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

by Tee Morris

  “You know something?” I spoke over the sounds of her adding machine. “For a dancer, you’re a real whiz with the numbers there.”

  Daphnie froze, the money still in her hands (and I don’t doubt she knew exactly what the count was before she stopped). She turned around and looked at me. “You’ve seen our show?”

  “No,” I replied, flashing her an appreciative nod and smile, “but you got the kind of legs that ladies would kill for and men only dream about.”

  I meant it as a compliment, but her eyes were sharper than any daggers I’d faced in a tavern brawl.

  “So because I’ve got a big chest and nice legs, I don’t have a brain?” she fumed. “I’m good with the numbers, and I earn a few more greenbacks for helping out with the cash count. So what do you want, Mister?”

  “You can call me Billi if you like,” I answered pleasantly as I pulled out my memo pad.

  “I don’t like anybody who knows me but I don’t know them.” This girl was talented. She kept on counting out bills and making notes, never missing a word with me. “So I’m going to ask you one more time, Mister Whateveryournameis. What do you want?”

  “Well, I just had a chat with a kid who goes by the name of Mario. You know him?”

  Now here is where I wait for the moment’s hesitation or fumble, followed by, “Nope, never heard of anyone by that name…”.

  Instead, she kept on working the numbers. “Mario. Cute kid. Does a bit of running for us. Yeah, I know him. Real nice kid, now that I think of it. Too bad he’s poor. I’d pay him a little attention if he had more going for him.”

  A comment like that gave me pause. That, along with the Louisville Slugger leaning against her desk. She wouldn’t need a lot of technique to grab a baseball bat and impersonate Big Apple’s Freddie Lindstrom if she didn’t like the way this talk was going. In the past, I’d been punched in the jaw once or twice on account of looking at the notepad and not at my interview subject, but so long as I heard her working with the numbers from the night, I figured I was safe.

  This next comment would be the test, though. “Mario was telling me you were helping him case some stolen goods.”

  “Really?”

  She paused in her money counting to glance at the bat for a moment, then over at me. “And you believed that Italian cockroach?”

  From “real nice kid” to “cockroach”? Wow!

  “I’m not saying I believed Mario about you aiding and abetting him in his side business,” I assured her, although a girl this savvy should be smart enough to know who and what she was getting mixed up with. Yeah, I don’t doubt she knew there was something a little shady about Mario. “I’m just saying he dropped your name, and that’s why I’m here. I’m just asking you some questions. That’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t like your questions.” She pushed back a loose lock of blonde hair before returning to the money in front of her. “I don’t have to answer them.”

  “No, you don’t,” I sighed, “but you could make my job a lot easier. And you might also get a little something out of it.”

  She laughed at that one. “Like what?”

  “Like another day above ground.”

  That comment made her hesitate. From the way her head turned ever so slightly, I knew she was looking at the two-handed broadsword of Wrigley Field once again.

  Before she set down the cash in her hands, I spoke up. “Now, toots, you can just calm yourself. That’s not a threat. That’s a friendly warning I’m giving you. Whatever you were helping Mario with has got some seriously bad ma—” Hmmm…maybe magic wasn’t the right word to use here. “—luck about it. Right now, I’ve got you and Mario being the only two folks still breathing after handling whatever this hot item is.”

  As Daphnie turned around, I felt myself taking a step back. There was something really, really wrong with this girl. I had just told her that she was involved with something that left only two people alive: Herself and Mario, the really nice cockroach. She didn’t seem to care. If anything, she seemed annoyed. At me? I don’t know. Only thing I was sure of was this lady was giving me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies.

  “So what was this thing that I was supposed to be helping Mario out with?”

  This time, her grating voice came as a blessed relief. It meant she was willing to talk, instead of using me for batting practice.

  I cleared my throat before speaking, just in case there was any hint of anxiety left there. Daphnie didn’t need to know she gave me the creeps. “It was lifted from a museum, and that’s all I can tell you. Mario told me he was supposed to pick it up from you. I’m assuming tonight was going to be the pick-up night. He also tells me you were doing this favor for him and a guy by the name of Benny Riletto. You know Benny?”

  “You mean Benny ‘Tight Wad’ Riletto?” she quipped. “Yeah, I know him. Oh, sorry, I knew him. Saw in the papers that Benny is no longer with us.” She shrugged. “No great loss, except for the fact he wasn’t bad in the sack. He was fun when I need to take care of some girlish impulses.”

  An image of Benny riding this girl like a fine Elvish stag popped quickly into my head, and I nearly lost my cappuccino breakfast. “Anyway, I didn’t really like the guy,” Daphnie went on, “but he did promise me some green if I was to help him and Mario out with this score he pulled off.” Her eyes suddenly brightened for a second as she blurted, “Hey, you’re that short guy on the front page of the Tribune, huh?”

  Goddamn newshounds.

  “So Benny dropped off this score with you,” I said, wincing at the recognition, “and Mario was supposed to pick it up tonight?”

  “Nah, it never happened. Benny called me at home and told me he’d be around and asked me if I would be on the clock that night. Usually I am, so I told him so and he said to expect him. Like he’s so important. Well, Mr. Important never showed. The next morning on my way home, I read about him in the papers.”

  Then, without shedding a tear for her bedroom buddy, Daphnie returned to the numbers, adding and subtracting with all the finesse of a crossbreed moneylender. This girl never missed a beat or a dollar bill.

  “So, I guess you do all right for yourself. A coat check girl and a dancer, eh?”

  She froze again. This time, she was pissed. “I’m also the accountant.”

  “You handle the books?!?”

  For a moment, I thought she was going to throttle me with the fistful of fives and tens in her hand. I held up my own mitts in surrender. “I’m sorry. I know about your Women’s Movement and all, but a dame working as a bookkeeper for one of Capone’s speakeasies is just something you don’t come across every day. Still, there are stranger things in Chicago. Hell, I’m living proof.”

  “I’d agree with that.”

  Eh, I gave her a pass on that one. I had it coming to me.

  “Now, Mr. Private Dick, I would really like to concentrate on tonight’s take, so are you finished with your questions?”

  “Yeah, I’m done,” I confirmed, closing my memo pad and slipping out one of my business cards. “I tell you what, though: If you think of anything that could help in finding where Benny kept this stolen trinket, or if you feel threatened at any time, don’t hesitate to call.”

  I placed my card on the corner of her desk, out of her way but well in her sightline. She didn’t react to it. From the looks of how fast her hands were working, she wanted to get home yesterday. Without so much as a goodbye, I turned around and left her to the night’s take—not a King’s ransom, but definitely worthy of an heir’s.

  The troll guarding the door was sitting up now, still holding the ice pack on his head. On seeing me he went to rise, but then his eyes rolled up into his head and he returned to the ground with a dull thud and a deep groan.

  “Don’t worry about seeing me to the door, beautiful,” I said to his crumpled form. “I know the way out.”

  Chapter Ten

  Hitting the Books

  After visiting the speakeasy, I zipped o
ver to the office to pick up the Singing Sword photo. I had gleaned everything I needed from it, and if I didn’t return it to its rightful owners today, there would be another death.

  And I had a feeling it wouldn’t be a pretty one. Beaten to death by a Smith & Corona is not the best way to leave the corporeal world.

  Ever since I walked out of the Ryerson a few days ago with the photo snug in my breast pocket, Dr. Hammil had become a regular phone pest. While Miranda knows exactly how to handle assorted press reporters, clients, and authority-types over the phone, Dr. Hammil was her first-ever bookworm, and he was starting to replace Capone in Miranda’s book as Public Enemy Number One.

  At first, he was blunt and abrasive, as most bookworms often are. Miranda, trying to soften him up and buy me some time with the photo, made mention of her own interest in higher learning. (She really knows how to play a guy.) Well, the conversations got a bit longer after that. And then a bit longer. After one hour-and-a-half long stretch on the phone, I heard the soft thud of a forehead against a desk, followed by, “Hey, Billi, you wanna hear about the role of women during the reign of Cleopatra?”

  Yeah, yeah, I know…technically, I’m a bookworm, too. And yeah, I’m blunt and abrasive to boot. But unlike Hammil and his ilk, I only read out of necessity. For these Sages-in-Training, reading is beyond any passion that a Bard could write a play on! I’m not in their league. Hell, I’m not even in the same sport as these academic types.

  Dr. Hammil must have been returning to his abrasive demeanor when I came in the office and found Miranda on the phone, nodding in what had become a reflexive action while saying things like, “Really? Legal action?” and “Yes, I’m aware of how valuable museum property is,” all the while tacking onto her bulletin board a picture of a man (well, a stick-figure of a man) in glasses with “Dr. Hammil” penned underneath it. I watched as she drove two pencils deep into the heart of the sketch. If I didn’t remedy this situation soon, I was afraid where the next couple of pencils would go!

  When I got out of the cab twenty minutes later, the sun was just beginning its daily descent in the west, the shadows of the buildings behind me stretching across the street toward the Ryerson like the talons of a dragon reaching for a sacrificial snack.

  Before the doors closed behind me, the receptionist I’d crossed battle-axes with on my earlier visit was already on her feet and hustling down the corridor. (Geez, doesn’t that harpy take any time off?) Guess there must’ve been a change in their policies on dealing with dwarves. I hadn’t even reached the reception desk before I saw Dr. Hammil waving at the end of the corridor, his face bright and spectacles repaired.

  “Mr. Baddings,” he beamed, thrusting a hand out to welcome me. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  “Sure, Doc,” I nodded, shaking his hand. His palms were soaked! Either he was nervous about something, or he was really excited about seeing me. “I appreciate the loan of the photo. I hope you weren’t too inconv—”

  “No need to worry about it, Mr. Baddings!” He gestured down the corridor. “Care to join me in my office? I would like to talk to you for a moment, if you have the time.”

  “Yeah, Doc,” I said apprehensively. “Sure.”

  There was something different about the good Dr. Hammil today. I couldn’t read the academic from the back, but his cheeriness unnerved me.

  “Glad to see that your glasses were repaired,” I ventured. “Hope it didn’t set ya back too far.”

  “What?” He managed a nervous titter. “Yes, well, I managed for as long as I could, but sometimes you do have to pay the piper, as it were.”

  What a difference in his office! His desk was much less cluttered, and the chair opposite was now cleared of the volumes that occupied it on my last visit. Hopping up in that now-vacant chair, I straightened to my full height so I might catch a peek at the book he had open this time. I was a little disappointed (for a number of reasons) that the volume was not some mammoth, leather-bound tome with pages so worn and frayed that a dirty look might make its spine collapse. This time, it was a simple notebook, open to a blank page with a date—today’s date, the ink still fresh on the paper. Looked like it was going to be the good doctor’s turn to ask the questions today.

  “So, Mr. Baddings, I would like to talk to you about—”

  “Thanks, and you’re welcome.”

  Hammil stopped for a moment. “I’m sorry?”

  “You didn’t know me from Prince Liggermaut, and you could have called the cops for stealin’ property like that, but you didn’t. It gave me some quality time to research this enigma of yours a bit. I appreciate that, almost as much as you should appreciate my care in handling this photo and returning it intact. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh, um, yes, well…” Easy there, Doc. “…no matter, then, is it, Mr. Baddings? I do hope that we can—oh, I’m so sorry, would you care for tea or a coffee? I was just about to brew some up for myself.”

  “No, thanks.”

  When we first met, I was barely worth the mud on his doublet. Now, I was being elevated into the same company as his equals. He was offering me a place to sit, offering to brew me a cup of tea…tea?!? Nah, I didn’t have time for this superficial crap.

  “So, Doc, what do you want?”

  He clinked the mugs together clumsily, his coordination taking a brief holiday. Again, he laughed nervously (as bookworms often do when called to the carpet) and turned to face me. “What do you mean, Mr. Baddings?”

  “I know crossbloods who get better treatment than I did the last time I was here.”

  “Oh…well, you have to understand that Miss Pendergraft is a very busy woman, and she does face quite a few questionable sorts. She tries very hard not to offend, and she has only the best intentions where the Ryerson is concerned.”

  “Like you, Doc?”

  As his smile started to melt like snow under dragon’s breath, I took another look around. “I meant to tell ya, this is a nice office. Cozy. But I don’t know if a guy crammed in such a tight space as this could afford new glasses so quickly. Even where I’m from, specs like yours don’t come cheap.”

  Dr. Hammil loosened his tie and took a deep breath. He was about to say something, but I wasn’t going to allow him a word until I was done.

  “You got to understand that I’m still a bit perplexed about why the cops didn’t pay me a visit after I walked off with that photo. That’s property of the Ryerson, and valuable property of the Ryerson at that.” I paused for a moment. “Then I got to thinking that maybe you didn’t want the attention—”

  “Mr. Baddings…”

  He had found his voice, dry as it was. By the amount he was sweating, his voice was the only thing dry about him.

  I pressed forward. “And now I have to think why you wouldn’t want that attention, unless you didn’t want anyone else to know about the Singing Sword.”

  Again, I paused. Builds the tension real nice. “Or the other thefts you’ve suffered here at the Ryerson.”

  “How did—?”

  There it was. Confirmation.

  “Yeah, Doc, because people would to ask. People would ask who’s running this show, and people would wonder why no one was asking after all these other missing artifacts, wouldn’t they? They would wonder how a guy wearing frayed cuffs and hems can afford a brand new pair of glasses! Yeah, I bet you have a few other surprises in your bank account, don’t you?”

  I watched the poor sap try to brace himself against the small table with the teapot and mugs on it, his academic career now flashing by him with the speed of a human cavalry. He then dropped heavily to the floor, his body trembling so hard that he was an earthquake unto himself. I was waiting for him to burst into tears.

  Hopping out of my chair, I leaned in close to Hammil and locked my gaze with his. “So here you are, selling priceless heirlooms on some kind of black market to the socially elite. Then, the Singing Sword comes across your desk. Oh, and I bet you got the offers before it ever reached Chi
cago, but this was going to be your ticket out of this tiny office, wasn’t it? A sword of this make, found sealed in an ancient Egyptian tomb? This mystery, provided you could solve it, could serve as your academic pass to wherever you wished. Hell, you play your cards right, you might even enjoy dinner and cigars with ol’ Al Einstein himself. All you need is to crack that little mystery of the Singing Sword, right?”

  “Mr. Baddings, please, just hear me out.” He was terrified, but of exactly what remained to be seen. “I am facing difficulties in the circles I travel in. While the Ryerson has been very good to me for years…”

  “Your academic ascent has stalled a bit, hasn’t it?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Baddings. I needed to win certain influences that would garner attention and patrons to the Ryerson. There is a business to what I do. It can be very…”

  “Political?”

  He nodded. If I kept giving him rope like this, he was going to be swinging in the breeze by tomorrow morning.

  “And so you figured that when those new acquisitions came across your desk, you could make a few calls and supply some of Chicago’s privileged with some one-of-a-kind paperweights and centerpieces in exchange for their loyalty, huh?”

  “My intentions were to help the museum—”

  “Don’t give me that!” I snarled, grabbing him by the tie and pulling him closer. “The only dink you were looking out for was the one you see in the mirror! Once the Singing Sword arrived, you planned to shut down this racket and reform to a more respectable trade among your bookworm friends, and what better way to retire than to stash the Sword away for yourself and tell your back-door clientele that the Ryerson had been hit!”

  “No, Mr. Baddings—”

  I tightened my grip on his tie, cutting him off in mid-comment. “Nice way to cover your tracks, Doc! You can’t be blackmailed by any of these elite types because reporting the Sword’s heist would bring in the press. As far as they were concerned, you just had to shut down operations for a time in order to protect them and their methods of illegally obtaining rare antiquities intended for the masses.”