanation or invitation. Jackaby, not needing any to begin with, was right behind him, and I jogged through before the door swung closed.

  I was alarmed to find Mona O’Connor still in her apartment. Someone had draped a thick quilt over her shoulders, probably the officer standing stiffly behind her, and she sat on the well-stuffed sofa, staring blankly into space. Her hair was disheveled, and several curly red locks hung across her face. She had the dull expression of one who has been scooped out entirely, and does not know what to do with the emptiness. No, not emptiness, exactly. Somewhere, through her eyes and deep inside the hollow, there was an ember of something just beginning to glow. It reminded me of Jackaby’s oblivious intensity, but with a far more dangerous edge about it.

  “Should she be here?” I asked Marlowe in a whisper. “Wouldn’t it be kinder to take her away from . . . from the scene?”

  The chief inspector nodded. “We tried.” His eyes darted to the officer, who, I noticed, had a bit of gauze wedged up each nostril, and a bluish bruise blossoming across the bridge of his crooked nose.

  Marlowe stepped toward the bedroom door and waited. Jackaby did not follow immediately, but went first to the sofa and knelt beside Mona. He spoke so quietly I could not hear a word, and he pulled from his pocket something that clinked gently in his palm. Some lucidity eased into her eyes for a moment, and she met his gaze and nodded, almost imperceptibly. He stood and crossed to the bedroom door. Marlowe opened it to admit the detective.

  I did not follow. From the doorway, I could just see the woman’s silvery hair, and I watched as Jackaby placed two coins gently over her eyes. I was grateful Marlowe had once again positioned himself to block the scene as much as he could. The smell of blood was cloying, even from a distance, and I did not wish to see the state of the poor old woman’s body.

  Jackaby murmured something that sounded like Latin, and then stepped out of the room. The chief inspector closed the door behind him. As both men made for the exit, Mona reached out and brushed Jackaby’s arm. He turned, and she fixed him with a solemn stare.

  “Kill him,” was all she said.

  My employer swallowed hard and met Mona’s eyes, but he gave no reply.

  We descended the stairs and reached the lobby in silence. Marlowe was the first to speak. “They’re getting worse,” he said. “The bastard’s rushing, getting sloppy.”

  “He wouldn’t have bothered to soak up Mrs. Morrigan’s blood, anyway,” said Jackaby, quietly. “Not the sort he needs, but you’re right. He knows we’re closing in.”

  “I must admit, Jackaby, I was hoping for a little more.”

  “Inspector?”

  “That was a kindness, back there. I think you did right by the old lady, don’t get me wrong. But the first time I actually invite you into a case, you barely glance at the scene at all.”

  “Marlowe, do you mean to say you are you finally enlisting my services?”

  The chief inspector shuddered involuntarily at the question, clenched his fists, and cracked his neck. “Something happened this afternoon that I can’t explain. People are dying. I don’t believe in you, or your ridiculous claims about magic and monsters, but you have a way of making things turn up, things like that map. I can’t ignore that just because you’re a lunatic and I don’t like you.”

  “Oh, Marlowe, you’re being too kind.”

  “Stuff it,” Marlowe growled. “And let me make this unmistakably clear. If you’re on this case, you report back to me. You do not withhold information. You do not conceal evidence. I know where you are and what you know at all times. You will respect the chain of command, and you will not question it. I am in charge. Is that understo
od?”

  Jackaby smiled, and his eyes glinted. Somewhere beneath the atrocious knit hat and that unkempt hair, cogs began to whir into motion.

  “Is that understood?” Marlowe repeated.

  “How quickly can you assemble every member of the police force at the town square?” Jackaby asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Every member. Every link in the chain. Highest to the lowest. If we’re going to capture him tonight, we’re sure to need every one of them.”

  “What?”

  “You’re right, that isn’t quite enough. I’ll need a few books, as well! Just call them, all of them. Miss Rook and I will meet you at the town square in—shall we say—half an hour?”

  “What?”

  “I daresay, Marlowe, we should work together more often. This is brilliant!” With a manic grin, Jackaby flung the door open wide and vaulted the steps. “We shall have him this very night!” he cried, his scarf and coat whipping behind him as he flew into the evening.

  Marlowe stood, speechless, in the lobby. I shrugged my bewilderment to him before chasing my employer down the street.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I could barely keep Jackaby in sight as we sped through the city streets. The wet cobblestones had chilled to glittering patches of ice, and my feet slid out from under me on more than one occasion as I tried to round sharp corners. By the time I reached the red door with its horseshoe knocker, I was sore and winded, and as baffled as ever. Jenny was hovering by the open door to the office as I came through the hallway. She looked to me for an explanation.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said, and peeked inside.

  The massive map had been stuffed to one side, and I noticed a few pins had managed to cling to their positions, dangling limply from the ruffled map, while the others must have been scattered across the floor. A book flew from behind the desk to land on the small pile beginning to collect in the leather armchair. Jackaby popped up, hurriedly flipping through the pages of another, and quietly cursing the lack of useful information he seemed to be finding.