Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(8)
“Shouldn’t you . . . um . . . sit down, or something?” the policeman asked.
“Oh, absolutely. I’ll step inside at once, Officer. Yes, sir. I wouldn’t want to stray too far from my escort, anyway. He does worry when I wander off. You’re absolutely right, of course. Thank you, again.”
The big brute nodded, looking a little less out of sorts now that he was being agreed with. I smiled graciously at the circle of uniforms and swept into the building before they had time to reassess the whole affair.
Jackaby regarded me with a raised eyebrow as I closed the door behind me. We found ourselves in a small but well-lit lobby. A wall of miniature, bronze-edged mailboxes stood to our left and a large stairwell, flanked by two fat columns, to our right. Ahead was a door marked EMERALD ARCH APTS: MANAGER with a window looking in on the front desk. Within the little office, another policeman was taking statements from a chap in a doorman’s uniform. Neither paid us any attention.
“That ridiculous little performance of yours should not have worked,” Jackaby said.
“You don’t have to tell me that.” I glanced back at the door. “I’m actually a little offended that it did.”
He chuckled. “So, why did you do it? Surely there are employment opportunities that do not necessitate the brazen deception of armed officials.”
I faltered a moment before I defended myself. “Not so terribly brazen,” I said weakly. “I find most men are already more than happy to believe a young woman is a frail little thing. So, technically the deception was already there, I just employed it in a convenient way.”
He surveyed me through narrowed eyes and then grinned. “You may just be cut out for the job after all, Miss Rook. We’ll see. Stick close.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“About to find out.” He ducked his head into the manager’s office. His voice and another responding one came to me in mumbles, and then he popped back out and gestured at the stairs. “Room 301. Shall we?”
Our steps echoed up the stairwell as we started up the first flight.
“So, that policeman just told you where to go?” I asked.
“Yes, very helpful gentleman,” said Jackaby.
“Then, you really are working with the police.”
“No, no, not on this case . . . not as of yet. I simply asked and he told me.” Jackaby swung around the banister as he rounded the curve up to the next flight of stairs.
I thought for a moment. “Is it some kind of magic?” I felt stupid asking.
“Of course not.” Jackaby scoffed at the idea. He paused to examine the banister, and then resumed his trek upward.
“No? Then you didn’t, I don’t know, cast some kind of spell on him or something?”
The man stopped and turned to me. “What on earth makes you think that?” he asked.
“Well, we seem to be sneaking into a crime scene, but you’re not worried about rousing police suspicion, and all your talk about . . . you know.”
“What has that policeman got to be suspicious about? There are half a dozen armed watchmen outside ensuring that only authorized personnel are allowed in. Not unlike your little feigned faint, I merely allowed his assumption to work for me. A far cry from magic spells, Miss Rook, honestly.”
“Well, it’s hard to know what to expect from you. I don’t exactly believe in all this . . . this . . . this occult business. I don’t believe in house spirits, or goblins, or Santa Claus!”
“Well of course not, that’s silliness. Not the spirits or goblins, of course, they’re quite real, but the Santa nonsense.”
“That’s just it! How can you call anything nonsense when you believe in fairy tales?”
“Miss Rook, I am not an occultist.” Jackaby turned on the landing and faced me. “I am a man of reason and science. I believe what I can see or prove, and what I can see is often difficult for others to grasp. I have a gift that is, as far as I have found, unique to me. It allows me to see truth where others see the illusion—and there are many illusions, so many masks and facades. All the world’s a stage, as they say, and I seem to have the only seat in the house with a view behind the curtain.
“I do not believe, for example, that pixies enjoy honey and milk because some old superstition says they do . . . I believe it because when I leave a dish out for them a few times a week, they stop by and drink. They’re fascinating creatures, by the way. Lovely wings: cobweb thin and iridescent in moonlight.”
He spoke with such earnest conviction, it was difficult to dismiss even his oddest claims. “If you have a . . . ,” I spoke carefully, “a special sight, then what is it that you see here? What are we after?”
Dark shadows clouded Jackaby’s brow. “I’m never sure what others see for themselves. Tell me what you observe, first, and I’ll amend. Use all your senses.”
I looked around the stairwell. “We’re on the second-floor landing. The stairs are wooden and aging, but they look sturdy. There are oil lamps hanging along the walls, but they’re not lit—the light is coming from those greasy windows running up the outer wall. Let’s see . . . There are particles of dust dancing in the sunbeams, and the air is crisp and nipping at my ears. It tastes of old wood and something else.” I sniffed and tried to describe a scent I hadn’t noticed before. “It’s sort of . . . metallic.”