Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “Detective,” said Zahra, extending her hand.

  “Madame Zahra,” said Campbell taking it, or at least the finger portion. “This is Jack McCloskey.”

  McCloskey looked at him sideways. He never liked his name being thrown around, especially when his face was attached to it.

  “Ah, Mr. Mikloskij,” she said, smiling.

  “Actually, it’s McCloskey.”

  “Oh,” she said, and the smile faded.

  McCloskey was checking her out. He wasn’t sure exactly why, but right away he had the feeling she wasn’t some sideshow huckster or a girl in a rented costume working a stag party. Still, he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of her or the décor. “Nice place,” he said and left it at that.

  “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll make tea.”

  Campbell set his books and folder down on the table and then took McCloskey’s coat and hat and laid them on Zahra’s daybed.

  “Is she for real?”

  “That depends on what you mean by real.”

  “Campbell … is this detective work?”

  The detective knew what McCloskey was getting at. “Purely,” he said. “Let’s just say I’m trying to extend this case’s parameters.”

  “Am I here to get my parameters extended too? The last time I had my parameters extended was during an army physical, and I didn’t much care for it.”

  “Just keep an open mind. I’ve been struggling with this too, but I’m willing to consider that there might be something in it.”

  “You a religious man, Campbell?”

  “I sometimes like to think so.”

  “Well, that’s faith for you.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m still recovering,” said McCloskey.

  Zahra reappeared with her tea service and set it down on the table. They took their seats. Coincidentally, no one sat in what had been Kaufman’s chair. Campbell took the lead.

  “We all know that lately there have been some unusual events in the city and I believe Madame Zahra might be of some help in approaching the situation from a different perspective, if you will, one that we might not have otherwise considered exploring.”

  McCloskey was already fidgeting.

  “Now, hear me out,” said Campbell, noticing McCloskey’s discomfort. He pulled the key from his waistcoat pocket and set it on the table in front of Zahra. With her hands folded on her lap, she leaned over the object. She looked at Campbell.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From him,” he said, tilting his head at McCloskey.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “The river,” said McCloskey.

  “No,” she said. “The river is a road. You took this from one of its travellers. That is the only way.”

  McCloskey looked at Campbell, and Campbell gave a discreet nod back.

  “Well,” said the bootlegger, feeling compelled to speak, “there was a body in the river. One of us took it off the body.”

  “Why did you take it off body?” She was holding the key now, examining it closely.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said, still under her spell. “It was a friend, a colleague of mine.”

  “He is dead,” said Zahra.

  “You saw his body,” Campbell said to her.

  “What’s she talking about?”

  “I should tell you, I brought Zahra to see Three Fingers at the morgue.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” said McCloskey, and he leaned back, breaking their loosely formed triangle.

  “Not one of us knows exactly,” said Campbell. “But together we can …”

  McCloskey let Campbell’s voice trail off. He wasn’t liking the sounds of any of this. And it was nothing he’d feel comfortable sharing with the gang, or at least what might be left of the gang by this time tomorrow.

  The detective turned to the medium. “Zahra, I’ve done some research, but I’d like to get a clearer idea what this thing, what I believe to be a talisman, is and what it might mean to someone like you. Why would these people want it so badly?”

  “Not people,” she said.

  “Yeah, people,” said McCloskey. “They killed two of my men.”

  “They rode in last weekend on a train,” said Campbell, “taking a few lives along the way — another was only just recently discovered. They’re killers, but not like anything we’ve run into or heard of before.”

  “Not men,” she said, in case they had failed to understand the first time.

  McCloskey and Campbell sat back in their chairs, looking at each other.

  “Then what are they?” said Campbell.

  “Padshiy ahngel,” said Zahra.

  “What?” said Campbell.

  “Angels.”

  “Angels? These guys are no angels,” said McCloskey. “We’ve all seen what they can do.”

  “Dark angels,” said Zahra. “Fallen angels.”

  “Is that a gang?” McCloskey asked Campbell.

  “Okay,” said Campbell, “let’s put that aside for a moment and go back to why they might want it so badly. I’m thinking it’s something very valuable, an artifact of some kind that was in the possession of a man named Davies, and these men have been sent to retrieve it.”

  “So there is no lost fortune,” said McCloskey. “There is no cash, no bonds hidden anywhere in the Border Cities.”

  “Money,” said Zahra, “is for this world. This, this key,” she was holding it up now, “is for the next.”

  That silenced Campbell and McCloskey for a moment. Each was trying to gather his own thoughts on that. The detective spoke first.

  “All right, it seems to me we’re stuck somewhere between this world and the next, somewhere between this key being a precious and valuable object, and the key being something that — its owners at least believe — carries metaphysical powers.”

  “Astral … metaphysical … I’ve heard about enough of all that stuff, but you two seem like you’re only just getting started,” said McCloskey. He turned to Campbell. “I came here because I thought you had a solution for getting these guys off our backs or make peace with them, but I don’t think you have a clue.”

  “That’s what we’re working on,” said Campbell. “A different perspective, remember?”

  “Okay then, answer me two things.” McCloskey was speaking to Zahra now. “First, how is it that these guys have managed to stay one step ahead of us the whole time, and second, why didn’t they just take the key or talisman or whatever it is, away from us when they had the chance?”

  Campbell was reaching for his resource materials. “Put your books away,” said Zahra, “I know what is written in them.” She had heard enough too. “I told you, Mr. McCloskey, these are not men. And they will not take talisman from you. You must hand it to them. Your men died because they either refused to hand it over, or padshij felt the talisman had been contaminated.”

  “Can’t we just drop it in their mailbox?” said McCloskey.

  “No. They need it handed to them by a living soul.”

  “Why didn’t they just come and get it from me then? Or from McCloskey?” said Campbell.

  “They also mean to frighten and cause pain any way they can. It is how they live. They make … mischief.”

  “Mischief?”

  “You people,” said Zahra shaking her head, “fairy tales, nightmares, daydreams, there is no difference.”

  “I thought the difference was that your friends don’t die. Jesus, Campbell, where is she from?”

  “Zahra, what can we do?” said the detective.

  “I’ll tell you what we can do,” said McCloskey, “rally our gangs and corner these guys in the street, in our own territory. We take the fight to them.”

  “Give them the key,” she said.

  “How do we do that,” said McCloskey, “when we can’t even find them because they are too busy making mischief?”

  “They will find you.”

  “That’s what I’m
afraid of,” said McCloskey. “How do I know I haven’t contaminated their talisman? Or if Campbell hasn’t?”

  “You don’t,” she said.

  And with that, Campbell pocketed the key. “If they want it, they can come and get it,” he said, “and that’s how we will settle the matter. Thank you, Madame Zahra.” The detective felt they had taken this as far as they could, for now.

  “Nice to meet you, Madame Zahra.”

  She nodded at McCloskey without meeting his eyes. While the gentlemen exchanged a few hushed words, she fetched their coats from the daybed and dropped something into each of their coat pockets.

  — Chapter 37 —

  THERE’S A NEW VICE IN TOWN

  Vera Maude found out about the lecture through a conversation she overheard while pretending to look at lobby cards in the Walkerville Theatre. The two men were discussing what they hoped to learn but were probably thinking more about how they could add their own two cents. She had been to enough of these affairs to know there would always be at least one person in the crowd who was only there to try to steal a bit of the spotlight, to show up the so-called expert.

  As soon as her shift at Copeland’s was over and done with, she phoned the desk at the Prince Edward to confirm the details.

  “And where are you off to in such a hurry?” asked Lew.

  “To learn how to be a better crime-solver.”

  “That felt tricorn over there looks like a crime to me. Can you solve that?”

  Vera Maude followed the direction of Lew’s glance and saw the woman just leaving, tricorn set firmly in place, ready to do battle with the north wind.

  “Shall we make a citizen’s arrest?”

  “I’m off-duty,” said Lew. “Better call in the Boy Scouts.”

  “I hear they’re busy patrolling the ladies’ change rooms at Smith’s.”

  “Have fun.”

  “I’ll bring you back an autographed program.”

  James Murphy, fingerprint expert with the International Title Recording and Identification Bureau, was the special guest at this event sponsored by the Lion’s Club. The lecture and slide presentation was to take place after the dinner, around seven. It was free of charge and open to the public so Vera Maude wanted to get there early. Instead of waiting for what would surely be a packed streetcar, she hustled up the Avenue to the hotel.

  Once inside, she peeled off a couple of layers of winter wear and found the dining hall. This would be a first; she had never seen the room before. She positioned herself outside the closed doors, every so often looking behind her to take measure of the growing queue. Eventually, someone from the hotel staff had to poke his head out and ask the ruffians in the borrowed suits to keep it down.

  As soon as the doors were flung open, Vera Maude moved in. Folding chairs had been set up along the perimeter; she started her hunt for the one that looked like it might give her the best vantage point. In her haste, she almost collided with one of the waiters still clearing dessert plates and refilling coffee cups.

  “Sorry!”

  She noticed a few tables reserved with place cards for members of the police department and the local branches of provincial and federal law enforcement. There were also places set aside for people from several of the Border City’s major corporations, most likely their heads of security. Vera Maude watched these groups file in en masse, probably having just walked over from police headquarters after a brief meeting of the minds. She recognized one of them. It was Detective Campbell.

  Vera Maude found a seat. Once everyone else had settled into theirs and quieted down, the club president, Kenneth Veale, started with the introductions. As a preamble, he described the plans that were taking shape for the Bureau’s new Windsor branch. Much of the credit for the project was given to the Borders Cities own James Wilkinson.

  “A veteran of the Great War, our man Wilkinson was a police officer in England for several years prior to joining the Windsor force. He has been a member of the department barely three years and is already making quite a name for himself.

  “He returned to England and took a six-week identification course at Scotland Yard. He also trained with the Detroit Police and has attended numerous scientific conferences. His system of cross-indexing is known throughout the Continent, as well as at the Yard.”

  Wilkinson rose to speak and went into greater detail about his work, paying tribute to Chief Thompson and the entire Windsor police force. He then introduced the guest of honour, James Murphy.

  “As a nationally known criminal and civil investigator, having been actively engaged in Secret Service work for the past twenty-two years, and as head of the Murphy Secret Service Agency, which he established in Detroit in 1906 …”

  There was a brief applause and then Murphy rose from the guest table. He thanked Veale with a handshake and then turned to his audience, launching into what turned out to be a sort of pitch or appeal.

  “This science is not new,” began Murphy. “We do not claim to be the originators of the idea of universal fingerprinting. We would rather have it known that we are simply doing our share toward bringing the importance of this movement to the homes and firesides of all the people. While we are the originators of many valuable systems of fingerprinting, to be used for commercial purposes, it is not our intention, or desire, to burden you with their many intricacies at this time.”

  Apparently Murphy had recently come to the realization that not only could fingerprinting be used for identifying and tracking criminals, but also identifying and tracking the movement of the public at large. In the United States alone, he claimed, there were many thousands of unidentified dead buried in unmarked graves every year. And if to this number, he stated, one added the thousands of missing persons and hundreds of kidnapped children, the figure would total over 100,000 persons. This number could be minimalized, he believed, through a thorough and effective fingerprinting program.

  Vera Maude looked around the room and saw heads nodding. Not only was this not what she thought she had signed up for, but it left her feeling a little uneasy. What was this guy really on about?

  And then one of Murphy’s slides jammed. Two side-by-side images of the same print, one taken from a crime scene, the other from a file at the Identification Bureau. Crime solved.

  “And if you look here …” continued Murphy.

  He looped back to the kidnapped children and then there was a flicker and the lights went out. At first there was calm, perhaps people thinking it had something to do with the slide projector jamming again. But it stayed dark. There were murmurs, soon followed by uneasy conversation and even a bit of panic.

  Why are people so on edge? Vera Maude asked herself.

  Hotel staff entered the dining room with flashlights, telling everyone that the situation was under control and they were looking into the matter. A couple of blocks away, pipes were bursting at Avenue Market. Frozen, backed up, expanding, and bursting at the seams. The merchants’ stalls were being flooded. And an accumulation of ice was weighing heavy on the electricity lines, pulling them down and cutting the juice being carried to places like the Prince Edward Hotel.

  Staff pulled the curtains open to let in any ambient light from the street. Vera Maude stayed seated, her eye on Campbell’s silhouette. She thought she might be able to take advantage of the situation. Feeling a little reckless, she checked her bag for her pack of cigarettes. Maybe should could wander over to Campbell’s table and ask for a light. She got up and navigated a path between the shades of darkness.

  “Any you gents got a match?”

  The lawmen started fumbling through their pockets.

  “I’ve got one.”

  Brilliant. It was Campbell who came through.

  “Thanks.”

  She sat down in the chair next to him. The others around the table resumed their conversations. When the lighted match met the end of her cigarette, she glanced down at the place card on the plate in the empty seat.

  “So wher
e’s Detective Morrison?”

  “Hey — you’re the girl from Copeland’s. Vera Maude, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Morrison should be here shortly.”

  “Out cracking a case somewhere?”

  “Or wandering around in the dark. What brings you here?”

  “It sounded interesting.”

  The lights came back on.

  “Well, I guess I’d better find my seat again,” said Vera Maude. “See ya.”

  Campbell watched her walk away, turned back to the table, and found everyone else watching him.

  “She’s a bookseller,” he said.

  “Lavish?”

  “Detective.”

  “Lavish, why do I have this feeling you got nothing? You know our deal.”

  “I know the deal, and you got the wrong feelings.”

  “So you got something?”

  Lavish had been thinking. “Yeah, I got something.”

  They were standing in the front parlour at Janisse Brothers’ funeral home on London Street. Lavish had recently been given a key to the place for the purposes of before and after-hour’s deliveries, nothing in-between, and considering the recent tremors in the Border Cities, Lavish, ever the poetically minded, thought this might be the best place to have this week’s conversation with Morrison, who, also for reasons known only to himself, agreed to it.

  Lavish thought it was a shame the detective was so drunk, because chances were pretty good he’d remember none of this, what very well might be their last conversation, and Lavish wished it to be burned into his memory. To Lavish, this was going to be a gamble, but these days so was getting out of bed in the morning. Lately, he had been thinking about going straight, all the way. He had some ideas. On the one hand he saw a real future in the funeral business, and on the other he saw money in weddings. Black crepe and white lilacs versus scented linen and boutonnieres. Both a gouge, both a bit of a scam, but if one knew how to work the angles, it could pay off just as big as any bootleg operation. Then it occurred to him, right then, that maybe he could partner the three. He’d just have to figure out a way of staying out of Morrison’s pocket.