Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(12)

“Just describe the sound, please,” repeated Jackaby.

“It’s so . . . so . . . so . . .” The man’s voice wavered and softened with each “so,” and his eyes fell downward. “So sad.”

“Remove the cushions, if you would, Mr. Henderson,” said Jackaby. He had selected a small metal rod that forked into two long prongs.

Henderson glanced back up. His eyes had welled slightly with tears, and his brow, no longer knit in aggravation, melted into a pitiful, pleading look.

“Mr. Henderson,” repeated Jackaby, “the cushions, please.”

Henderson slowly raised his hands and pulled the belt off his head. The cushions fell away. His eyes immediately slammed shut and his whole body flinched, tensing into itself as a silent wail apparently assaulted his ears.

“Where are the cries coming from?” asked Jackaby firmly. “Can you tell what direction?”

Tears dripped from Henderson’s clenched eyes, and he shook his head, whether to answer “no” or to shake away the sound, I couldn’t say.

Jackaby held the rod loosely and tapped the metal prongs against the table. A clear, pure, sustained note rang out. It was a simple tuning fork. Henderson’s body instantly relaxed, and he nearly collapsed onto the sofa. He sniffled, and gazed up, wide-eyed. The note hummed pleasantly for several seconds, growing quieter and quieter. Before it could fully fade away, Jackaby tapped it again.

“And now?” Jackaby inquired.

“I—I can still hear it,” stammered Henderson, his voice a mix of relief and confusion. “But more distant. Still so sad, the wailing. It sounds like . . .” He sniffed and cut himself off.

“Like what?” prompted Jackaby, gentle but relentless.

“Reminds me,” the man continued with difficulty, “of the way my mother cried at Papa’s funeral. Just . . . just like that.”

Jackaby tapped the tuning fork again. “It’s a woman’s voice, then?” Henderson nodded. “And now, can you judge where it’s coming from?”

Henderson concentrated, and his eyes drifted to the ceiling. “From above us,” he decided.

“Directly?” Jackaby asked. “The apartment above yours, perhaps?”

Henderson focused again, and Jackaby tapped the tuning fork to help. “No,” he answered, “just a bit . . . that way, I think.”

“Excellent. We shall attend to the matter directly. While I have you lucid, however, I would appreciate it if you could think back to yesterday evening. Did you happen to notice anything odd? Strangers in the stairwell, perhaps?”

Henderson breathed heavily and scratched his hair where it was still pressed flat from the cushions. “I don’t think so. Nothing very odd. Her voice . . .”

“Anything before the voice? Anything at all?”

The man thought again, his head rocking back and forth. “I don’t think so. Someone upstairs was playing the fiddle earlier. I hear them a lot, late in the afternoon. Not bad. Someone was at the hall window during the night, too. Probably that Greek from across the hall. He goes out to smoke cigars on the balcony—thinks his wife doesn’t know. He isn’t very subtle about it, tromps about like an elephant. Nothing strange. Although . . .”

“Yes?” Jackaby prompted.

“There was another sound . . . like . . . like—ugh—I don’t know.” His brow crumpled in frustration at the effort to recall. Jackaby tapped the fork again, and the man breathed, focusing.

“Like . . . something metal. Clink-clink. Like that. Probably just his watch banging on its chain, I guess. Not long after that, the crying started. She was so sad . . .”

“Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Henderson.” Jackaby flipped the satchel closed with his free hand and tucked it deep into his coat. He gave the tuning fork one final tap before striding toward Henderson. “I’ll be back to retrieve this later,” he said, holding out the fork, “but I think it’s best if you keep it for now.”

Henderson took the offering delicately, holding it carefully by the stem to avoid dampening the crystal clear tone. The rims of his eyes were nearly as red as his pajamas, but they were full of gratitude. He nodded, and Jackaby patted his shoulder, a bit awkwardly, and headed out the door.

Jackaby was already examining the window at the end of the hallway as I stepped out. He flicked the latch open, closed, and open again, and felt along the frame. A very slim balcony was visible just outside, housing a pot of dirt, which might presumably have contained a plant before the frost set in. Before I could ask if he noticed anything unusual, he was striding back down the hallway in the opposite direction. Charlie and I flanked him, quickstepping quietly past the closed door of room 301 and into the stairwell.

“I wonder how many floors we have above us,” mused Jackaby as he mounted the steps.

“Should be just one more,” I offered. “There were four rows of mailboxes in the lobby, and the numbers only went from the one-hundreds to the four-hundreds. So, unless there’s an attic . . .” I trailed off. We had reached the landing. The stairs did indeed conclude with one more hallway door, and Jackaby turned to look at me with his head cocked to one side as I caught up.

“The mailboxes?” he said.

“Er, yes. In the lobby.”

The corner of his mouth turned up in a bemused grin. “That’s quite sharp, Miss Rook. Quite sharp, indeed.”