Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(5)

Peculiar though the notice was, I felt I met the requirements soundly—and eight dollars per week would keep me fed and out of the snow. I got directions from the postman and walked the short mile or so to the address.

The little building was nestled among much taller, wider structures in the business district. On either side, men in stiff suits hurried along the frosty walk. As they passed number 926, they seemed to walk all the more quickly and find things in the opposite direction in which to take a sudden interest, like schoolboys carefully avoiding an embarrassing younger sibling at recess.

From a curled, wrought-iron pole above the door hung a sign that announced: 926—INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES in large letters and PRIVATE DETECTION & CONSULTATIONS: UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA OUR SPECIALTY in smaller ones.

Three stories tall with, perhaps, room for a small attic, the building was busy with gables and ornate trim. With no apparent consideration for either form or function, the architect seemed to have included columns, arches, and carved festoons wherever space was available in whatever style was handy. Balustrades and cornice windows peeked out from a variety of angles, some of which seemed uncertain to which floor they belonged. Despite all of the mismatched chaos of its design, the building coalesced into something that seemed, somehow, right. No two elements of the property belonged together, but taken as a whole, not a thing stood out of place.

The door was brilliant red and humbly adorned with a knocker the size and shape of a horseshoe. I stepped up and rapped three times, then waited. I strained my ears for the telltale sounds of footsteps approaching or a chair shifting in the interior. After several long moments, I tried the handle, and the door swung open.

“Hello?” I called, gingerly stepping in. The entryway opened into what might have been intended as a waiting room of sorts. A wooden bench faced a desk, which was occupied only by stacks of books and loose papers. I set my suitcase to the side and stepped in farther. On the right side of the room, a long bookshelf housed several leather-bound volumes and strange, assorted artifacts including an animal skull, a small stone statue of a fat, nude figure, and a nestlike bundle of sticks and string. At the end of the shelf sat a glass box with dirt, leaves, and a little pool of water inside it.

I leaned down and peered into the glass, looking for an inhabitant. It took several seconds before I recognized the shape of a lumpy, gray-green frog that had been staring back at me all along. It glowered, and its tiny nostrils flared. With a sudden burp it puffed up its throat at me, bulging out a massive double chin. As the chin tightened, a visible stream of gas puffed out from the creature’s eyes. I stared. I was not mistaken. A gas, not far different in color from the amphibian’s damp skin, vented in quick streams from each eye. Soon the entire terrarium was a cube of drab smoke, and the continued venting could only be inferred by a faint whistle issuing from behind the clouded glass. The stench followed.

A door shut behind me and I whirled around. From an interior room, slipping an arm into his bulky coat as he walked, strode none other than Mr. R. F. Jackaby. He paused and eyed me in confusion as he buttoned up the coat. I, for my part, added nothing to the conversation save the eloquent, “Uh . . .”

His expression suddenly contorted and he broke the silence. “Oh good God! You stared at the frog, didn’t you? Well, don’t just stand there. Get the window up on your side. It’ll be hours before it clears.” He rapidly unclasped and drew up a window on the far side of the room. I glanced behind me, spotting another, and repeated the motion. The acrid stink crept from the terrarium and assaulted my nostrils, gradually easing into full force like a boxer warming up before a fight.

“Are you . . . ?” I began, and then tried again. “I’m here about the posting posted in the, er, post office. You . . .”

“Out! Out!” Jackaby snatched his knit hat from a hook beside the door and gestured emphatically. “You can tag along if you like. Just get out!”

We managed to reach the sidewalk before my eyes began to water, and I welcomed the fresh, cold air. I glanced back at the red door and hesitated, wondering if I should dart back in for my luggage. Jackaby pressed on down the lane, tossing his long scarf over one shoulder. After a rapid consideration, I left the case behind to hurry after the enigmatic man.





Chapter Three


I had to jog to catch up to Jackaby. He had nearly rounded the corner as I matched his stride. He moved his lips rapidly, mouthing thoughts he did not bother to share aloud. Wild locks of hair scrambled to free themselves from under his peculiar hat, and I couldn’t blame them for plotting their escape.

“Do you work for the . . . er . . . the service?” I asked.

He glanced my way. “Service?”

“The investigative service. You’re one of their detectives, aren’t you? I knew it—didn’t I say so? I said you must be a detective!”

Jackaby smiled. “And so I must.” He turned sharply, and I followed at his heels.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if they’ve filled the assistant’s position, would you?”

“If they’ve what, now? Who are ‘they’?”

I handed him the posting. Jackaby scowled at it for a moment.

“I think you must be a bit confused,” he said. “But don’t feel bad—it’s a common state. Most people are.” He folded up the advert and tucked it into his jacket, rounding another sudden turn. “My name is Jackaby. I am, as you said, a detective. I am not, however with the investigative service . . . I am the investigative service. Or, I should say, I provide it. That is to say, they are I and I am they. And you are . . . ?”