Jackaby (16 page)

C
harlie nodded to the duty officer as we left the cell, and the portly man slid the door closed behind us. “The banshee,” I said as we walked. “She was singing her own last song, then. That poor thing. We listened to her die, and we didn’t even know it!”

Charlie led us down the same hallway we had taken to reach the interrogation chamber. This time we took an early turn, and he rapped on the barred window of a desk set into an alcove. Beyond a panel of glass and thin bars stood long shelves of wire baskets. Peeking out of the tops were items ranging from gentlemen’s hats and gloves to a bullwhip and what appeared to be the top of a bowling pin. A few items, obviously too large to fit into the baskets, were arranged along the walls. While we waited, Jackaby chuckled to himself and pointed at an oversized Mexican sombrero with fine beadwork along the brim and a massive hole on one side. It looked as though some great beast had sampled it like a dainty chocolate, then returned it to the box. “That was a memorable afternoon,” he said.

The clerk arrived at last, rolling his eyes as soon as he caught sight of Jackaby. Charlie began to state our names officially, but the man waved him off. He handed Charlie a clipboard through the big slot at the bottom of the window and then trudged back out of sight. When he reappeared, he had a large metal tray and a sheet of paper. He slid the tray onto the desk and read from the paper.

“A. Rook. One coat. One handkerchief. Please sign that all personal effects are accounted for, miss.”

I pulled on the coat Jenny had lent me and tucked the handkerchief back in my pocket. Charlie handed me the clipboard, and I jotted my name on the line where he indicated. The clerk vanished again momentarily, and then returned, hefting three very full trays onto the desk with a loud clank. He sighed and stuffed Jackaby’s empty coat through the slot first. Thick though the material was, with all its pockets emptied, the thing looked like a deflated balloon.

“I hate it when you spend the night,” grumbled the clerk. “I only barely got finished cataloguing this stuff. Always takes me forever just to find all the damned pockets.” He coughed and returned to a flat, professional drone as he slid the first tray out and read from the paper. “R. Jackaby. One coat—brown; one hat—various colors; one rabbit’s foot on chain; one vial, unidentified liquid—blue; one vial, unidentified liquid—amber; one matchbox containing dried beetle; one . . .”

I had nearly nodded off again when Jackaby, once more loaded to nearly twice his body weight with paraphernalia, took the clipboard from Charlie and scrawled his mark. “Always a pleasure, Thomas. See you next time!”

The clerk took the clipboard with a grunt, then waved us away, trudging back to the recesses of his office.

I was surprised by how late it had gotten when we exited the police station. The sun was already approaching the horizon, and the innocuous shadows of the daytime were stretching to form a foreboding carpet of dusk. Lights had begun to sprout in a few city windows, reflected in broken patterns on the damp streets. They served only to darken and add menace to the shadows around them—although, admittedly, my perception was tinted by the knowledge that a serial murderer, one with motive to deliver us to our own horrific deaths, was lurking free in the city. My only consolation was that we were, at least, traveling with an escort. In spite of my earlier doubts about Charlie, I found I was once again grateful for his company.

“I think I had best excuse myself.” Charlie’s words drew us to a stop at the first intersection. “It has been a very long day. I’ll be no good to anyone until I have had some rest.”

It was no use arguing. The bags under Charlie’s eyes had collected bags of their own. His face was wan and badly in need of a shave, and the sweat and rain had plastered short, dark curls of hair to his temples. Weather and weariness had done nothing to diminish his strong jawline or the luster of his deep brown eyes, however, and I found myself doubly relieved that he was neither our villain nor the latest victim.

“Certainly,” Jackaby answered. “Do see that you are safe and secure before retiring, of course.”

“Of course. You, as well,” Charlie replied. “I have seen more bodies this week than I ever care to see again. I should not like to wake tomorrow to find yours.”

With a nod, he turned down the street and quickly plunged into the shadows. Jackaby continued on straight, and I double-stepped to keep close. It was hard to ignore the eeriness of the deserted roads and encroaching chilly dark. While I doubted very much that one more companion would cause our dastardly villain anything but the slightest delay in dispatching us, I still lamented Charlie’s absence, and mentioned as much to Jackaby.

“Really?” My employer zigzagged up the cobbles in his usual rush. “You seem to have a renewed faith in the man.”

“Well, it is certainly a relief to know he’s an ally, after all.”

Jackaby slowed his pace and faced me, an eyebrow raised in my direction.

“What?” I asked. “You can’t still suspect him! You saw him at the station, same as I did. He’s as much at risk as we are.”

My employer pursed his lips and looked as one might while deciding whether or not to reveal the truth about the tooth fairy to a child who has failed to receive a coin beneath her pillow. He spoke in a measured tone. “Miss Rook, I’ve not decided on Mr. Cane’s guilt by any means. He did say that his life is complicated, and I believe he was telling the truth about that. Do consider, however, the circumstances by which you found him innocent. During his visit to the cell, it became clear he could hear the banshee’s wail—which suggested that he, too, was going to be a victim. As it turns out, though,
everyone
heard the wail, so we must assume that the murderer heard it, as well. The incident proved nothing.”

I let the idea sink in. The shadows to every side darkened, and terrible fangs and bloodshot eyes inserted themselves behind every tree trunk. Something rustled in the foliage beside us, and—I’m not proud to admit it—I squeaked and leapt backward. A pigeon burst from the leaves and settled itself into the eaves of a building half a block down the lane.

“Then again, it may have proven slightly more than nothing,” Jackaby amended, oblivious to my outburst. I hoped that he would be more aware of my distress if I were ever ambushed by a real nefarious fiend, but for the sake of my dignity I chose not to mention it. He went on, burrowing into his thoughts. “It reveals that the murderer was aware of Mrs. Morrigan—aware of who and what she was. With the banshee still living, each victim was alerted before the kill. So long as Mrs. Morrigan remained alive and keening, we had at least a clue as to where our killer was going next. He slaughtered her to eliminate our advantage.”

We crossed the street, and I recognized where Jackaby was leading us. Half a block ahead stood the Emerald Arch. “Think we’ll find any new clues?” I asked.

Jackaby shrugged. “Possibly. But I’m not here for that.”

“Then, why . . . ?”

“This time, I am here to pay my respects.”

Marlowe was at the front door, giving instructions to a few of the uniforms when we arrived. He spotted our approach and held up a finger for us to wait while he wrapped up with the officers. Once he had sent them on their way, he turned and fixed us with a stare for several long seconds.

“I told that boy to go get some rest, and we’d release you two in the morning. I swear, before you got involved, Cane was one of my best detectives. Reliable. Loyal to a fault. He would never ignore a direct order. You’re a bad influence.”

“I do what I can.”

“Well, try not to ruin him, would you? He still has a sense about these things. He was first on the scene again, did he tell you?”

Jackaby shook his head.

“Got a funny look on his face just as we neared the building. He yelled something about the fourth floor and bounded up the stairs three at a time. By the time we caught up with him, he was at their door, and that O’Connor woman was answering. She didn’t even know. She said she felt something was very wrong . . . but so did we all, I guess. She had been in the next room, and she didn’t even know what had happened until Cane pushed open that bedroom door. Hell of a sight. She let out a scream and just fell to pieces. Can’t say I blame her. Like I said, this sort of thing is not for the female temperament.” He directed that last sentiment at me, making eye contact for the first time.

“I dare say you’re right, sir,” I conceded, meeting his gaze. “Out of curiosity, though, is there someone whose temperament you do find suited to this sort of thing? I think I would be most unnerved to meet a man who found it pleasant.”

I wondered if Marlowe was going to tell me off for my forwardness, but he only grunted and shook his head. “Nothing pleasant about any of this.” He fell silent again for several seconds. Finally, he sighed, and his eyes cast upward for a moment before turning back to the door.

“Come on, then.” He trudged inside the building without any further explanation or invitation. Jackaby, not needing any to begin with, was right behind him, and I jogged through before the door swung closed.

I was alarmed to find Mona O’Connor still in her apartment. Someone had draped a thick quilt over her shoulders, probably the officer standing stiffly behind her, and she sat on the well-stuffed sofa, staring blankly into space. Her hair was disheveled, and several curly red locks hung across her face. She had the dull expression of one who has been scooped out entirely, and does not know what to do with the emptiness. No, not emptiness, exactly. Somewhere, through her eyes and deep inside the hollow, there was an ember of something just beginning to glow. It reminded me of Jackaby’s oblivious intensity, but with a far more dangerous edge about it.

“Should she be here?” I asked Marlowe in a whisper. “Wouldn’t it be kinder to take her away from . . . from the scene?”

The chief inspector nodded. “We tried.” His eyes darted to the officer, who, I noticed, had a bit of gauze wedged up each nostril, and a bluish bruise blossoming across the bridge of his crooked nose.

Marlowe stepped toward the bedroom door and waited. Jackaby did not follow immediately, but went first to the sofa and knelt beside Mona. He spoke so quietly I could not hear a word, and he pulled from his pocket something that clinked gently in his palm. Some lucidity eased into her eyes for a moment, and she met his gaze and nodded, almost imperceptibly. He stood and crossed to the bedroom door. Marlowe opened it to admit the detective.

I did not follow. From the doorway, I could just see the woman’s silvery hair, and I watched as Jackaby placed two coins gently over her eyes. I was grateful Marlowe had once again positioned himself to block the scene as much as he could. The smell of blood was cloying, even from a distance, and I did not wish to see the state of the poor old woman’s body.

Jackaby murmured something that sounded like Latin, and then stepped out of the room. The chief inspector closed the door behind him. As both men made for the exit, Mona reached out and brushed Jackaby’s arm. He turned, and she fixed him with a solemn stare.

“Kill him,” was all she said.

My employer swallowed hard and met Mona’s eyes, but he gave no reply.

We descended the stairs and reached the lobby in silence. Marlowe was the first to speak. “They’re getting worse,” he said. “The bastard’s rushing, getting sloppy.”

“He wouldn’t have bothered to soak up Mrs. Morrigan’s blood, anyway,” said Jackaby, quietly. “Not the sort he needs, but you’re right. He knows we’re closing in.”

“I must admit, Jackaby, I was hoping for a little more.”

“Inspector?”

“That was a kindness, back there. I think you did right by the old lady, don’t get me wrong. But the first time I actually invite you into a case, you barely glance at the scene at all.”

“Marlowe, do you mean to say you are you finally enlisting my services?”

The chief inspector shuddered involuntarily at the question, clenched his fists, and cracked his neck. “Something happened this afternoon that I can’t explain. People are dying. I don’t believe in you, or your ridiculous claims about magic and monsters, but you have a way of making things turn up, things like that map. I can’t ignore that just because you’re a lunatic and I don’t like you.”

“Oh, Marlowe, you’re being too kind.”

“Stuff it,” Marlowe growled. “And let me make this unmistakably clear. If you’re on this case, you report back to me. You do not withhold information. You do not conceal evidence. I know where you are and what you know at all times. You will respect the chain of command, and you will not question it. I am in charge. Is that understood?”

Jackaby smiled, and his eyes glinted. Somewhere beneath the atrocious knit hat and that unkempt hair, cogs began to whir into motion.

“Is that understood?” Marlowe repeated.

“How quickly can you assemble every member of the police force at the town square?” Jackaby asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Every member. Every link in the chain. Highest to the lowest. If we’re going to capture him tonight, we’re sure to need every one of them.”

“What?”

“You’re right, that isn’t quite enough. I’ll need a few books, as well! Just call them, all of them. Miss Rook and I will meet you at the town square in—shall we say—half an hour?”

“What?”

“I daresay, Marlowe, we should work together more often. This is brilliant!” With a manic grin, Jackaby flung the door open wide and vaulted the steps. “We shall have him this very night!” he cried, his scarf and coat whipping behind him as he flew into the evening.

Marlowe stood, speechless, in the lobby. I shrugged my bewilderment to him before chasing my employer down the street.

I
could barely keep Jackaby in sight as we sped through the city streets. The wet cobblestones had chilled to glittering patches of ice, and my feet slid out from under me on more than one occasion as I tried to round sharp corners. By the time I reached the red door with its horseshoe knocker, I was sore and winded, and as baffled as ever. Jenny was hovering by the open door to the office as I came through the hallway. She looked to me for an explanation.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said, and peeked inside.

The massive map had been stuffed to one side, and I noticed a few pins had managed to cling to their positions, dangling limply from the ruffled map, while the others must have been scattered across the floor. A book flew from behind the desk to land on the small pile beginning to collect in the leather armchair. Jackaby popped up, hurriedly flipping through the pages of another, and quietly cursing the lack of useful information he seemed to be finding.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Looking,” he managed, without glancing up. He tucked two of the tomes under his arm and leafed through a third as he brushed past me, back into the hall. Jenny scowled as he passed right through her shoulder before she had time to pull away.

“Haven’t you already been through all these?”

“Yes, but now I know what I’m looking for!” He zipped down the crooked corridor.

“And what, precisely, is that?” I was yelling after Jackaby, as he dashed out of sight. He either didn’t hear me or couldn’t be bothered to respond. I gave the still-scowling Jenny a quick apology. As I hurried out, I noticed that the frying pan had been removed from the wall. The rough hole it had carved still remained, and orange light from the sunset was trickling through it into the hallway. I found myself thinking that, all things considered, the poor ghost really was a remarkably patient roommate.

I caught up with Jackaby again halfway down the block. He was so buried in one of his books, I was surprised he was able to notice my arrival, let alone navigate the walk, but as I drew near, he pitched the other two books into my hands. His lips moved silently and rapidly as his eyes zipped over the pages.

“Jackaby—what are we looking for?” I demanded.

He pried his eyes slowly up from the page and caught my gaze. “Lead.”

“Lead? What—as in the metal?”

He dropped the last book into my arms atop the others. “That might help, at least. And some decent kindling.”

He picked up the pace again and hastened toward the center of town. It was all I could do not to drop his books or crack my tailbone on the icy roads as I struggled to keep up.

The sun was melting into a reddish haze behind the buildings and treetops, and I turned my collar to the biting cold. Here and there, stars were beginning to peek through the gaps in the dark sky, but the moon was nothing but a diffused glow behind the shifting curtain of clouds. It did little to illuminate the shadowy streets. Terraced with well-kept brickwork, a broad stretch of sidewalk opened ahead of us, forming a semicircle around a statue of an important-looking soldier on a rampant horse. A few large flower boxes had been erected at some point to lend color to the block, but the frost had long since finished off the blooms. Across the street sat the city hall, regal, white columns dominating its façade and leaving the recessed entrance a sheet of inscrutable black.

Around the rampant statue, a crowd of a dozen or so uniformed officers had begun to collect. They milled about, some attempting to look alert and attentive, others unabashedly sitting on the edges of flower boxes and puffing away on cigarettes.

Curtains in the surrounding buildings darted open here and there, revealing the curious faces of residents taking notice of the gathering. A few passing workmen stopped to lean against the fence, passing a silver flask around while they waited for something interesting to happen. By the evening’s end, they would not be disappointed. I caught sight of a pair of ladies whispering and casting severe and condescending looks in my direction. One wore a bonnet overloaded with flowers, and the other was in a canary yellow dress.

“Yes, exactly,” came flower-bonnet’s nasal drone over the dull murmur of the square, “she’s
that
sort.”

“Shameful,” intoned yellow-dress.

I had no intention of playing their repentant lost lamb, withering at their glances. Instead, I threw them a cheeky wink as I jogged up the steps into the square. They looked mortified and bustled away, noses raised, in the opposite direction. I drew up to my employer’s side as he halted at last, my heavy breaths puffing out in pillowy, white clouds ahead of me. He was scanning the assembled officers, and those still trickling in from Mason Street, when his eyes narrowed slightly and his posture straightened.

I tried to slow my labored breathing and spot the target of his interest. “What is it?” I whispered.

Jackaby nodded in the direction of a slender alley through which a figure was approaching, wearing a dark cloak and stiff top hat. The drainage grates billowed steam across the alleyway, shrouding the figure in a pale silhouette at first. As he neared, his features grew slowly more distinct, until he reached the street and came out of the fog and shadows, revealing a bushy-bearded face with rosy cheeks. Jackaby relaxed. “No one. Never mind.”

“Wait, I’ve met him,” I realized. “Let me see . . . Mr. Stapleton, I think. He tried to buy a tin of Old Bart’s from me.” He spotted me as we passed, and gave a polite nod of recognition, which I returned before he continued out of sight down the lane.

Jackaby looked at me. “Why were you selling tins of—wait, Stapleton?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“As in Stapleton Foundry? As in Stapleton Metalworks?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. He was nice. He told me to keep my chin up.” Jackaby was already hurrying off after the man.

“Wait here!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going to see a man about some lead!”

I stood, alone, clutching Jackaby’s old books to my chest and stamping my feet to keep out the cold while I watched the police officers collect.

“Hello again, Abigail Rook,” called a familiar female voice behind me, and I turned to see who had spoken. All around were men in uniform, and none of them appeared remotely interested in me.

“Something different about you,” she continued. She was only a few feet away when I finally spotted her.

“Oh, hello, Hatun! I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you at first.”

The old woman smiled knowingly. “Findin’ a place in the world, I see,” she said, and brushed her shawl casually with one mittened hand. “And how are the new lodgings? Comfortable?”

“What’s that? Oh, yes, I suppose. Jackaby has lent me the use of a room. Speaking of which, did you happen to see where—”

“That isn’t it, though,” she cut me off, subjecting me to the same suspicious, narrow-eyed examination as she had during our first encounter. “Somethin’ else . . .”

“Right, well,” I said. “I would love to talk, but I really must be . . .”

“Oh dear.” Hatun shook her head and blinked several times, as if trying to clear from her eyes the drifting spots that come of looking at bright lights for too long. “Oh dear, oh dear, indeed. You oughtn’t go looking for him. No, not a wise idea. Really for the best you stay clear of him tonight. Keep away from Jackaby.” Her eyes squinted at me. “That’s what’s different about you, I think.”

I hesitated. “There’s something different about me, and it has to do with Jackaby?”

“I’m afraid so, dear. You must not follow him. It’s simply dreadful.”

“What is, exactly?”

She shook her head again, and her whole face tightened as though she had chomped down on a lemon. She looked up suddenly, and patted my cheek in a surprisingly sweet, grandmotherly gesture. “The—what’s the word? Immense, innocence, imminence, yes—that’s it. The imminence of it,” she said, “your demise.”

“The imminence of my demise?” I stared at the woman, with her tender eyes and layers of wrinkles, and let her words sink in.

I believed her, I realized, but I had already come to terms with my death so many times in the span of a day, I found it difficult to be frightened by the announcement. I had crested that emotional hill already, and the view was becoming familiar. “Thank you, earnestly,” I said, all the same. “Your concern is touching.”

Her omen delivered, Hatun seemed to, as Jackaby phrased it, “oscillate” instantly back to normalcy. She nodded and wished me well, as if we had just met at a casual luncheon, then shuffled away, melting into the milling crowd.

Soon the ranks of police had crept to nearly a hundred men, and they continued shuffling in from the streets and alleys. Some wore full uniforms; others had hastily pulled their navy blue jackets over evening clothes, clearly roused from their homes while off duty. One chilly-looking young fellow wore a pair of spotted pajamas, with only his stiff blue hat and black baton to identify him as a man of the law. I was impressed that Marlowe had agreed to Jackaby’s wild request at all, let alone that he had managed to summon so many men so quickly, and at this hour of the night.

The chief inspector himself strode through the crowd at the far end of the square. The officers most familiar with him turned at the sound of the handcuffs, jangling at his side, and they were at attention the moment they caught sight of the imposing figure. Even those who must have been from different departments made at least a token effort to sit up straighter on their flower boxes. The inspector made a beeline to stand beside me, surveying the men as he spoke.

“Where is he?”

“He’ll be right back,” I assured the inspector, wishing all the more that I had kept a line of sight on my employer. I shifted my grip on Jackaby’s books, feeling small and awkward beside the chief inspector. The last time we had been this close without Jackaby, he had been accusing me of murder. At least this time he was on our side. “You’ve certainly assembled an impressive crowd, sir. Is this every policeman in New Fiddleham?”

“Of course not,” Marlowe grunted. “Most of the on-duty officers will stay right where they’re assigned. It would be irresponsible to leave New Fiddleham unprotected. There are, however, runners rousing available men from every district in the city. I hope you understand, Miss Rook”—the chief inspector turned his head in my direction, looking down his arrow-straight nose at me—“that I have used the very last of my pull with Commissioner Swift to draw this much manpower. I have taken responsibility for what is becoming a remarkably public spectacle. It is of the utmost importance to me that this not become a colossal waste of time and resources. So where, I will ask you again, is Jackaby?”

“He’s . . . about.” I scanned the square frantically for any sign of that silly knit cap. I recognized a few faces in the crowd. O’Doyle, the barrel-chested brute I had first encountered at the Emerald Arch, was there, along with the two guards who had been given the unfortunate task of searching Jackaby’s building. It appeared those two had at least had enough time to change into fresh uniforms. The portly officer with the walrus mustache was huddled with a few of his colleagues, chatting and rubbing his arms to stay warm.

Toward the back of the crowd, to my surprise, I even spotted Charlie Cane. The poor, tired detective had pulled his uniform back on—if he’d even had time to remove it—but he was clearly in bad shape. His well-polished buttons and pointed shoes still glistened, but his uniform was no longer crisp, and his posture sagged. He kept to the rear, not socializing with his comrades, and kept glancing back down the street, as if longing to return to his bed. I tried to catch his eye to offer a sympathetic smile, but the detective’s head hung low and his gaze was downcast.

I finally spotted Jackaby on the far side of the statue, working his way inward through the field of uniforms, when there erupted a hubbub to my left. I turned and watched as idle chatter rapidly died away, and the wall of blue coats parted to allow through the commissioner himself. The officers’ reactions to Marlowe’s entrance now seemed lackadaisical compared to their instant metamorphosis in Swift’s presence. Guts were sucked in, lit cigarettes vanished, and orderly ranks miraculously formed from the chaos. Charlie, uncharacteristically, seemed the exception to the spreading current of professionalism. He stayed to the back of the crowd and continued to glance from side to side, as if thinking of slinking away at any moment. Something else seemed odd about him. It took a moment to really see it across the square, but in spite of the icy chill, I realized Charlie was glistening with sweat. He was nearly obscured by the crowd’s foggy breath and fading cigarette smoke, but I now noticed the steaming heat rising off him like a furnace. He was breathing hard, and I worried that his overexertions had made him terribly ill. Something in me ached to rush to his aid. My attention, however, was dragged back to the commissioner as he crossed into my line of sight.

Swift had taken the time to pull on his long, dark coat with the deep red trim and matching crimson derby, but below the charcoal hem of the coat, a pair of silk pajama legs was visible. His leg braces had been strapped over these with haste, leaving the material creased and folded. He marched with his usual determined, steady stride, sheer force of will driving him past pain and into general malice. Whether from cold or because he had not had time to oil them, the braces punctuated each step with a louder-than-usual squeak and clink.

“This had better be good,” he snarled to the chief inspector, drawing to a stop beside him. The commissioner’s voice was deep and ragged, and although he stood half a foot shorter than Marlowe, the chief inspector still straightened, looking like a boy called to the front of the class. Like Marlowe, Commissioner Swift now stood, surveying the crowd of men, scowling darkly as he did.

Shuffling through the crowd in the commissioner’s wake came the scrawny fellow in the straw boater I had seen at the station. He drew up beside Swift and whispered something in his ear. I caught the word “constituents.” Swift’s eyes darted up to the faces in the windows and to the pedestrians beginning to gather on either side of the square. He met an eye here and there and attempted to turn his scowl into a congenial and reassuring political smile. The expression failed to extend to his eyes, and the result was an even more unpleasant grimace.