Weird Detectives

by Neil Gaiman, Simon R. Green, Caitlin R. Kiernan

  “What was taken?”

  “This . . . ”

  Miss Weaver wore a long necklace with a heavy pendant dangling from it. She held it up. Escott struck a match to see. Set in the pendant’s ornate center was an oval-cut yellow stone the size of a big lima bean.

  She pointed at the stone just as the match went out. “This is supposed to be a nearly flawless, intense-yellow diamond. That color is rare, and one this size is really rare. Sometime in the last week my cousin Agnes got into my locked room and switched them. She had a copy made of this pendant, a good one—that’s real white gold, but around a piece of colored glass. She thinks I’m too stupid to notice the difference.”

  “You want to recover the original?”

  “And substitute this one, but I’ll handle that part. I happen to know she is too stupid to know the difference. When I get the real one back I’ll put it in a safety deposit box so she can’t steal it again, but it has to be done tonight. Can you help me?”

  “Before I undertake such an errand I need proof of your ownership of the diamond.”

  She gave a flabbergasted stare, mouth hanging wide. “Isn’t my word good enough?”

  “Miss Weaver, please understand that for all I know, you—”

  I put a hand on his arm before he could finish. Accusing a client of being a thief using us to do her dirty work was a good way to get slapped. She looked solid enough and angry enough to pack quite a wallop.

  Another, louder rumble of thunder rolled over our little piece of Chicago. A stray gust of cool air made a half-assed effort to clear the alley stink, but failed and died in misery.

  “Tell us a little more,” I suggested.

  For a second it was even money whether Miss Weaver would turn heel back into the kitchen or give Escott a shiner, but she settled down. “All right—just pretend you believe me. The diamond is called Hecate’s Golden Eye. It’s been in my family for generations, passed down from mother to daughter. There’s no provenance for that.”

  “What about insurance? Is your name on a policy?”

  “There is none, and before you say so, yes, that’s stupid, but I can’t afford the premium. The family used to have money, but it’s gone. I work in a department store, and it’s been enough until now because I lived in the family home, then Grandma Bawks died and left the house to Agnes, so I’ve had to start paying rent.”

  “Your cousin charges you rent?”

  “With a big simpering smile. One of these days I’ll rearrange her teeth. I’m moving out. I’d rather live in a Hooverville shack than under the same roof with her and that smirking gigolo she married.”

  “Could you put events in their order of occurrence?” Escott asked.

  “Yes, of course. I know all this, but you don’t. Hecate’s Eye belonged to Grandma Bawks—my late mother’s mother—and in her will left it to me. Agnes got the house. It’s a big house, but the Eye could buy a dozen of them.”

  “It’s that valuable?”

  “And then some, but Grandma Bawks knew I would always keep the gem and someday pass it down to my daughter. She couldn’t trust Agnes to do that. Hecate’s Eye has been in our family for generations; it’s always brought good luck to those who respect it.”

  “Interesting name,” I said.

  “It’s for the one flaw in the stone. It looks like a tiny eye staring at you from the golden depths.”

  “Hecate, traditionally the queen of witches,” Escott murmured. “Does this diamond have a curse?”

  “Yes. It does.”

  For all that Escott’s own friend and partner was a vampire, he had a streak of skepticism about other supernatural shenanigans. He’d also apparently forgotten that the customer is always right. “Really, now . . . ”

  She put her fists on her hips, ready for a challenge. Most women fall all over themselves once they hear Escott’s English accent, but she seemed immune. “There are stories I could tell, but suffice it to say that any man who touches the Eye dies.”

  Her absolute conviction left him nonplussed for a moment. I enjoyed it.

  “That’s why I have to be along, to protect you from the curse.”

  “Keep going, Miss Weaver,” I said in an encouraging tone. She favored me with a brief smile. It didn’t make her pretty, but she was interesting.

  “Grandma Bawks passed on two weeks ago. Before she went, she gave me the pendant. She put it into my hand and gave her blessing the way it’s been done for who knows how long. I’m not the eldest granddaughter, but she said the stone wanted to be with me, not Agnes.”

  “Agnes didn’t agree with that?”

  “Hardly, but she wouldn’t say anything while Grandma was alive or she’d have been cut from the will. Agnes got the Bawks house and most everything in it; I got a little money, some mementos, and Hecate’s Eye, but that’s more than enough for me. My cousin wanted everything, so she stole the Eye. I had it well-hidden in a locked room, but somehow she found it.”

  “Being female, your cousin is exempt from the curse?”

  “She doesn’t believe in it, neither does that rat she married, but if he so much as breathes on it, he’ll find out for sure. Her being female might not matter: Grandma gave it to me. The stone will know something’s wrong.”

  “Curses aside, these are tough times,” I said. “A rock like that could buy a lot of money for you.”

  “That’s how Agnes thinks. She’s never had a job, and her husband’s too lazy to work. She’s selling the stone to live off the proceeds. It would never occur to her to try earning a living.”

  I liked Miss Weaver’s indignation.

  “I don’t want the money, I want my grandmother’s gift back.” She looked at Escott. “You can go through the history of the family at the library, look up old wills wherever they keep those things, and I can show you Grandma Bawks’s will and her diary, and it will all confirm what I’ve just told you, but there’s no time. Agnes is selling the stone tonight to a private collector, then it’s gone forever. I must switch it before he arrives. Will you help me?”

  Escott glanced my way, though he couldn’t have seen much more than my shape in the dark. I knew what he wanted, though.

  Damnation.

  “I believe her,” I said, hoping to get out of things.

  “Best to be absolutely certain, though.”

  He was right. Neither of us needed to be involved in a jewel theft, though my instincts were with Miss Weaver being on the up and up. She’d gotten truly angry having her word questioned. Honest people are like that.

  “Miss Weaver? Over here a moment,” I said, moving toward the kitchen door. Might as well get it over with.

  “What for?”

  “A private word.” I opened the door just enough to provide some light to work with. She had to be able to see me.

  “Will you do this or not?” she demanded.

  I looked her hard in the eyes, concentrating. “Miss Weaver, I need you to listen to me very carefully . . . ” I’d not smelled booze on her breath. This is difficult to do when they’re drunk or even just tipsy. Or insane.

  Fortunately, she was neither and went under fast and easy. That was fine with me; hypnotizing people gave me a headache, and lately it had been worsening. Even now it felt like a noose encircling my skull, drawing tight.

  Escott stepped in close. “Miss Weaver, are you the rightful owner of Hecate’s Eye?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was strangely softened. Her eyes were her best feature, nearly the same color as her hair, a darker red brown. At the moment they were dead looking. I hated that.

  The rope twisted tighter.

  “Did your cousin Agnes steal it from you?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced my way again, questioning. It was up to me. He’d need my help and not just to watch his back.

  “Count me in,” I said. I wanted to see what a cursed jewel looked like.

  He nodded and turned to our new client. “You may trust us, Miss Weaver.” It was b
oth acceptance and an instruction.

  “All right,” she agreed, almost sounding normal.

  I quietly shut the door. The darkness crowded close around us. She’d wake on her own shortly. My head hurt. I think it had to do with guilt. The more guilt, the sharper the pain. I didn’t like doing that to people, but especially to women. I have my reasons.

  Miss Weaver would not recall the interlude. Just as well. She might have popped me one, and I’d have deserved it.

  Escott was satisfied we weren’t being duped into committing a criminal act—not much of one, anyway. When Miss Weaver woke, they shook hands, clinching the deal.

  Stealing back a stolen item was nothing new to him. The work was no great mental challenge, but paid his bills. This would be a legal cakewalk. Agnes the thief wouldn’t dare report it to the cops, especially since Miss Weaver’s boyfriend and his family would swear she was with them all evening, wearing the heirloom pendant.

  The cat shot out of the dark, lancing between us for the street. I shoved our client behind Escott and rushed the other way, pulling my gun from its shoulder holster. Yeah, I’m a vampire, but Chicago is a tough town . . . and I have bad memories concerning alleys.

  A man crouching behind the garbage barrels slowly stood, hands out and down, his hat clutched in one of them. He had an egg-shaped balding head, thick arching black eyebrows, and plenty of teeth showing in his smile. “Easy, there, friend. No need to get bothered. Me an’ Charlie over there are old acquaintances. You just be askin’ him.”

  An Irish accent combined with a sardonic tone. I didn’t turn to check on Escott; he’d moved next to me and had his own gun out, a cannon disguised as a Webley. A small flashlight was in his other hand, the beam on the man’s face.

  “Riordan,” my partner said. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “That would be tellin’. We two bein’ in the same line, I’m sure you understand I have to maintain a bit of hush about me business.” He spoke fast with a glint in his eye, as though daring the world to call him a liar, even if it was true.

  Escott held his gun steady. “Following Miss Weaver, are you? Working for Cousin Agnes?”

  Riordan didn’t blink, just kept grinning. “Now is that civilized, asking a man questions he can’t answer while tryin’ to blind him? Not to mention threatenin’ him with no less than two deadly weapons. I ask you now, is it?” When he got no reply, he looked my way, squinting against the light in his eyes. “So you’re the mystery fellow who’s been keepin’ this lad out of the red. Pleased to meet you. Shamus Riordan, me name is me game, spell it the same.” He put a hand out.

  I took my cue from Escott and kept him covered.

  Miss Weaver came cautiously forward. “Is that true? Agnes hired that man to follow me?”

  “Circumstances favor it,” said Escott. He looked tense and—rare for him—unsure of himself.

  Riordan raised his hat. “Pleased to meet you, Miss. We appear to be at a partin’ of the ways, so if you don’t mind I’ll be takin’ me leave.”

  “Jack . . . ” I’d seen this coming, even if I wasn’t clear on the why behind Escott’s caution. Gun holstered, I stepped forward to grab Riordan and pin his arms, but he bolted an instant ahead of me. He dragged a garbage can down to block my path, but I had enough speed when I jumped it to land square on his back and tackle him. That should have finished him, but he twisted like a snake, hammering short, powerful blows under my ribs with one hand, while his other covered my face, pushing me away, his fingers curled for eye-gouging.

  Before that happened I vanished.

  I’m good at it. It drains me, but damnation, it’s the second best thing about my change from living to undead. The first best has to do with my girlfriend, but I’ll talk about that some other time.

  My abrupt absence didn’t faze Riordan; he scrambled up and sprinted, but by then I’d reformed in front of him and landed a solid fist to his gut that almost stopped him cold.

  Struggling for air, he staggered and stubbornly kept going, but I swung him face-first against a brick wall and hauled his arms back just short of dislocation. I was fresh for more fight. Vanishing heals me: no bruises in my middle. Even my headache was gone.

  Escott caught up, our client in his wake.

  “What do we do with him?” I asked. Let him go and he’d phone Cousin Agnes.

  “I suggest a refreshing nap.” Escott held the light; I turned Riordan around and made myself calm. I couldn’t let myself get emotional. It adds extra pressure to things that can permanently damage a mind.

  Riordan was gasping, his face red under the sweat, but his brown eyes were alert and suspicious, his forearms raised to ward off a physical attack. I fixed my gaze hard on him and told him to listen to me, just as I’d done with Miss Weaver. Only nothing happened. The noose went tight around my head from the effort, but Riordan stayed conscious. His breath told me he was sober, leaving one alternative. “Charles . . . he’s crazy.”

  Riordan grinned. “We Irish . . . are a mad race . . . or so I’m told,” he puffed out. “What concern . . . is it t’you?”

  Escott snorted. “I’m not surprised. He still wants a nap.”

  “No problem,” I said, and popped Riordan one the old-fashioned way. His eyes rolled up, and he slithered down the bricks as his legs gave out.

  Miss Weaver gaped. “My God, did you kill him?”

  “Not yet.” I hauled him up over one shoulder like a sack of grain. He was heavy, all of it muscle. “Let’s find his car.”

  Escott knew the vehicle—a battered black Ford—got the keys from Riordan’s pocket, and opened the trunk. It was full of junk, but there was just room enough to stuff him in.

  “He’ll suffocate in this heat,” she said.

  She had a point. I found a tire iron in the junk and used the prying end to punch half a dozen air holes into the trunk lid before slamming it shut. They looked like bullet holes but larger.

  “He can get help in the morning if he yells loud enough,” I said, trying for a reassuring smile.

  The businesses along this street behind the restaurant were closed. There was little chance of a stray pedestrian passing by, especially with a storm looming.

  “Who is he?” Miss Weaver asked, voicing my own question.

  “No one important,” Escott said. He took the tire iron from me, dropping it and the car keys on the front seat of the Ford. “He fancies himself to be a private investigator, but his methods are sloppy and his personal ethics questionable. If you offered him a dollar more than your cousin’s payment, he would cheerfully switch sides until such time as he could solicit her for a counteroffer.”

  I’d talk to Escott later about Riordan. The way he grabbed the crowbar while glaring at the car trunk told me that it was just as well there was a locked steel barrier between them.

  Escott drove us to Bawks House; Miss Weaver—Mabel now, she insisted—sat next to him. I had the backseat to myself, slumping low in case she noticed I wasn’t reflecting in the rearview mirror.

  She fussed with her hat, trying to secure it better. She was cheerful, almost relaxed, and made a point of turning around to beam at me now and then as we talked. Escott had instructed her to trust us. With her, trust must also include liking a person. She acted as though we were all old friends. I’d have been uncomfortable, but she’d forget it in a few weeks.

  We had the windows down on his Nash; the hot air blowing in was viscous as tar. Through breaks in the buildings we saw restless clouds thickening, making plans. Lightning defined their shifting forms for an instant, thunder grumbled, and they went dark until the next flash. We headed north, right into it.

  Escott gently plied questions under the guise of conversation.

  Since discovering the fake gem, Mabel had been careful not to give anything away to her cousin, otherwise the real diamond would evaporate to a safer hiding place. For the present, it was still in the house, cached in a shoe in her cousin’s bedroom closet.

  “H
ow did you find that out?” he asked.

  “Agnes is always eavesdropping on the extensions, but until now I had no reason to do the same to her. She thinks I’m too goody-goody. Well, I started listening, too, and got an earful on everything.”

  “You must have had opportunity to switch pendants prior to this.”

  “No, I have not. One or the other of them is always home, they keep their bedroom door locked, and I don’t have a key. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more time, but only this morning did I learn about the collector coming tonight. Agnes’s husband found him. Agnes married him just a few months ago. He saw the big house, met our sick grandmother, and assumed he’d be coming into big money soon enough. Agnes didn’t set him straight. She and Clive were made for each other: both sly, greedy Philistines.”

  Escott came subtly alert. “Is he English? That’s not a common first name in America.”

  “Clive Latshaw’s no more English than I’m Greta Garbo. He puts on a good show, though. He’ll high-hat anyone if he thinks he can get away with it. He even charmed Grandma, but not enough so she’d change her will.”

  “Who is this private collector?”

  “I didn’t get a name, but they’re meeting at Bawks House at ten. We’ll be able to sneak in with no trouble. Agnes and Clive are always in the parlor with the radio on. She won’t go up for the Eye unless she sees the money.”

  “This is very uncertain, if they should catch us—”

  “Then I came home early from dinner, and you’re my invited guests. If we’re caught, I’ll be embarrassed, but I’m getting my property back. If it was me facing just Agnes I’d be fine, but Clive would step in, and he can be mean. I can’t fight them both.”

  “Your gentleman friend did not put himself forward as a protector?”

  “Bartie’s a good egg but no Jack Dempsey. Clive won’t try anything with you there, but if we’re careful, we can be in and out, and they’ll never know a thing. I just wish I could see Agnes’s face when she tries to palm off a piece of glass as a diamond.”