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

by Tee Morris

  “Now, get up. Slowly, Mr. Baddings.”

  I started to rise, but then quickly ducked into the dark side of the aisle closest to me. I think Hammil got off a shot, but I didn’t hear it because I was giving a good, old-fashioned Dwarven battle cry as I braced my back and threw all my stockiness into the heavily laden shelves. Sure enough, I felt the whole unit go down like a giant oak tipping over after a woodsman’s work. I heard the doctor screaming over the sounds of sarcophagi sliding from their respective shelves, and not surprisingly, his screaming stopped when the explosion of stone hit the floor.

  The dust clung to the still air of this warehouse, and now the earlier smell of formaldehyde was drowned out by the combined scents of mold, decay, and time-treated corpses. Buried under several slabs of stones that once guarded the dead was a pile of ancient corpses, still wrapped in their tattered linens, and Dr. Hammil, still clutching onto my.38 with the hammer pulled back to fire that last shot.

  I felt the remnants of the serum still trying to make a final rally in the bottom of the ninth. The dust really wasn’t helping to clear my head, but I had enough presence of mind to appreciate the irony of the Hammil’s death alongside his treasures of the past.

  “Figured you for a mummy’s boy,” I quipped before everything went blurry again.

  *****

  “Yer mine, Baddings!!!” Any minute now, he’d start dancing like a leprechaun. “Ah, sain’s be praised and may the blesséd Muthur Mary smile on me tomarra as she’s doin’ tonight! Yer all mine, freak!”

  The security guard heard the hoopla (guess the first gunshot woke him up) and was on the call box to Chief O’Malley’s flop in two snorts of a goblin’s nose. I was found unconscious next to the rubble of the Ryerson’s sarcophagus collection. Or at least, that’s what the cops told me. The last thing I remember was pushing pretty hard against that wobbly shelf unit, saying something that I thought was relatively clever. When I came to, I was in a cell, still in my filthy undershirt and slacks, under the watch of that same cookie-tossing redheaded rookie from Benny’s crime scene.

  Still, could have been worse. I could have woken up in a sarcophagus as a featured exhibit somewhere in Egypt.

  Now I was in Chief O’Malley’s office, nursing a hangover unlike any I had ever felt following my regiment’s all-night victory celebrations. An ice pack rested on the knot where my noggin had clocked the now-deceased Dr. Hammil. The Chief could not have been happier to see me because this time, I was caught with my hand in the biscuit jar. There was no question about it: I had killed Dr. Hammil, sure.

  “There’s this thing called self-defense,” I groaned. Damn, I wish the drummer would stop sending the war-charge using my brain! “I think you’ll find I didn’t gun that bookworm down in cold blood.”

  “You’re na’ weaselin’ yer way outta this one, circus freak! I gotya dead ta rights! You killed tha doct’r aft’r stealin’ an’ destroyin’ propertee o’ tha Ryerson!”

  “Did someone write that motive up for you, O’Malley, or did your boys at the crime scene trip through this one as they tripped through Benny Riletto’s?”

  The Chief was about to launch into The Riot Act, but I spoke up before he uttered a sound. “The good Dr. Hammil was about to seal me up and have me impersonate King Tut! He was filling me with something called truth serum, and to tell you the truth, it’s given me one beauty of a hangover!”

  “So you two were takin’ it in th’ arm ta’gether an’ y’shot him because y’were ’igh as a kite!”

  This mick couldn’t be that stupid. “O’Malley, if you notice something, he wasn’t shot. In fact, he was shooting at me with my piece!”

  “Y’could’ve planted that!”

  Doesn’t give it up easily, does he? “No, O’Malley, I didn’t plant my gun on him. I planted a couple of stone coffins on top of him because he was trying to kill me!”

  “A confession! Jus’ wha’ I was—”

  The door to his office flew open, and in walked a gentleman dressed in a sharp-looking, expensive suit, his hair slicked back as if expecting to be in O’Malley’s office at 12:14 a.m. As he handed his card to O’Malley, he gave me a nod of reassurance.

  “This interview with my client is over.”

  O’Malley went pale at reading the name on the bone-ivory card in his hand. “This circus freak is yer client?”

  “Mr. Baddings is one of many clients I keep an eye on, and I will not have you degrading him with such slurs. If this treatment reoccurs, I will—”

  O’Malley slapped the card on his desk and stood nose to nose with this slick-suit (as I like to call the barristers of this realm), spraying the guy with his spittle as he ranted, “Now wait jus’ a minute, ya fancy pants boy-o, I gotta confession outta him jus’ a momen’ ago!”

  “Out of duress, from the looks of him.”

  This guy wasn’t conceding an inch. This slick-suit had orc blood in his veins! “And as his attorney was not present for this interview, he was not advised properly as to what questions were appropriate to answer, considering the circumstances.”

  “There’s a dead man in tha’ morgue tonight ’cause of ’im!”

  The slick-suit smiled politely and walked around O’Malley to stop at the chief’s desk. “According to your police reports,” he continued calmly, opening his case and producing several documents that joined his business card, “there was evidence of a syringe containing traces of a mixture of barbiturates that my client could still very well be under the influence of.”

  “I can assure you, Counselor,” I grunted, shifting my ice pack from the back of my head to my forehead, “I am.”

  Sharp as a broadsword, well-informed, prepared for any sliders from O’Malley’s mound. Who the hell was this guy?

  “Considering the influence of said drugs that Dr. Hammil was administering and my client’s current physical state, do you seriously believe that his confession would hold up before a grand jury? If you submit this confession to the D.A.’s office, I will have you laughed out of the courthouse and this precinct.” He then fastened the clasp on his briefcase and sighed heavily. “Do you really want a second black mark by your name, Chief O’Malley?”

  Damn, this guy’s got a set!

  I turned my attention to O’Malley, expecting him to be deep in the throes of a demonic possession as cast by Ressican necromancers. I had a feeling I was going to be treated to the main event between “Mad Irishman” O’Malley and “El Boy-o de Slick-o” going the distance over little ol’ me.

  But damn all the luck, O’Malley was throwing in the towel. His shoulders dropped and his skin continued to flush in color. His Irish eyes weren’t smiling, that’s for sure.

  “Please return Mr. Baddings’ possessions immediately, or else we assure you that your poor handling of this delicate matter will reach tomorrow’s papers.”

  Hey, pal, I thought in a panic through my head’s incessant pounding, don’t tempt the Fates! I know you got a set that would make a Valley Giant envious. Now let’s get my things and scram!

  I really didn’t think this could get any weirder, but it did.

  O’Malley looked at me, swallowed hard, and said, “Sorry ta’ve inconvenienced ya, Mr. Baddings. I’ll have yer things in a moment.”

  Okay, that settled it. I was dead. The whole thing with covering the doctor in the sarcophagi, waking up in a jail cell, and this meeting with O’Malley was my final test. I could now walk out of the precinct headquarters and accept my estate upon the Everlasting Fields.

  “Mr. Baddings,” my newfound attorney spoke, “if you will follow me?”

  I hopped out of my chair, hissing slightly at how much I hurt. This was definitely an all-over hangover I was suffering. At that moment, a uniform showed up with my stuff: my shirt, jacket, fedora, and arsenal. I followed the mystery slick-suit to the double-doors of the precinct where I slipped on the jacket and wrapped up my pieces (in their respective holsters) in my shirt.

  “Look, pal, I know it
’s late, but thanks.” I put on my fedora. “I don’t mean to question the Fates, but who the hell are you?”

  Again, he produced a bone-ivory card and handed it to me. “Michael Ahern, attorney at law. And you’re most welcome, but you should also thank my employer the next time you see him. The driver will see you home.”

  He motioned to the waiting car. Even through the blinding headache I was carrying away with me, I still recognized that particular car at a glance. It was the same car that had delivered me to my private audience with Al Capone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Give My Regards to Eliot

  Thursday, I woke up feeling like I’d gnawed too deep into a Gryfennos Woods Boar. (Certain cuts of the meat can give you the runs for weeks.) Thanks to his truth-serum experiment, the Doc had left me a parting gift in the form of a hangover that just wouldn’t lift, no matter how many home remedies I threw at it. So I phoned up Miranda and talked her into taking a day off. (Why not? I certainly was.)

  The next day, I woke up to the sight of Chicago’s street sweepers being given a power assist from the Forces of Nature: The rhythmic pip-pip-pips of raindrops straight from the Everlasting Fields, giving sidewalks, passing cars, and brownstones a brilliant silver sheen, even though the sun remained shielded behind its armor of steel-grey clouds. (Yeah, snobby as they are, those elves possessed a way of polishing their armor that made them glow even in a moonless night. Problem was, it made them easy targets.)

  This morning, while enjoying my morning coffee, I idly turned the pages of both the Daily Tribune and Herald Examiner. Apart from yesterday’s tiny blurb on a “freak accident” at the Ryerson that claimed the life of its curator, Dr. Samuel Hammil, there was no investigation or even an inquiry planned. Guess that slick-suit of Capone’s covered all the bases, making sure the cops and the museum’s security stayed tight-lipped about me so I could work free and clear of any unwanted press. Nice to have high friends in low places, I guess.

  The clean scent in the air took me back to bright spring days in Gryfennos when my mother would come in with our clothes, sun-dried and smelling of the fresh outdoors. In 1929 Chicago, this scent was seasoned with car exhaust, a couple of nearby bakeries, and the uncovered trash can or two, but it was still a “waxing poetic” moment so I enjoyed it for what it was.

  Sadly, this innocent euphoria wouldn’t last.

  “Billi?” Miranda asked, rapping lightly on the door to my office.

  “Yeah?” I asked over my shoulder, still enjoying the sound of the rain.

  “You got visitors.”

  I turned from the open window to stare at two extremely tall, square-jawed gents whose faces were devoid of enthusiasm for the simple pleasures of the morning. Matching their nondescript personalities were their dark, charcoal-grey suits—hardly the tailored cuts of Capone’s boys, or even Moran’s. They also didn’t sport the “hard” look of a typical mobster that boasted they could walk into a barfight with an average orc and win. These guys, from the looks of them, couldn’t intimidate orc, cave troll, or mountain dragon.

  Then it hit me: These were the same suits I’d had the staring contests with at Benny’s crime scene, and then caught nosing around his flop later on.

  The awkward silence was finally broken with one them asking me, “Mr. Baddings?”

  Now there’s an original introduction. “Last time I checked, yeah.”

  These guys didn’t work for Chicago’s Finest. O’Malley’s flatfeet would have made themselves thoroughly at home by now, checking behind all the pictures for hidden booze or some other contraband to add to their private stashes. These suits just stood there, silently looking the room over until finally their eyes came back to me. I merely crossed my arms with a wry grin. If they wanted posturing, then by the Fates, I’d give ’em posturing.

  “So, who you suits working for? Treasury Department? Bureau of Alcohol Violations?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Baddings,” the lead suit replied stiffly, “but I’m not at liberty to discuss what organization we are affiliated with.”

  The military. Definitely.

  “Okay, Army or Navy?” I inquired, laughing gruffly as they shared a nervous look between them. “Look, guys, I’m former infantryman. I know the talk. I also know if you wanted to come here and give me a good old-fashioned, bare-knuckles interrogation, you could do so and have the United States Government backing you in the name of freedom and preservation of liberty. How about you cut me a break and let me know who your boss is in Washington D.C., and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  From the way the square jaws looked at me, and then back to each other, it was really clear they found it hard to believe that someone like me had served in the armed forces anywhere. It was also really clear that they didn’t know how to handle me. They reminded me of how the mountain trolls crossed with elves, creating an Elvish breed taller, stronger, and denser than your usual elf. The resulting mountain elves looked as if they possessed all the answers to Acryonis’ deepest, darkest secrets, but they would have problems crossing a forest footpath just to reach the other side.

  The military was interested in a mook like Benny Riletto? It couldn’t be for past service to his country. Benny was the type of dink who would make certain if his boys were charging into a fight, he would be there, right behind them, every step of the way. Way behind them.

  The lead Mountain Elf finally spoke up again, producing a thin billfold from his coat pocket. “My name is Jackson. My partner here is Miller. We are with the Department of War.”

  Department of War, still enjoying their victory from The Great War, looking into the Gangland Wars of Chicago. Well, don’t that just beat all? Their identification papers appeared legit, but what really sealed the deal were the imitation-leather billfolds. Definitely U.S. Government, all the way.

  “Department of War. Okay, then. You boys have any rank there?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Baddings,” Jackson replied in the identical manner to which he had a moment ago. “I’m not at liberty to discuss what rank I hold in the department we are affiliated with.”

  “I see.”

  Oh boy, were these guys stealing the wind out of my barge’s sails! I was all ready to offer them a drink, from military man to military men. I could already hear the reply: “I’m sorry, Mr. Baddings, but I’m not at liberty to imbibe any contraband, as it is against the regulations of the organization we are affiliated with.”

  Neither of them wanted to be in my office, although it was not as evident in Jackson’s face as it was in Miller’s. As a matter of fact, Miller looked downright pissed. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if a single nod from Jackson was keeping Miller at bay like some angry warhound.

  “How can I help you gentlemen?” I asked pleasantly as I leapt into my office chair.

  “We understand you were in contact with a Dr. Samuel Hammil of the Ryerson Library last week,” Jackson began, his voice lacking anything remotely resembling spontaneity. He knew exactly what to ask and how to ask it, and he was looking to walk away with all the answers. “Two nights ago, he died in a bizarre accident that apparently involved you.”

  “I was there. As far as my being involved, that is a matter of perspective.”

  He watched me in silence for a few moments, maybe mulling over the flash of attitude I’d just thrown his way. “Mr. Baddings,” he continued, “we are very curious as to what a private investigator’s interest is in the curator of the Ryerson.”

  “I’m a patron of the arts,” I smiled, leaning back in my chair.

  “Mr. Baddings, we do not appreciate your levity with us.”

  “Well, since we’re both military types in suits now, let me be frank with you. I don’t appreciate you two coming into my office and asking questions about my business. Read the door, because it says what I do for a living. If you don’t like it, then scram!”

  Miller stepped forward, but Jackson stopped him with a look. As they continued to stare me down, I began to wond
er whether were trying to establish their dominance over me, or working up the nerve to ask me out on a date? Did they want me to enlist? Did they want me to fart The Star Spangled Banner? (If they came back after Mick’s Lunch Special, I’d be happy to oblige!)

  I really didn’t have the time for an old-fashioned Elvish stand-off. “All right, boys, how about we have a trade-off of information? You tell me the sudden interest the War Department has taken with the Ryerson Museum’s recently departed curator, and I’ll try to answer your questions within the scope that my profession allows.”

  They could have arrested me and dragged me into a setting a little less familiar and friendly to find out what they wanted to know. They were the U.S. Government, after all. Fortunately for me, they decided to play by my tavern rules

  “Our intelligence operatives intercepted a communiqué concerning an archeological dig in the deserts of Egypt,” Jackson began. “This team, sponsored by the Ryerson Museum, discovered an item cataloged under the identification number #EW234450-112-MM. Dr. Hammil informed us that this find was a sword of ancient origin, and that it apparently was stolen from the Ryerson before it could be properly cataloged for the museum’s inventory. It was also apparent to Dr. Hammil that you possessed in-depth knowledge of said item #EW234450-112-MM.”

  Ah, how the military loved their numbers—the pencil-pushers, anyway. I preferred the actual point of the military as opposed to the regulations of administration and formalities of ceremony. Just hand me a sharpened battle-axe or a nice, thick-headed mace and point to where you want me to charge. To me, that was the military.

  Another very military thing was the amount of information they had for a theft that The Ryerson was keeping under wraps. I didn’t doubt for a moment the government’s ability (and their justification in doing so) to intercept a communiqué between an archeological dig in Egypt and an institution in the US. The details these government employees had seemed to be originating from the dig itself; no doubt “a bizarre artifact” surfacing in sands outside of Cairo must’ve caught their attention. They tracked the Sword from the desert to the museum, and now they were wondering why it hadn’t been revealed to the public as some sort of exhibit. Then I showed up. First, on a crime scene. And then, at The Ryerson. A dwarf in the middle of all this oddity? I wondered how long they’d been casing my ass.