Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(42)
This was all so preposterous. I don’t know why I felt more secure in the presence of a strange man I had known for less than a day—particularly one whom I had been warned to avoid by nearly everyone I had met—but I hoped that they would be back soon, all the same.
I extended a polite smile to the man guarding me. He returned a blank stare—not simply the expressionless look you might adopt while waiting in line at the bank, but a deeply, aggressively blank stare. He held the sort of posture attainable only by those who have had their sense of humor surgically removed. His uniform looked crisp and free of droppings, but a familiar sulfuric stench still rolled off him.
“Hello,” I ventured.
The officer did not respond.
“So, you had a look around Jackaby’s place? Pretty crazy, isn’t it?”
Still no response.
“Be honest now. You stared at the frog, didn’t you?”
The officer remained silent, but his nostrils twitched involuntarily. He continued to direct his maliciously blank stare toward me.
“I thought so.” I smiled and leaned back on the slab of a bench behind me.
Chapter Twenty
I spent the next hour staring at a small patch of gray sky through the cell window and quietly drumming on the bench with my fingers. I had just perfected my timing so that the regular thup of the desk officer’s stamp fit neatly into the rhythm, when the door finally burst open and Jackaby’s voice preceded him through the hallway.
“Well, of course you would think that, if you’re just going to measure a man’s stability on whether or not he can taste banana when there are no bananas physically present. Narrow-minded and dismissive, as always, Inspector.”
The guard with the dirty shoulders pulled open Jackaby’s cell door, delivering the detective back inside with a shove. He slammed it closed, and then crossed over to unlock mine. “You’re next.” He jabbed a meaty finger in my direction, then stood rigidly at the door, waiting for me.
I whispered across the bars to Jackaby as I rose, “Shall I tell them the truth?”
“Have you killed anyone?” he asked, quietly.
“No, of course not!”
“Then I can’t imagine why you shouldn’t.”
The corridor was quiet, punctuated by the occasional clickity-click of a typewriter in one of the offices we passed. I felt like a girl in grammar school, treading the long hallway to the principal’s office with a hall monitor sneering over me all the way. The guard directed me into a room at the end of the hall. The little chamber was slightly larger than the cell had been, but managed to look even more drab and less inviting. The space lacked even the small, barred window that the cell had possessed, leaving nothing to puncture the dull grayness of the walls. The only light came from a single gas lamp, high on the wall behind Marlowe, who was sitting at a table reading over his notes. I took the chair opposite and waited for the chief inspector to speak. The policeman who had brought me in took his position in front of the door, as if I might leap up and race through the police station at any moment.
The table was plain wood, stained and battered, but sturdy. On it sat the handkerchief-bundled tuning fork, Bragg’s map, and Marlowe’s notebook. The latter lay open as Marlowe reviewed some previous entry. I definitely needed a notebook like that. The chief inspector took his time before slowly closing the book and setting it beside him on the table.
“So, Miss Abigail Rook.” He spoke evenly and leaned his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin. “You only recently arrived in New Fiddleham, is that correct?”
“Two nights ago, yes,” I answered. “I arrived by boat late in the afternoon.”
“Inauspicious timing, Miss Rook. Late in the afternoon, two nights ago, Arthur Bragg was still alive. That is—right up until he wasn’t. Had you met the man before then?”
“I never did meet him. Only saw his body, up at the apartment yesterday.”
“Are you staying at the Emerald Arch Apartments, Miss Rook?”
“No, sir. I’ve taken a room in Mr. Jackaby’s building on Augur Lane.”
Marlowe raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. He’s hired me on as his assistant.”
“And invited you to live in his home. Is there any more to the nature of your . . . relationship?” He managed to keep his voice cold and emotionless, but something about the way he paused before the word “relationship” left it laden with unspeakable impropriety.
“What? No!”
Marlowe nodded and made a note. “Why were you at the Emerald Arch Apartments, if not to look for some place to stay?”
I did my best not to let the inspector’s blunt questions and stony bearing get me flustered. “I—I had just started working for Mr. Jackaby—or rather, I think I began working for him while we were there. I was following him on his investigation.”
“Indeed?” Marlow made another note. “Impressive that you should come so quickly to find employment with a man who just happened to be involved in a murder . . . one that took place the very night you arrived in town. Did you seek him out because you were interested in getting a second look at the crime scene?”
The blood was pumping in my ears, and I was quickly beginning to resent the inspector’s implications. “With all due respect, sir, I would be employed by half a dozen other respectable townspeople if any of them had been hiring. Mr. Jackaby had work for me, that’s all—and I’m glad he did, Inspector. He’s a bit strange, it’s true, but at least he’s a competent investigator. His methods don’t include locking up everyone who tries to help.” I realized I had let Marlowe throw me completely off balance, and I sat back nervously, waiting for his rebuke.