by Alex Acks
More interesting were the late Clementine’s bookshelves: while there were the standard penny dreadfuls and slim volumes of absurdly turgid poetry, horticulture volumes occupied several of the shelves. Upon inspection, Marta recognized a few of the titles, scientific volumes that she owned herself and had found quite useful in the past, including one slim book on natural poisons: A Compendium of Psychoactive, Medicinal, and Toxic Plants of the Continents of North and South America and Their Myriad Uses, Second Edition by George L. F. Kensington. Odd that she had such a collection of books and no plants to go with them, not even the orchid that was ubiquitous to the bedroom of a lady.
“Unexpected,” she murmured, pulling the book out and idly flipping through, pausing to look at lightly penciled notes—minor corrections for the most part—written in three distinct hands, two neat copperplate and the third shaky to the point of incoherence. Bemused, Marta added the book to her satchel. No doubt an odd choice for an ordinary thief, but she imagined whoever finally found Miss Nimowitz’s body would be more concerned with the theft of valuables than the removal of one peculiarly specialized book.
Back in the parlor, Marta spied a curved white shape under one of the little tables, thanks to the new angle of perspective. Curious, she bent to retrieve what turned out to be a china teacup, mate to the one Simms had found on the end table, a brown stain dried on its bottom and side. Marta took a curious sniff, only to detect something bitter, hinting of almonds. “Oh my.”
“I’m still not going to let you shoot the dog,” Simms grumbled.
Marta crouched down, looking from table to corpse. It was too far for the cup to have rolled there on its own unless Miss Nimowitz had flung it in some final seizure, and that seemed unlikely since a few drops of tea had remained within. But perhaps it had been prodded by an unwary foot and sent skittering aside. More importantly, she somehow doubted that Miss Nimowitz would have prepared tea with two cups if it was just a final drink for herself.
Interesting, that.
“I’m less inclined to shoot it now,” Marta said, rising back to her feet. “The dog is a witness to murder.”
Simms gave her one of those looks at which he seemed to excel, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation. “Did you really just say that with a straight face?”
“I’ve rarely been more serious in my life.” Marta waggled the teacup at him. “Miss Nimowitz was poisoned.”
“And shot.”
“Tough old bird.” Marta smiled. She checked the teapot on the end table, but could detect no hint of poison in the liquid still within. “Unless our little friend there has developed opposable thumbs, she had outside help with at least one of those activities.”
“Murdered twice and then robbed. Not a good week for her,” Simms commented, but his expression had become markedly less grudging. While the man wasn’t averse to firefights and throwing the occasional security guard off a train, his feelings about murder were generally in line with Marta’s—it was the sort of thing that gave honest criminals a bad name.
Particularly when someone had tried so very hard to make it look like suicide. The murderer had even gone to the trouble of locking the house up after, presumably, since Marta had been forced to pick their way in. “We’ll have to go a bit more high society for this one, I should think.” She held out a hand toward Simms. He obligingly tossed her the half-full satchel. She tucked the teacup inside after wrapping it carefully in a handkerchief. Excavating a set of goggles equipped with extensive loupes of magnifying lenses and filters, she dropped to her knees on the carpet. “This is certainly the neatest murder scene I’ve ever come across. I’ll have a quick look around and see if there’s anything else of interest to find. Why don’t you ask our little friend his name?”
The little dog turned out to be male and named, at least according to the tag on his rather fine collar, “Chippy.” He also turned out to be amenable to being picked up, to the point that he attempted to lick Simms’s face, his tongue heralded by a blast of breath that could have knocked a black fly from the air at twelve paces. Chippy was notably less amenable to being hauled to the kitchen and having his muzzle wiped free of blood, squirming and yelping as if he were about to be murdered himself the whole while.
Captain Ramos gave Simms and his new best friend a raised eyebrow upon their return to the parlor, but then nodded at the sight of the wet dog and only slightly less damp man. Good—Simms hadn’t thought she’d want to explain to anyone on the street why her ladyship’s pet looked like a site of carnage. “Find anything interesting?” Simms asked. “Such as this little fellow’s lead?”
Captain Ramos tossed a fine leather strap to him. It was dyed a shade of royal purple to match Chippy’s collar. “I found more ammunition for the pistol and a bill of sale; it seems to have belonged to Miss Nimowitz for the last two weeks. There’s a bit of dirt about, a hair here and there. I’ve picked it all up, but it seems to me her parlor hasn’t had a good clean in a few weeks so it’s all a bit muddled. Though upon careful examination, I am led to believe she was shot by someone else, perhaps unsurprisingly. The angle’s not quite right.” Captain Ramos held up the pistol and demonstrated. “If she’d held the gun entirely by herself, I would have expected it square under the chin, or in the mouth, or even the temple. Right between the eyes is rather unusual and—while possible—rather awkward.” She tucked the pistol away in the satchel. “Though I will say, this is definitely the best angle to make absolutely certain post-mortem Infection won’t set in.”
“Hm. Seems like someone was looking out for you, little fellow.” Chippy the dog squirmed in his arms; Simms set the little animal down and hastily clipped the lead to his collar. The dog immediately began to bound back and forth over the short range offered by the lead, yipping excitedly. Hastily, Simms picked him back up. The yipping ceased, but the squirming resumed as if the noise were fighting to escape. “Enough of that, I say.”
Captain Ramos stared meditatively at the fluffy white handful—Chippy, whatever his ego might say, certainly didn’t qualify as an armful—and then smirked. “Remind me, Simms. Who among our crew has annoyed me recently?”
His eyebrows went up at that. “Pardon?”
“There’s a bit of information gathering we must do, I think. Definitely a talk must be had with both Deliah and Morris Nimowitz. Bringing little Mister Chippy along wouldn’t be all that advantageous right now. There can’t be that many dogs like him about.” Her expression became particularly sardonic. “Or at least I certainly hope not.”
“They do tend to run in litters, you realize,” Simms observed dryly. He quickly held up a hand. “But I think it’s a marvelous idea. In fact, I was about to volunteer to look after him, myself.” Given the option, he’d much rather walk a hyperactive fluff ball in the park than have an uncomfortable afternoon tea with the objects of Captain Ramos’s interest while she constantly trod on his foot to remind him to not say out of character things. He wished Captain Ramos would acquire a real husband so he’d no longer have to play the part for her, but he couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of neurotic genius with shins of iron and nerves of titanium alloy would be required to deal with her regularly in that capacity, let alone where such a man could be found. And as far as he could tell, neither could the Captain.
Captain Ramos laughed, nice try there, Simms, in the angle of her grin. “Oh no. Both Morris Emmett and Deliah Nimowitz must be questioned to see if they had any part in this. And then there’s the interesting matter of this lady’s maid, as she’s more than well off enough to have one of those full time, and I find the absence rather suspicious. There’s a lot of ground to be covered and I will require your help on this. You’re not nearly as hopeless as the rest of the crew, you know.”
Simms sighed. He should have guessed he wouldn’t squirm his way out of the Captain’s favorite hobby so easily. And it was true, even his limited skills at theater were miles ahead of anyone on the rest of the crew. He’d pret
end he didn’t feel proud about that, though. “Fine. If you give it a moment’s thought, I’m sure Mister Masterson will present himself to you as the most likely candidate.”
Not entirely true—Gregory Kinzer was probably higher on the Captain’s bad list than Elijah Masterson, thanks to the incident with the lemonade in Berthoud. But Elijah had recently managed to blow out a piston in one of the smaller railcars through sheer drunken negligence, something that seemed to set the Captain’s nerves completely on edge. And, more to the point for Simms, during that same escapade the man had ruined his best pair of boots by vomiting into the left one and then throwing it off a bridge.
Simms had been quite the drunken scoundrel at Elijah’s tender age. But he’d always limited himself to normal things, such as brawls. And more brawls. And brawls of the sort that gave his nose its rather unique shape. He’d never done anything that determinately, stupidly creative.
“Ah yes,” Captain Ramos said, looking for all the world like a cat that had just spotted a small and unfortunate rodent. “Mister Masterson. I have gotten the impression he needs extra employment for all that spare energy of his. Let us summon him via telegram. While we wait for him, we can acquire suitable clothes for our investigations.” She eyed Chippy in a speculative way that had Simms fighting the urge to cradle the little dog a bit closer to his chest. “And a laxative for the little beast, I think.”
Suddenly, Simms was glad that little Mister Chippy was about to become someone else’s problem.
They met Elijah among the warehouses not too far from Union Station. He’d brought one of the more innocent looking railcars down from the mountains and thus was able to berth it along the public tracks. Elijah Masterson was a man of medium height and untidy habits, though today he seemed particularly untidy, perhaps because he’d been called down so abruptly. His brown hair stuck out in untamed curls and a shadow of stubble decorated his chin. He wore a rumpled brown-checked shirt, one sleeve half rolled-up, and a vest he hadn’t bothered to button, no jacket in sight.
Or, Simms thought upon a closer look at the younger man’s rather red eyes, today he wasn’t so much untidy as quite hung over. This really only served to affirm Simms’s decision to give him this task. It’d certainly keep him out of trouble.
Elijah still offered the Captain a snappy salute, after first glancing around to confirm that they were alone. “Sir, I was told you had an important task for me.”
Captain Ramos waved a hand dismissively. “Oh indeed, Mister Masterson. Simms?”
Obligingly, he held Chippy out toward Elijah. The tiny dog began to squirm, yipping excitedly at the prospect of making a new friend. “Here you go.”
“Sir?” As was all too often the case when an item, no matter how strange, was offered to a person, Elijah took the little dog without thought, and then stared at the Captain. This was a habit Simms had broken in himself long ago, realizing if he would be spending much time around Captain Ramos, more concern for his own physical health and sanity was necessary.
“His name is Chippy,” Captain Ramos said in her most helpful tone, which wasn’t helpful at all. More…amused.
“You’ll be minding the dog while we see to things in the city,” Simms supplied in his own, almost equally helpful, tone. “There’s a nice bit of park not far from the station. You ought to walk him there. And pay careful attention if he…ah…hm.”
“If he feels the call of nature,” Captain Ramos finished. “Which he ought to, quite often, as we’ve had to give the poor thing a bit of croton oil.”
Elijah’s expression became one of horror as he stared at them. Chippy, still in his outstretched hands, squirmed into position to place his paws—which as luck would have it were quite muddy, thanks to a puddle they’d found on the way to the station—on Elijah’s chest so he could give the man’s be-stubbled chin an enthusiastic washing. “But…but why?”
It was probably a kindness to refrain from telling him what had been in the dog’s mouth recently. “And when that happens,” Simms continued, reveling in Elijah’s befuddlement, “you must carefully check the results for evidence of a rather nice pearl and diamond necklace. We need it.” Observing the dawning horror in Elijah’s eyes, he was forced to wonder if Captain Ramos felt like this all the time and perhaps this was why she seemed so determined to mess with his mind at every turn.
“Do give it a thorough clean.” Captain Ramos smiled. Perhaps observing Elijah’s rather slack look, she drew a stained handkerchief from the top of her boot and tucked it into his breast pocket, giving it a little pat at the end. “There’s a good fellow.”
“Buck up, Elijah,” Simms added. “There may be some ladies at the park. Ladies have a weakness for such tiny dogs, I’ve been told.” Though presumably not when they were in the midst of explosive diarrhea.
Chippy still held out at arm’s length, Elijah said weakly, “Oh, is that so?”
“If anything of interest emerges, Mister Masterson, any of my regular runners will know how to find one of us.” Captain Ramos waved airily. “Have fun with your new friend.”
“But!” Finally, Elijah set the dog down. All that prevented a well-timed escape by Chippy was Elijah’s hasty grab for his leash. “I don’t know anything about dogs! Mum never let us have any pets. Will he need water? What does he eat?”
Simms smiled sardonically as they turned to leave. “Nearly anything, it seems.”
Chippy thus made into someone else’s problem for the time being, Marta saw to the suitable outfitting of herself and Simms for their errands, using carefully selected clothing from a bolt-hole she had constructed not far from Union Station. She’d done this by covertly bricking off bits of the storerooms of two adjoining shops and knocking down the wall between them. As one of the shops was a bakery, it guaranteed that everything smelled nicely of freshly baked bread, even if the heat of the ovens made the room incredibly stuffy in any season but winter.
Padded out to hide her proportions and properly dressed in a comfortable but stylish maroon tea dress and jacket, Marta selected an appropriate parasol to go with her ridiculously small hat and slipped out into the cheerfully sunny day. Simms followed along behind her, looking particularly hangdog in his plum-colored jacket and freshly-starched white shirt.
The will of the late Miss Nimowitz had, upon closer examination, yielded the addresses of both Deliah and Morris Emmett Nimowitz and clarified the relationships as grandaunt to niece and nephew respectively. In the street outside the station, Marta hailed a steam-powered taxi that didn’t appear overly rugged and spent the cross-city ride mentally establishing the cover story for her and Simms as the granddaughter and grandson-in-law of one of Miss Nimowitz’s school chums. There’d been more than enough keepsakes and reminders of younger glory days in the deceased lady’s bedroom to provide the necessary veneer of detail.
The address for Morris ended up being a rather grand house not far from City Park, though the house showed subtle signs of not being cared for as well as it needed. The paint wanted to be refreshed, and some of the shutters had been damaged, probably during the last great storm of the recent winter. The interior of the house showed the same subtle shabbiness, the carpets a bit drab, the paintings a bit too spaced out as if there had once been more. Through sheer luck, it was an at-home day for Morris Emmett Nimowitz and his wife.
Marta surreptitiously kicked Simms in the ankle when she caught him fiddling with the starched shirt collar as they waited for the maid to convey their card—carefully sorted from her cabinet of stock as bearing one of the most common family names—inside. She answered his glare with a murmured, “If you’d only stand up straighter, it wouldn’t worry you so.”
“If I stand up any straighter, I’ll run my head into the door frame.”
“If only architects had taken into account the return of the Titans,” Marta said dryly. She quickly smiled as the maid returned to see them in.
As Marta had expected, Morris Emmett Nimowitz was the male half of the two
anthotypes, a perfect match from the cheekbones up. His chin was hidden conspicuously under a well-groomed goatee. Coupled with the rust-colored brocade day coat he wore, he looked rather like a circus ringmaster, one who was attempting—but failing—to be just to the titillating side of sinister.
He was dressed well enough, though to Marta’s keen eye, there were tell-tale signs of financial trouble in his wardrobe. His day coat, while natty, was of a fabric that had been popular several seasons ago, likely an older garment that had been delicately readjusted to look more current. Covert glances around as they were shown to the sitting room revealed several decorations that were carefully plated pot metal; Marta had learned early on in her career of thievery how to discern at least cheap fakes with a glance. She’d wager anything the originals had been pawned or sold. Interesting, that.
Introductions were made and bows exchanged. From the look on Morris’s face, this time around “Mister Smythe” had managed to keep his handshake below bone-crushing strength, and his bow was passable enough. Polite conversation was then had, the familiar and heartily boring routine of socializing. Marta carefully followed the motions until the last tiny cucumber sandwich had been consumed before remarking, “How is your grandaunt, by the way? Grandmama asked us to stop by her house while we were in the city, but she doesn’t seem to be in. I’d like to be able to take some news back to the Duchy of Charlotte even if it’s not from the grand lady’s mouth.”
Morris and Adelaide exchanged a glance that was likely intended to be unreadable, but it certainly howled of some kind of disturbance and nervousness. “Grandaunt Clementine doesn’t travel around much at all these days,” Missus Adelaide Nimowitz said, her tone just a little too bright. She was a slim, nervous woman with premature threads of white in her mahogany-colored hair. Her deep blue dress wasn’t the most flattering shade for her and showed the same signs of reuse and alteration that her husband’s coat did. “I’m afraid she’d have little news for you even if she was in.”