Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(11)

“Just like the thieves in the Winston Street Bank case?”

“They most certainly weren’t human,” Jackaby answered. “Welsh pixies, a small clan.”

“And the bar fight at Mickey’s Tavern?”

“Well, not the scrawny fellow, obviously, but I maintain that big bloke was a troll. Half blood at least.”

“And the ‘Grocery Ghost’ who kept rearranging produce after hours?”

“Okay, I have already admitted I was wrong on that one. As we saw, that was Miss Maudie from Hampton Street, but you have to admit, the old girl is very strange.”

Marlowe breathed in deeply and sighed, shaking his head, then turned his attention to me. “And you are?”

I gave the inspector my name and started to explain about my arrival and the job posting. He cut me off again.

“Another one?” He directed the question at Jackaby, then turned back to me. “A little advice, young lady. Get out before he drags you too far into his craziness. This business is not for the female temperament. Now both of you, I want you off this crime scene and out of my way. This isn’t some two-bit bar fight—this is murder. Out!” He turned and called into the hallway, “Detective Cane, between this idiot and Mr. Henderson, I’ve had quite enough lunacy for one afternoon. Please show the man and his young lady off the premises.”

Marlowe stepped aside, and Charlie Cane appeared, looking uncomfortable and fiddling nervously with the polished buttons on his uniform.

“Nice chat as always, Marlowe,” said Jackaby pleasantly as he passed. Marlowe grunted. I followed my new employer into the hallway and the chief inspector slammed the door behind us.

“Well, he’s cheerful today,” Jackaby quipped.

“Oh, Marlowe is an exceptional chief inspector,” Charlie replied.

“I’m sure he is,” I said, “Detective Cane, isn’t it?”

His gaze dropped, and he looked sheepishly aside. “It’s Junior Detective, to be totally accurate, miss,” he said. He met my glance again with a smile before he went on. “It really is an honor to work with Chief Inspector Marlowe. He’s just a bit edgier than usual today. The new commissioner is supervising this case very closely. He makes Marlowe tense.”

“Who’s Henderson?” asked Jackaby.

“Who?” said Charlie.

“Henderson. Marlowe mentioned him. Something about lunatics.”

“Oh, that would be William Henderson—room 313. He is . . . odd. We thought he might have some useful information, because he says he heard wailing early this morning, like someone crying very hard. Only, when the inspector asks him how long the cries persisted, Mr. Henderson looks at him funny and says they haven’t stopped. He tells us all to listen, and says they’re clear as anything, can’t we hear them? Now, we all listen—and I have very good ears. There is no sound. Henderson insists it’s as loud as though someone were weeping in that very room, and shouldn’t we do something about it? He begins to get agitated, so the inspector excuses himself, assuring the man we would look into it. Very odd.”

“Interesting.” Jackaby started on down the hallway, glancing at room numbers as he passed. I hurried after him.

“Wait,” said Charlie, following. “I told the inspector I would take you out of the building.”

“And so you shall,” Jackaby called over his shoulder. “Expertly, I imagine, and to the letter of the instruction. However, I don’t recall Marlowe giving any specific directions about time, nor about the route we take, so let’s have a quick chat with someone odd, first, shall we? I do love odd. Ah, here we are!”

Jackaby rapped firmly on the door to room 313. After a pause, it flung itself open, and we faced a poorly shaven man with bushy, muttonchop sideburns, tired, sunken eyes, and a pair of bright red pajamas. Around his head a leather belt had been strapped, holding two decorative throw pillows tightly to his ears. Little fabric tassels on one of them swayed to a stop as he stared at us from beneath a furrowed brow.

“Well?” the man said.

Jackaby smiled and extended a hand in greeting. “Mr. Henderson, I presume?”





Chapter Six


Mr. Henderson stepped back to let us into his flat, which was a nearly perfect match for the victim’s, except that this one had a worn sofa in place of the writing desk, and a mix of colorful fruit had been arranged in a bowl on the table. Mr. Henderson made no motion to remove the cushions from his ears, and instead shouted his disapproval at the police department for not having put a stop to the noise. He slumped onto the couch and scowled.

“We are not with the police department,” said Jackaby. He pulled out a thin leather satchel and laid it on the table.

“Well,” said Charlie, “I am.”

“We are not with the police department, except for those of us who are,” Jackaby revised. “Mr. Henderson, could you describe the cries you’re hearing, please?” He untied the leather lace around his satchel and rolled it out on the table with a light clinking. From over his shoulder I could see that it contained three slim pockets, which housed metallic instruments of some sort.

“How can you not hear it?” the man demanded, still yelling. “Is it . . . Is there something wrong with me?”