The Case of the Singing Sword (The Billibub Baddings Mysteries)

by Tee Morris

  “A package. What was it? Booze shipment from up north? Opium? What?”

  “Nevah heard what da package was, ’zackly…just dat he was hell-bent on gettin’ it first. His boys were suppos’ta do a simple grab-n’-run, but den da trinket disappeahed. It wasn’ wheah da boss was told it would be. I don’ know why, but Capone was really layin’ into his boys.”

  “And let me guess…Pretty Boy was one of them?”

  “Well, yeah, Pretty Boy was deah,” Benny started, but then his head tipped to one side, as if his own memory of events confounded him. Wouldn’t be the first time this dink confused himself with his own facts.

  “See—heah’s da t’ing I couldn’ follow. Pretty Boy was in da cleah, standin’ on da Boss’ right side. Ya know, dat whole right hand-a God t’ing? It was like Pretty Boy was covahed.” He nodded to me with a self-satisfied smile. “I could see past dat. I was starin’ right at ’im. I could see it in his face dat he knew more den what he was tellin’ Capone ’bout da package.”

  “Really? Well, ain’t you the clever detective?” I scoffed, wiping the smile off his face. I knew the point had been made that I really didn’t feel like playing the banter game with him today, so I returned Beatrice back to her holster as I continued.

  “So you two saw one another? Exchanged loving looks? And what then?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, we seen each othah. I was on my way outta deah, an’ Pretty Boy stops me outsidah Capone’s place. He recognized me as one of his boys, y’know? Anyways, we go’s for a walk, see? A friendly walk.”

  Benny’s face was always like one of those magical tomes, left open to perhaps the worst spell one could accidentally read out loud. He probably had made it clear to DeMayo he was seeing through him and his game with Capone. I couldn’t imagine how hard Benny was pissing his pants during that walk.

  “Pretty Boy tells me deah’s dis oppa-toonity fa a change in t’ings. He wants ta include me in dis change. I mean, he knew I was loyal to him. Dat I’d done good fa him.”

  “Yeah, and you thought if Capone were no longer running the show, you could have a clean slate, right? Retire the creative bookkeeping? Maybe enjoy a bigger piece of the pie with a new boss in charge? After all, I’m thinking you’re tired of being the low man.”

  “I am!” he barked. And in one of those rare moments, Benny looked sincere. He was looking for a promotion in the ranks, and it wasn’t going to happen as long as Capone remained on the throne. “I shouldn’ be just a numbahs guy. Yeah, I’m good at it, but I deserve bettah. I deserve da respect dose captains and generals get. Goddammit, I can do what dey do—only bettah! I’m smaht! I am! If I can stick it ta Capone, dat shows I got da brains to be a general.”

  “It shows you like tempting the Fates, ya stupid troll!” I blew a puff of the rich, spicy tobacco into his face, narrowing my eyes on him. “They scraped Pretty Boy off the remains of Sal’s Diner, and he was smart. Not smart enough to keep his plans low-key, though. I wonder if he was smart enough not to let your name slip.”

  Benny’s swollen pride deflated quickly, and he started to turn pale again. Taking another slow drag, I heard the crackle of weed in my bowl as he contemplated this.

  “So how was the New Order going to come about?” I continued.

  “I dunno, but it had sumtin’ ta do wit dis package Capone was screamin’ ’bout. DeMayo knew wheah it was, an’ it was me an’ Two Times who knew DeMayo had it.”

  Pauley “Two Times” Bennetti was just another foot soldier in the service of King Scarface. My paths rarely crossed with Pauley’s, but I’d heard of him. Two Times wasn’t called Two Times because you couldn’t trust him. It was some kind of nervous tic of his, a slight stammer that would make him repeat full names or sentences. I wouldn’t have penciled in his name as one who would turn on Capone, but he did fit the mold of a follower.

  “The plan was to keep it on da move,” Benny continued, “havin’ me an’ Two Times passin’ it from place ta place, an’ den we’d recruit a coupla people ta help us out. Ya know, so as no one would know wheah it is? First Pauley would get it, pass it ta his people, den I’d get a holdah it, pass it along, an’ den back ta Pauley. Nobody nevah knew who had it.”

  I raised a bushy eyebrow. “And DeMayo trusted his yeomen blindly?”

  “Me an’ Pauley were paid bettah den ya t’ink,” Benny huffed. “Bettah den my special bookkeepin’.”

  “Pretty Boy” DeMayo could charm the chemise off a tavern wench with a wink and a smile. I already knew that. Listening to Benny, it sounded as if Pretty Boy could also rally a platoon of tired and downtrodden soldiers against several regiments of hungry, bloodthirsty orcs. It was not that far of a reach to think that Two Times, especially if he was the same kind of follower that Benny was, had fallen under DeMayo’s spell.

  Two Times had been found floating off the docks last week, dead from a severe case of lead poisoning to the back of his skull. At least a bullet is a faster death than an arrow.

  So a major player in the Organization, and a couple of two-bit hoods who couldn’t find the shortest distance between two leagues with an enchanted road map, had been planning to overthrow the Gangland Boss of Chicago. And this overthrow had centered about a smash-and-grab job that went south…at least, for Capone. Staying one step ahead of his lord and master, DeMayo kept this package on the move. Whatever this package was, DeMayo thought it was his ticket to the throne.

  “You said Capone was raising a stench over this package, Benny. What can you tell me about it?”

  “It don’ matter.” He shook his head resolutely. “I don’ know wheah it is. Two Times was da last one ta have it!”

  Did this moron have wax in his ears? “I didn’t ask where it was, I asked what you knew about it. You ever see this trinket?”

  “Nah, it was always in a long case.” He didn’t seem to particularly care anymore if he spilled his guts to me now. “Felt like I was carryin’ a pool stick, or sumtin’ like dat. Dis was a long case, but thin, y’know?”

  “So Capone was all up in arms in losing track of this package. Got a clue where it was supposed to be?”

  “Look, I don’ make it a habit ta listen t’othah people’s talk, y’know? Dat’s rude. But Capone was yellin’, so I couldn’ help it. He kept yellin’ on an’ on ’bout some museum an’ his connection deah, yellin’ about how da whole pointah th’ job was ta do it befoah some exhibit opens. Den he blew ’is stack dat someone else got da package befoah he did.”

  Benny suddenly realized that he was still kneeling in garbage. He picked himself up, looking relieved when I backed away from him, out of arm’s reach.

  “I dunno what DeMayo was up to, but he was casin’ some oddball places. First, deah was dese museums dat Capone kept talkin’ ’bout, so we were casin’ dose places, but when I was suppos’ta meet DeMayo ta find out wheah da pick-up would be, I wind up meetin’ him at a library. And dis was wheah da job was gonna happen. A goddamn library! I mean, what’s so important in a library?”

  I could have given him an earful on that comment, but I knew my case would have fallen on deaf ears because my boy Benny had the brains of a troll. What was the point? If he did have anything in that skull of his, he would have been able to follow the hunch now forming in my head. When it came to a museum that doubled as a library, the search for where this heist of DeMayo’s took place just narrowed by leaps and bounds.

  The momentary lull in the conversation brought us both back to Benny’s imitation-leather shoes, and him praying to God that I stayed happy and informed.

  “Are we done heah, dwarf?”

  “Yeah, we’re done here.” I reached into my wallet and tossed a Lincoln at him. “Get yourself cleaned up, Benny. You stink.”

  Chapter Five

  Driving on the Wrong Side of Memory Lane

  I think it would have done Benny’s pixie-sized brain a good turn to spend an afternoon or two in a library. If he had even attempted to nurture a curious streak in that sorry excuse f
or a noggin, he might have then ventured to other libraries and begun to figure out why DeMayo was suddenly obsessing over them as meeting spots.

  The Ryerson Library, an institution that doubled as both a library and a museum, was just a short cab ride from where I ended up having lunch. (It was a relief to have anything resembling an appetite after I left Benny Riletto still searching through garbage cans for his piece. The smell in that alley rivaled a female orc’s perfume!) Although it had only been around for about thirty years, the Ryerson already boasted a growing collection of artifacts, literary works, and essays from the smartest minds of the country.

  Although humans have the potential to be thorough and efficient information-gatherers, their attention spans just won’t last without some kind of distraction, be it booze, sex, or crime…and that’s in both realms. Still, I can’t complain. These were the distractions pushing me through the massive doors leading into the rotunda of the Ryerson.

  Benny had mentioned that DeMayo kept meeting him “at a library,” which confused him because he had overheard Capone planning to pull a job “on a museum” instead. My resulting hunch was that DeMayo arranged to meet at the last place Capone or the cops expected to find him: the scene of his own private heist. Now, it was time to find out if I was unlocking the right chest, and if so, to reap the rewards.

  Unlike the gloominess of the downtown circuit court, the Ryerson rotunda was covered in bright white marble, and accented by incredible columns reminiscent of Trysillian palaces. Mighty impressive and mighty pretentious.

  As my steps echoed down the polished corridor toward the main desk, I found myself really hoping that the harpy sitting behind it was going to reveal her true beauty by the time I got there.

  Hope springs eternal.

  Her hair was a short-cropped field of brown, and I couldn’t help wondering if the worry lines I saw were chiseled into the stone surface of her face. Her spectacles only magnified her cold, hard stare at what she was reading, as if she were intending to intimidate the words off the page for instant comprehension. If the corners of her mouth had been pulled back any tighter, they would have touched at the back of her head. In short, she looked as if she had been drinking a bad batch of homebrew bitter.

  “Now, come on, Billi, are you being fair?” I chided myself. “Calling her a harpy? Drawing assumptions? How do you feel when people do that to you? How about you give this girl a chance, eh?”

  As I drew closer to the receptionist, her features seemed to soften. There was a touch of light in her eyes. Maybe my guess about her had been wrong…

  I softly cleared my throat.

  “Can I help you…” She looked up from her daily paperwork, and then looked down at me. “…sir?”

  I think I heard hunting dogs in both this realm and my realm yelp in pain. That was a voice that could make a siren flinch. Ouch!

  Still, ever the optimist, I started off with a wink and a smile. “You could, toots, but I think we would get arrested for doing that in public.”

  No laugh. A stare worthy of a Scout. Yeah, even in my world, the academics were cold fish.

  “The name’s Baddings, ma’am,” I continued discreetly as I showed her my credentials with a friendly grin, “and I understand you had an artifact get up and walk out without even saying ‘Good night.’ I’m currently involved in a case that could lead to its recovery, but first, I’d like to know a little more about it. Anybody here wanna talk?”

  She still wasn’t smiling, but I think she had found a moment of delight at the prospect of returning her attention to the work I had so rudely interrupted. “If you will just have a seat, Mr. Baddings, I will tell someone you’re here.”

  Oh, this lady wasn’t serious! I had to chuckle at the utter presumption of humans like this one. Somehow, it was thought that your height was equal to your comprehension skills, so there were those who assumed me short in both. And just a moment before, I had been giving this battle-axe the benefit of the doubt!

  “Oh, that’s fine, ma’am. I apologize if I was a little brazen earlier. I’ve been running around all morning. Guess I got a little light-headed.”

  As I delivered this, she continued to peer at me through her glasses, fighting that primal urge to go after me in much the same manner as her ancient ancestors would have hunted game.

  “Really, it’s fine if the Ryerson is too busy to talk to me,” I added with a noncommittal shrug. “If you don’t mind, I’m just going to take a moment and catch my breath before heading on to my appointment at the Tribune. I appreciate your time.”

  Her scowl receded a bit as I took off my fedora, fanned myself with it, and then waddled over to a nearby chair. Besides making me appear shorter than my actual height, that waddle was a warning to Ryerson’s old war-horse that I had no intention of masking my appearance and blending in with the background. It also said that if I was going to carry myself with pride in this situation, then I had nothing to lose in talking to the press. Sure, the press could take a shot at me, but if I could buffet this old bat’s blows, would I really be put off by a pack of reporters?

  Probably not.

  “Um, sir?” I winced as she managed a grin. I knew that had to hurt. “Sir, if you will just give me a moment, I’ll get Dr. Hammil.”

  I replaced my hat, straightening it on my head as her footfalls faded out of earshot. In light of my comments and the frenzied pace she had taken down the corridor behind her, I would be surprised if Dr. Hammil weren’t Ryerson’s curator.

  As I paced casually back and forth, I could just make out the paperwork on her desk—still out in the open, since she left in such a hurry. Looked like the Ryerson was planning to dedicate a new wing with an exclusive shindig, attended by only the most exclusive patrons of the arts. Quite the Who’s Who of Chicago’s Financial Elite. DeMont, Evans, Rothchild…

  Funny thing, that—the Lesinger family was absent from the invitation list.

  I was about to help myself to a closer look at this guest list when I heard the battle-axe’s high heels returning, accompanied by another pair of footfalls. The shoes ahead of hers weren’t expensive. They sounded more comfortable, practical. Academic.

  He was taller than a High Oak and about as skinny as a Valley Pine, looking at me rather incredulously though wire-rimmed spectacles that were similar in make to the receptionist’s. But unlike my helpful harpy, he was sweating. There were creatures of the undead I’d crossed (and had to kill again…damn, talk about redundant!) that looked healthier than he did.

  From the look of his slight build, I surmised that this was about as much excitement and exercise as he could handle. His plain suit and unkempt hair told me he was not used to these kinds of sudden surprises. Assistants and tour guides usually dealt with people, while he usually dealt with further study. The prospect of an embarrassing state of affairs reaching the papers, though, was evidently enough to tear him away from his various parchments, scrolls, and testaments. This bookworm was trying his best to be the pillar of intellectual strength and control, but he only knew about “brave face” from tapestries and woodcuts. His smile seemed as painfully executed as his receptionist’s.

  He bent at the waist, extending a clammy hand to me. “Good morning. Welcome to the Ryerson Library.” The bookworm adopted a bizarre, bird-like quality as he tipped his head slightly to one side, giving his long, angular beak the semblance of a hawk’s. “I’m Dr. Samuel Hammil, curator of the Ryerson. How can I help you, Mister…?”

  “Baddings. Billi Baddings. Well, Doc, you and I can go for a stroll…someplace a little more private?” I looked around us, hearing my own pipes bouncing off the walls. “Someplace a little more quiet,” I added sotto voce.

  We had made it about halfway down the main corridor of the Ryerson’s offices before I gave the sound of our footsteps some company. “Listen, Doc, you and me gotta have a talk, man-to-man, about something you lost. Now you can go on and just brush me off like yesterday’s lint, but I would be out of line if I didn�
��t tell you this caper may be bigger than the both of us.”

  Dr. Hammil already gave me the impression he was jumpier than a wizard’s apprentice, and about as mousy as one, too. I didn’t expect the lashing he suddenly loosed on me like that of a line of skilled archers.

  “Mr. Baddings, I do not know for whom you work, nor do I care to know. This is merely a formality—and a warning—asking you not to take this particular matter to the press.”

  As if to accent his threat (and perhaps the most civil and polite one I’ve ever received, I might add), he removed his spectacles to polish them with a harsh, sharp breath and a clean silk hankie.

  “I warn you that our list of benefactors are incredibly loyal to this institution,” he continued, “and they would take it as a personal affront if the Ryerson were smeared by an unfortunate incident such as this. These people,” he delivered imperiously, “could make your life very uncomfortable.”

  I really don’t like being threatened.

  “Capone could do the same to you,” I replied with a deadpan expression.

  His vigorous buffing came to a sudden halt, the glass spectacle having just snapped between his finger and thumb. He was no longer sweating, but with the paleness in his skin growing paler yet, I thought he was going to fade away in front of me. Nope, he never thought someone of “that element” would be involved, and from the look on his face, he couldn’t understand why Capone would suddenly turn his interests on the Ryerson. Poor scholar. So smart, he was completely clueless.

  “Look, Doc, why not drop the pretense?” I shrugged, pulling out a small notepad and pen. “I don’t intend to tell you who hired me, nor do you want to know, but I’m here as a personal service to the pursuits of higher learning. I may not look it, but lemme tell ya, I got nothin’ but appreciation for the books. Research and private investigating go hand-in-hand, so how’s about we work together on this, eh?”

  With the now-broken spectacles in hand, Hammil’s hazel peepers were either narrowing on me in some weak form of intimidation, or merely attempting to focus on the four-foot, one-inch pain-in-the-ass that showed no signs of getting any better unless he played by its rules.