Seattle Noir

by Curt Colbert

  I almost missed him. For years, I had been aware of his finesse at disguise and mimicry. Once, I’d seen him masquerade as a woman, albeit a rotund woman. And I’d of course heard of his famous frolic of impersonating a dance hall performer. Sometimes I wish I’d spent a more active role in tracking the man. But back to the story—I will try to avoid further digressions.

  Propped against the wall just to the right of the ticket counter, I held the Daily News in front of my face. Like one of the casualties of the recent Indian wars of the West, I appeared to be missing a leg and the will to live. Occasionally I would groan to demonstrate my pain. A tin cup before me awaited donations.

  Thin slits in the paper, between an advertisement for Murberger’s Hair Oil and an anatomically incorrect article on gout, allowed me to track Mr. Holmes as he meticulously made his way across the crowded boards toward the street. My, what an impressive disguise. I whistled an aria under my breath, ascending and descending in minor keys. Celebration, celebration! The cymbals clamored and the violins rejoiced. My prey passed by so close, I could have gripped his ankle. While the music whispered within me, I admired his disguise.

  In a bushy white wig and matching Mark Twain eyebrows, Holmes shuffled along tapping a gold-tipped cane from side to side. He peered through thick spectacles as if examining the ground for ants.

  Music, sweet music. There, he has bought a newspaper.

  I crawled around the corner of the building. To the consternation of several prim citizens, I reversed my coat and put both legs into their respective pant legs, then hurried to the street. Following Mr. Sherlock Holmes to his new lodgings would be exquisite. I brought him here, after all.

  As I strode by, Holmes tucked the newspaper under his arm. The headline blared: Prohibitionist Mary Jones Cartright Latest Cannibal Victim!

  Holmes hailed a cab. I faded into the crowd and watched until his carriage rounded the next corner.

  Would he read of last evening first? A most logical killing it was.

  Insanity and music. How many times have I heard that refrain?

  Music is a rainbow of color born of undeniable honesty. Have you ever bathed in a melody that caressed your senses until your skin tingled and you forgot to breathe? The music would release you, each tone fluttering, alive. The notes would bow, complimenting each other, joining in a blood tie of temporary harmony. In playful ecstasy or destructively lyrical, the notes have substance. Whenever the music demands, I obey.

  It rained heavily that night, drenching me in anticipation. The raindrops fell like bullets in a fast staccato, drowning out the boulevard traffic. But in the alley behind the Orpheum Theatre, the music could still be heard.

  Minor keys bled aloud, speaking of human misery. Each time the notes would tremble and wail, I felt their pain, always connecting, never holding.

  The air held a winter chill that seemed alive in its own right. I leaned against the dirty wall and waited. Steam rose from the heating grates. Rats with hot eyes scurried for dry places while the blues wallowed in the darkness, asking me to stop the pain.

  The woman entered the alley like a cat sniffing cream. Her steps hesitant, she drew closer. When she saw me, the caution vanished. Mary Jones Cartright, angel to the downtrodden, had spent years working with the whores and demented relics of the war. The music lamented with impatience. Soon, she stood before me smelling faintly of roses.

  Without a word, I obeyed, thrusting the knife upwards, carefully avoiding the kidneys and liver. Drink had never passed her pristine lips.

  Into the dark passages the music rushed, sinuously sliding and scheming, violating the walls of reason.

  I heard a saxophone bleat from a saloon across the street.

  Yes, I accept applause.

  The next morning dawned blurry, like peering through a veil of snow that would never melt. I wallowed in the luxury of knowing that time had conspired to bring my emotions and desires to this day. If I knew my brother’s nemesis, he would be awake. Heavens! He might even be afoot already.

  I arrived too late at the Tate Hotel. A tall man in a disreputable tweed coat and reeking of pipe tobacco had hailed a carriage not five minutes ago. Holmes had assumed his natural appearance, although the doorman did not know it as such.

  “Which direction did he go?” I asked, with a coin visible between my fingers.

  The doorman snatched it away, flipping it into the air. “You mean the hop-head old Limey? He told the cabbie to take him to the Orpheum.”

  Ah. I dropped an extra coin between his shoes and disappeared.

  From the other side of the brick wall, I could see the top of Orpheum’s sign. With peeling paint and broken windows, the theater looked as frayed as an elderly dance hall queen in the light of early morning. I lay still, able to hear quite clearly the conversation from the other side of the wall.

  “…Certainly I did, Mr. Holmes. The chief heard from the mayor too. Bless his heart.”

  Sounds of footsteps, then a match scratched the bricks and lit. The smell of sulfur is pleasant in the morning.

  “Sergeant Gordon?” Holmes asked. The man must have nodded, because he continued, “In the envelope in your pocket, you’ll read of my credentials. You’ll also read why we are most likely not dealing with a cannibal.” His voice turned disdainful. “No matter how romantic the thought.”

  “I’ve read them,” came Gordon’s grudging reply.

  A cockroach crawled from an empty tin in the refuse at my feet. When it reached the ground, I plucked it like a blueberry. Did you know their legs tickle and wiggle all the way down?

  Holmes’s voice sounded dry as he continued: “Moriarity is dead. But his brother is not. Jacob Moriarity is a highly trained scientist. He has lived in Seattle for years. Are you aware of that, sergeant?”

  “Humph. I’ll take yer word for it. We’ve never collared him for anything.”

  I could imagine Holmes’s shrug as he answered, “I doubt that he will give you a chance. He is… By the way, would you be so kind as to ask your men not to trample the area leading to the doorway there?”

  “Why?”

  “Footprints.”

  I smiled and the music soared. Holmes was taking the bait perfectly.

  Gordon grumbled, “Maybe so. I’m not so convinced that tells you anything.”

  “Tell me about the victims. Specifically their backgrounds,” Holmes requested.

  In the pause that followed, I could hear the traffic from the street, the squeaking wheels of the carts, and clop of horses’ hooves.

  “What are you doing there, Mr. Holmes?” Gordon asked.

  “Examining the body. The other victims?” Holmes prompted.

  “Well,” Gordon hesitated, or perhaps he was just observing the great detective. Either way, it was a careful moment before he spoke. “There’s been two college boys. One local, strong as an ox. Captain of the track team—”

  “If I remember correctly, his legs were missing?” Holmes interrupted.

  “They were, and half his ass too.”

  “Ah ha!” Holmes exclaimed quietly. I could barely hear him as he said, “Give me that bag, would you?”

  “Here. What is it?”

  “A clue,” Holmes replied, probably to Gordon’s consternation. Holmes added, “It’s half of a pay bill from Fisher’s Butcher Shop.” He grunted. “Where is that establishment located?”

  “Southwest of here, over by the docks.”

  “Interesting,” Holmes murmured.

  Gordon retorted, “I am sure it is to you, Mr. Holmes.” After a moment, he added, “I’m more interested in where our fool photographer has got to.” I heard Gordon walk up the alley a few steps, then return in time to hear Holmes’s remark.

  “No matter. The body speaks, as it were, from the grave.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Observe,” Holmes said. “No, don’t block the light… There.”

  “All I see is where an animal tore this woman’s guts out.”

&n
bsp; “It was not an animal. Look under this flap,” Holmes instructed. “Do you see the precise cuts? The liver and kidneys were removed. Surgically.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Sergeant Gordon murmured.

  “Perhaps,” Holmes commented.

  I felt a brief flash of rage. Then the music soared once more; a beautiful distraction to dispel the anger.

  Holmes continued: “He used something to tear the flesh and other organs, camouflaging the ones he removed.”

  “I can see that now,” Gordon replied. “Like what you dig with in the garden?”

  “Possibly. Hand me that bag, would you?”

  “Never saw anyone really use a magnifying glass,” Gordon said. “What do you see?”

  “Particles of rust. Excellent observation, sir. This could have been done by a garden claw,” Holmes said. “Now, I’ll hold back the flesh. The tweezers are in my pocket… Ah. Thank you.”

  Silence. Then I heard them get to their feet.

  “Satisfactory,” Holmes announced. “I want to go over the ground here. Would you be so good as to ask your men to obtain dirt samples from along the alley and the other side of this wall? Have them beware of footprints. I would like to know if he entered the alley any other way than from the street.”

  I had deliberately dropped the other half of the pay bill from Fisher’s where I hoped a bleary-eyed copper would find it.

  Following clues like a bloodhound with blinders, Sherlock Holmes entered the docks later that day.

  I followed him, driving a coal cart and blending in with the neighborhood roughs. By the time he approached old Wayland Billings, chief gossip and drunk of the neighborhood, I had urged my nag into a trot and arrived before him.

  Shoveling coal down the shoot next to Billings’s shack, I bent my ear to their conversation. Doubtless, the owners of the residence next to Billings would feel fortunate at their unexpected windfall.

  “Good afternoon, my dear sir,” Holmes addressed the disgusting form of Billings as if he were the mayor.

  Billings grunted at him and scratched his privates.

  A fine dusting of snow blurred the scene between us as Holmes removed a pint from his pocket. “No matter the afternoon, if we can warm it up, eh?” He offered the rye to Billings. Faster than he could blink, old Billings guzzled half of it. Then he cast a doubtful eye on the detective. I resumed shoveling coal as the sweat on my face froze in the air.

  “What wassit you wanted?”

  Holmes wheeled to point a long finger at Fisher’s Butcher Shop. “By chance, have you seen a man of short stature, who drags his left leg, enter that establishment? He would weigh approximately 130 pounds and be somewhat, ah… ill kept.”

  I watched Holmes. He observed Billings like he would an insect in one of his experiments. When the rye had trickled down Billings’s neck and his Adam’s apple bobbed for the fourth time, Holmes said, “Well, sir?” Billings just returned the stare as the detective continued, “The man I seek most likely wears a blue watch cap and habitually eats fish and chips. Do you know of such a man?” Of course Billings did. He knew who gave him enough pennies for an evening’s happiness. But it appeared I had underestimated his loyalty.

  “What do you want him for?” Billings drawled with a glint of avarice in his eye.

  Holmes nodded. “A good question, he…”

  Billings caught sight of me over Holmes’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch under my gaze, though I could see a tick begin to flutter under his left eye.

  “Don’t know him!” Billings shouted. “Get out of my way.” He shuffled down the street, casting persecuted glances over his shoulder at Holmes. Perhaps he did so at both of us, since I stood just beyond the detective and behind the coal cart.

  Holmes waited until Billings rounded the corner, sidestepping two policemen and an irritated horse, before following him.

  “Ah. Come in, Mr. Holmes,” I called. The music flitted quietly with anticipation.

  The basement door had creaked. Sitting as quiet as death, while the day turned to night, I knew each sound intimately. Moonlight filtered down from high windows like a mist, illuminating the room. Recently slaughtered cow carcasses hung in row after row, the ribboned fat glowing in the moonlight while the blood dripped crimson to the straw on the floor. The door opened another scant inch. I saw a shadow beyond it.

  “Please, come in,” I said. I’d waited so long for this moment. Was it not fitting I should fork his queen while checkmating him? Yes. Logic dictates not just a move, but a reward.

  A thin hand gripped the door and it swung open. With the light behind him, I could not see his features… Something seemed odd. He was of the expected height, yet… there was something amiss. He seemed to have an enormous development of the frontal lobes. Familiarity…

  As he started down the stairs, the moonlight struck him fully. The music trembled in my ears.

  I couldn’t believe it. I blinked again. In an instant, confusion turned to rage and the music roared.

  “NO!” I shouted. The bastard. The ultimate bastard!

  Holmes had assumed his final disguise, that of my dead brother Moriarity. From the dandified brocade vest, to the wire-rimmed spectacles, curled wig, and penciled brows, he was Moriarity. He affected his walk. He even swung his head from side to the side in the same reptilian fashion.

  “Jacob?” Holmes asked. “Is that you?” The music intensified. He sounded like him. “Oh, brother dear? Come out where I can see you.”

  I covered my ears. He can’t do this. The music grew angrier.

  “Jacob?” Holmes repeated. He gained the basement floor. “Weren’t you expecting me?” He sounded reproachful.

  Rage shook me. I lifted the revolver and drew a bead on Holmes’s back. But he turned, and even though he couldn’t see me, he smiled. It was my brother’s smile.

  “I heard a click, perhaps from a revolver?” Holmes teased. “Would you shoot me, Jacob?”

  The pain inside my head competed with the storm of music. It became a cacophony, screaming down without harmony, without pity. I tried to hold the gun, yet even with both hands, it wobbled.

  Holmes stooped and came up with a lantern. He sat it on the butcher table. I heard the scratch of a match. The light hurt my eyes, and I backed further into the shadows. Holmes kicked at the bloodstained straw at his feet.

  “My, this place is filthy. I’m surprised at you, Jacob. You are a scientist, not a carver of meat,” Holmes scolded.

  I watched him investigate the tables, the drainage pipes, and then the trash bins. He seemed as unconcerned as a fawn that I would shoot him.

  The music complained of cowardice.

  “But you are a scientist, aren’t you, Jacob?” Holmes said. He’d reached a long ice box with many compartments that lined the back wall. I heard him wiggle the lock on one of the clamps. “Locked? My, my. Dear brother. What is inside?” Holmes inquired.

  He waited a moment, and then began a stroll down the aisle near me. Circling closer.

  “Body parts? Am I not correct?” Holmes queried. “Why, I wonder,” he mused as he fastidiously ducked under a carcass and sauntered toward me. The lantern in his hand swung with his walk. One second he was a faceless enemy in shadow. The next, he was Moriarity. Music, sweet music.

  I raised the gun.

  The music moaned. I wavered, and then lowered the gun. The pain deep in my head throbbed and with it the vision of my brother turned dim. Then the music returned with a plaintive vengeance, bleating furiously.

  I could not think, so I retreated behind the butcher tables.

  “There you are!” Like we were playing a childhood game, Holmes gave a triumphant shout and trotted forward.

  I raised the pistol and fired. The shot went wide and plowed into the carcass beside his ear. The impact blew the haunch apart, splattering him in raw flesh.

  “Stand back!” I shouted.

  Holmes wiped gore from his face and said, “Why, dear brother?” He took another step forward.<
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  Close up, I still couldn’t believe the likeness. From the color of his eyes, to the way he pursed his lips, he was John Moriarity.

  The music quivered inside me. Could it be?

  “John?” I whispered.

  Holmes threw back his head and laughed.

  The music exploded and I grabbed my forehead.

  “Why did you murder those people?” he asked. Through my fingers, I could see Holmes as he inched closer. The revolver felt hot in my hand. “You took the best of what they had. Strong legs, artistic hands, healthy organs. Why?”

  I couldn’t hear him above the music anymore. His lips moved. He was my brother.

  “You’re building a man, aren’t you? A perfect man,” Holmes stated.

  Involuntarily, I glanced at the ice box and then fixed a stare upon him. The music slowed. It quieted, waiting. Gentle notes calmed me. This was what I wanted, had planned for. Breathe and victory is mine. I could see clearly again.

  “Yes,” I answered, pleased that my voice did not quiver. “A perfect man.”

  “And you brought me here because…?” Laughter erupted from me. I could not stop it.

  The release started in my gut and built up inside of me until tears streamed down my face. Through it I screamed at him, “You’re the genius! Your celebrated brain has brought you here! What do you think I want?”

  Holmes frowned. I saw a flash of uncertainty cross his face. The music pulsed like a heartbeat within me. It was time.

  Deliberately, I lifted the pistol and fired. The smoke blinded me. I fired again.

  In his haste, Holmes dropped the lantern. The straw around us caught, then burst into flames.

  “Damnation!” I screamed.

  In an instant, the room was ablaze. From below, the flames licked the carcasses, scorching them until they looked like disembodied and grotesque ghosts. Smoke billowed everywhere. As the music skittered and fragmented, I turned toward the ice box, then back toward the stairs—then back again toward the ice box. I stumbled through the black smoke. Under my hands, the ice box sweated in the intense heat. Fumbling, fumbling, finally I had the first compartment unlocked, when I heard Holmes’s voice in my ear.