Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(52)
“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.
His eyes caught mine and lingered; then he turned his gaze to Marlowe. “Didn’t I tell you to leave that one locked up until this was over?” he growled through a forced smile.
“Yes, sir.” Marlowe gave me an annoyed glance, as if my existence were a regrettable irritation. “There have been some substantial developments in the case.”
Jackaby had made his way to the center of the square when I spotted him, at last. He was not carrying any metal that I could see, lead or otherwise, but seemed to have collected a few small, broken branches. Amid such a gathering of stoic, uniformed officers, he looked especially ridiculous as he grasped one of the horse’s marble hind legs and scrabbled to climb atop the statue’s base. At one point he hung nearly upside down, with his coat dangling beneath him.