The Case of the Singing Sword (The Billibub Baddings Mysteries)

by Tee Morris

  If I was reading Benny’s notes correctly, anyone handling the Singing Sword eventually had his name struck through with a line. No doubt these poor saps were the enlisted of Capone’s army, probably offered higher positions in the New Order once DeMayo took over. A small part of me understood why these guys followed DeMayo’s orders without question. It would be easy to grow tired of being cannon fodder for the Gang Wars. At any rate, these unlucky bagmen were answering to either Bennetti, Riletto, or DeMayo, thinking they were on an easy street to life in the palace.

  So much for rewarding loyalty in the New Order.

  As Benny had told me before, the plan was that the three of them—DeMayo, Riletto, and Bennetti—would call on one of Capone’s groundlings to pick up the Singing Sword, keep it on ice for a day or so, and then move it to another locale. And according to the dates, and drop points in Benny’s journal, this Sword really enjoyed Chicago, jumping from one side of the city to the other.

  After successfully moving the Sword twice, the name of each bagman simply disappeared from the book. As they were simple soldiers in the Organization under DeMayo’s command, they wouldn’t be missed if they weren’t mentioned. So it went that the Sword hopped from place to place, and never did all three of them know at one time where the sword was hidden. Of the three, DeMayo always knew where it was kept.

  It was a plan with a body count that would make an orc nod with approval.

  According to Benny’s journal, the last two foot soldiers to see the Singing Sword had been Two Times and Jimmy Hill. One was pushing up the daisies, the other was missing in action. I would make a wizard’s wager Hill was probably sharing room and board with Two Times.

  At this moment, I wanted to hit the streets and look deeper into Bennetti’s recent movements, but asking questions about a soldier in Capone’s army killed in the line of duty would attract the kind of attention I didn’t want or need. Another option would be looking into this other man, Jimmy Hill. As he was only missing, the police really wouldn’t care. And as he was barely a foot soldier, the mob wouldn’t pay attention, provided my questions didn’t get too close to the personal matters of the throne.

  Setting aside Benny’s book, I returned to my other sources: my notes from the crime scene and the museum, my journal from Acryonis, and a massive volume that I had nicknamed “My World Book Encyclopedia”—a little play on words from a set of books in the Washington Street library that had done a bang-up job acclimating me to this realm.

  I found this monster in a pawnshop’s display window while searching for dealers who would buy the Acryonis memorabilia I had brought with me from across the portal. What caught my eye about this curious item, proudly displayed among bric-a-brac, knick-knacks, and odds-and-ends, was the Elvish script and Dwarven glyphs burned into its worn leather cover. Sandwiched in between these unintelligible (well, unintelligible to anyone who didn’t know Elvish or Dwarven) markings was a single word: Chronicles.

  The price tag on it was steep, but still a fraction of what this book was worth to a guy like me. While the shopkeeper assessed the worth of my gauntlets (a Gryfennos pack-beast’s hide—softer, but more durable than this world’s leather—decorated with purest platinum), I sneaked a few more glances at the book in the window. As soon as I had enough greenbacks, I bought it, much to the owner’s surprise.

  “Thing was becomin’ an eyesore,” he said joyfully as he counted my cash. He was convinced he was getting a sweet deal, and that couldn’t have made me happier. Nothing wrong with being an ignorant human, mind you. Hey, ignorance is bliss, right?

  Trust me, if you knew what I knew about this book, you would pray for such bliss.

  These kinds of tomes alternated in their languages. Certain sections were written in the Dwarven glyphs while other passages featured various languages of Man and Elvish. It was kind of a “minimum security” for secrets, plus a way to make all the races feel they participated in the recording of history.

  A few pages later, I was staring at passages devoted to the Sword of Arannahs, thrilled to find this particular section written in my native tongue. I needed a lucky break, and I had found it in my own native tongue. Good thing, too—apart from labeling various goods in my kitchen and trying to rewrite a copy of The Red Headed League in Elvish, I was getting a little rusty. Maybe I’ll get lucky one day and run across an Elvish cookbook that was, for whatever reason, sucked into a portal. (It would be easy enough to pawn it off as Chinese calligraphy.) Not only would an elementary book like that help dust off the cobwebs, but elves have one mean recipe for peanut butter soup.

  Following the dawn of the First Age of Peace between the Realms, these parchments chronicle the forging of the Talismans of Acryonis. As the green of life continues to return across the moors, highlands, and valleys of our lands, whispers of the Darkness spawned from the hatred nurtured between the Races draw strength in the night, murmuring plans of bringing forth another scourge to the realm. Therefore have the Elders of each race now come together once more. Blessed be that we all meet not drawn or haggard by the toils of war, but as Kindred of Peace.

  Kindred of Peace? When dwarves try to write like elves, they just come across sounding stupid. I gave my eyes a quick rubdown, knowing this chunk of pretentiousness was merely the start of a long day’s reading that would probably stretch into the night. I wondered if I should ask Miranda to get me a fresh cup of Mick’s java, along with dinner, before she left for the day.

  The Darkness is what was created from the bitterness we Races carried as unseen weapons in our Great Wars, and so have the Elders created the Nine Talismans, sacred objects that will banish that which makes us susceptible to our most primal of desires.

  Were these dinks serious? These elders truly believed that they could channel all the hate, lust, greed, and ambition of men, dwarves, and elves into nine charmed hood ornaments? And then what? The world would be a better place? Yeah, sure.

  This is exactly why magicians of any race never held my trust. All those damn necromancers, enchanters, and sprite-oil salesmen bending the rules of Nature. If their magic succeeded in anything, it was in pissing off the Old Lady. What really bristled my beard were the sorcerers’ justifications in their tampering. Yeah, you heard me right—tampering. That’s exactly what these pricks did on a daily basis. If it weren’t for the “Old Boys’ Club,” there wouldn’t be half the problems we faced in Acryonis. Hell, I would still be in Acryonis, maybe getting cozy with that cute little red-headed elf over a nice pint, if it weren’t for dark magic.

  The Dwarven runes started to dance on the giant leaves of parchment in front of me, slowly blurring into a series of lines and dashes that closely resembled the etchings of a dungeon wall where prisoners kept track of days past. I managed to labor through fifteen pages—fifteen really big pages—and was only on the third talisman. I’m sure all this detail was useful to someone in another world, in another time. My priorities were on this world, right now, and the Singing Sword. The day already felt as long as the Summer Solstice, and reading verbose, flowery passages of Acryonis’ brush with an apocalypse was only making it longer.

  And I was getting cranky. That was not helping.

  On the last sip of Mick’s strongest, I struck paydirt.

  From the lands of Arannahs, where the Goddess of Shu-Mei, the Bringer of Life and the Harbinger of Death, protects and reigns over Her Children, the great masters of the sword crafted a blade of sturdy make and of great power. Upon the Sword of Arannahs, the Master Mage decreed that only the nature mild and gentle should wield this blessed weapon. He, not of this nature, who calls upon its power shall suffer its wrath.

  There it was: Confirmation. The Sword of Arannahs. Now that is one serious bowling trophy! Considering who its makers were, it was a given there were going to be some details kept hidden, even from the authors of this book.

  In my world, very little was known about Arannahs. The people who dwelt there were human, but before I left, rumors were bouncing aro
und that some disenchanted elves had also slipped into their communities. (The elves never did put any credence into these rumors, but they didn’t bother to discredit them either.) But the Elvish script along the Singing Sword’s blade seemed to support those rumors that perhaps the Fethrysma—the exiles—had found a home, after all.

  Far from social, the Arannahi barricaded themselves inside their lands with great stone battlements that either rose high over the rolling landscapes, or were built into them. The traders who managed to get in and out spun a good yarn on what the Arannahi did to wile away the hours within the city walls: Mastering sword-making and sword-wielding techniques, plus developing arts both of the natural and supernatural kind, unique even to Acryonis.

  The Arannahi first made a show of collected force in a war that pit the humans against the elves. (This was one of those wars you hear about when sitting by the hearth during the holidays. Lots of legends, lore, and all that.) The humans found themselves on the losing end pretty quickly, their ranks falling by the wayside like a ball team lacking a decent shortstop. Imagine the surprise through Trysillia when the secluded Arannahi offered their allegiance. No one really understood why they came to the aid of their human brothers. It wasn’t like they weren’t part of the Trysillian realm. The best anyone could figure was that the borders of the human realm ran beside the Great Walls of Arannahs, which protected a people who cherished their solitude. Now the elves threatened that solitude.

  Their skill on the battlefield wasn’t anticipated, nor matched.

  When the Council of Light was founded, Arannahs did not reject the invitation to join—again, something that was unexpected. Their representative indirectly became the inspiration for peace between the races. If the shire of Arannahs was willing to come out of its isolation to join the Council of Light, then it must be a good idea. Representatives of each race, each shire, coming together to serve as a monitor, a peacekeeper over Acryonis…yeah, it was a great idea.

  So was the League of Nations.

  Still, generations of us working stiffs in Acryonis looked at the Council of Light as a good thing. After all, their first act was to set up protections against evil, and anything that takes on evil has to be good. Right?

  Let’s just say that I got a more honest look at the Council just before being sent on the “Nine Talismans” mission. Our little party was finally granted access to the Council’s Hall of Records, following a heated debate and a close vote. I figure we won the privilege on some Council members’ assumptions that no member of one race, especially a dwarf, could effectively read multiple tongues. They apparently knew nothing about my job—a knack for the languages.

  I was granted access to records, but not all the records. We were given just enough information to know what we were looking for. That’s it. Kind of hard to prep for a mission when you’ve got a six-foot Valley Elf hovering over you. (To keep the “stupid dwarf” illusion alive, I asked for this council member’s help on a couple of stanzas. I don’t know which was harder: pretending to not understand what I was reading, or laughing in her face at her translations.) Even with my second shadow checking to see if I could “handle” the volumes, I managed to read between the lines. By the time I left the Hall of Records, I not only knew what to look for, but also that the Council of Light wasn’t all that pure, and our mission was to clean up a serious mess they’d made.

  I heard a light rapping on the door, a pause, and then a louder knocking. This was Miranda’s code for “Billi, there’s someone here. Hide whatever you’re working on and get ready!”

  Miranda’s figure was barely visible through the frosted glass, but I could see she wasn’t alone. The second figure behind her was obviously not one of O’Malley’s dinks this time. Way too many curves.

  I slid My World Book back into the false panel behind my bookcase, where I kept this volume under lock and key. When the bookcase closed with its soft click, the office and my desk lost that “Wizard’s Study” look, returning to a 1929 state of disarray.

  I was sliding my own journal back into the bookcase when I finally responded, “S’okay, Miranda. Come on in. I’m decent.”

  The woman behind Miranda was cut of the same cloth as Miss Lesinger, but that was where the similarity ended. Her ice-blue eyes were set in a delightful face—perhaps not as angular or defined as Miss Lesinger’s, but still pleasing to my peepers. When I caught a glimmer of golden locks under her hat, I gave a barely audible groan. Blondes are always bad luck for me; when I’m in the company of a golden child, really awful things come my way. Seeing how things were progressing in this case so far, getting mixed up with a blondie at this point came as no surprise.

  “Mr. Baddings?” she asked, clutching her purse tightly. There was a slight tremor in her voice. Sounded like this little number was about to fall apart right then and there in my office. “My name is Eva Rothchild. Do you have a moment?”

  Eva Rothchild?!? Did I just hear this broad right?

  “I’d like to hire you for a case.”

  No hesitation. No double-take. This lady didn’t care that I was a dwarf. But with some of the things she’d seen in far-off places, she probably wouldn’t have cared if I were a goblin in an evening dress.

  Eva Rothchild was the conundrum of Chicago’s upper echelon. Although she was rarely in Chicago these days, the local rags occasionally ran pictures of her posing with various tomb raiders in front of archeological digs. (A strange kettle of fish, this world. Here, tomb raiding is considered an exact science. Back in my stomping grounds, if you were caught breaking into a sacred burial place, they would simply reseal the crypt…with you in it!)

  This young socialite would have been considered one of the leading authorities in obtaining rare antiquities had it not been for the night life in which she continuously indulged. If the photos weren’t of her displaying a priceless jade container, gold burial mask, or ancient parchments, they usually revealed a flapper in the throes of a really good time, her company usually someone far from the academic type. These pictures and idle chitchat suggested the real Eva Rothchild was the one in the hiked-up evening dress, not the one in the pith helmet and jodhpurs.

  Both Miss Lesinger and Miss Rothchild were featured in pictures of gala events, museum wing dedications, and other socially redeeming functions, but it didn’t take a private investigator to see right through those smiles staged for the public eyes. While the Lesinger family owned half of Chicago, the Rothchilds owned the other half. These daughters to Chicago’s crowns shared a serious rivalry, both in being social miscreants and in being the darlings of the city.

  As she stood there waiting for my reply, I wondered if I should change the title on the door to “Billibub Baddings, Private Investigator to Chicago’s Wealthiest.”

  The fact that Eva Rothchild was in town, let alone in my office, was enough to give me pause. Something else giving me pause was her perfume, a scent very familiar to me. Miss Lesinger had been wearing the same brand the day she came to hire me. Expensive as the scent may be, it was no big to-do for her—this bird was a Rothchild, after all.

  I caught Miranda, from her modest desk, giving Miss Rothchild the hairy eyeball. It took a lot to impress my girl Miranda, and Eva here wasn’t even close. Then again, she gets a little protective when it comes to clients and clients-to-be throwing their weight around. I’m sure if Miranda had been around for Miss Lesinger’s stormy entrance, that same eyeball would have been cast.

  “I see. How’s about we chat in my off—”

  “I want you to look into the death of ‘Pretty Boy’ DeMayo.”

  I wanted her to ask me to help her find a pair of lost earrings or maybe follow an unfaithful boyfriend, just for a change of pace. That would have surprised me, and it would have been a surprise most welcome. But this? No, this was no surprise.

  “Look, Miss Rothchild, I’ve got what you would call a conflict of interest here. I’m already under hire by another client—”

  “Who?” she snapped.


  Now her pretty face, inviting cleavage, and curve of the cute derrière lost my attention. I don’t like being cut off when I’m talking, and by my count, that was her second cut against my armor. First off, you don’t do that to a dwarf. Not in my culture. Especially when you’re a dame. The other reason: It’s just plain rude. I guess Little Miss Eva was used to getting her way, and if you got the means to live that high on the hog, then by all means do so. But if you really want to rub my beard the wrong way, keep cutting me off. Eventually, you’ll get four-foot-one’s worth of etiquette lessons that those to the manor born must have skipped.

  “You see the sign on the door, sister? I’m a private investigator. Private, as in between me and my client. Private, as in not public knowledge. Private, as in none of your damn business!”

  She nearly dropped the purse, her mouth opening slightly. No, she was not used to hearing the “little people”—a literal analogy in my case—talk like that.

  We just stared at each other for a minute until the loud pop from Miranda’s chewing gum made her jump. She shot a glance toward Miranda, and my girl didn’t budge one inch.

  I tell you something: I am convinced Miranda has some elf blood in her veins.

  Miss Rothchild turned back to me, her tone still insistent, but not as sharp as before. “I am willing to double whatever your current client is paying you. It’s important to me that I know the reasons behind the murder of my boyfriend.”

  Her boyfriend? Time to go fishing.

  “I’m sorry Miss Rothchild, but there is little I can tell you because my client must remain confidential. I can tell you this much: Pretty Boy was not killed for reasons involving infidelity. Something I understand he was good at.”