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

by Tee Morris

  “You know, Jackson? We got this saying from my parts: Ke mach be-nesh fa denarg, fa re mach desatch.”

  Jackson looked down at me blankly. Guess his investigation into what his team labeled “the supernatural” didn’t include translation of Dwarven dialects.

  “And that means?” he finally asked me.

  “Don’t screw me, and I won’t screw you.”

  The honest, yet crass, statement sounded better in my own tongue.

  “The murders were of two archeologists and a student, all recently arrived from an archeological dig in Greece. These gentlemen were apparently celebrating a recent discovery of lost satyr plays and rare pottery, still intact. However, a communiqué sent a month before the incident at the Smithsonian mentioned another artifact discovered that shouldn’t have been there.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “At the time of the satyr plays, the Greeks wielded weaponry of a specific style and metal composition. This team came across a weapon completely different in its origin. Descriptions made it out to be crescent-shaped, no longer than a forearm. The inside angle of the weapon…”

  “…kept an edge, still sharp. And let me guess—it was a brushed silver color, wasn’t it?”

  Finally, I got a reaction out of Jackson. Could have knocked him over with a dragon’s scale. I think he was expecting me to keep going in the description of this doohickey, but no such luck. I vaguely remembered what this “unique find” looked like because I had caught a glance of it before pitching it into that portal. Guess I just caught up with talisman number two.

  “So this boomerang of death, which those scholars and you military types knew was more prevalent in a completely different hemisphere, wound up in a dig in Ancient Greece. Did those scholarly types get this trinket home?”

  “Archeology is not a priority of the Department of War, you understand, Mr. Baddings. We are hardly interested in clay urns and images of gladiators depicted in various forms of combat. What caught our attention was the communiqué our European intelligence operatives intercepted a few days before the Smithsonian incident.”

  “No, wait, don’t tell me. You can’t give me the particulars of that telegram because it is considered super-secret, and not for the ears of ‘civilians’ like me.”

  “Correct, Mr. Baddings.” He was back to his rock-demon self once again. If it weren’t for the fact that he was speaking, I’d be holding a mirror under his nostrils to see if he was alive. “I can tell you the intercepted message made reference to an archeological dig somewhere in Greece, and was extremely clear in its order to obtain this artifact at all costs.”

  “So this character you’re keeping an eye on gets his jollies off of ancient good-luck charms? Do you have any real evidence that this political party was behind the murders?”

  “We have evidence that this political party not only carried out the murders, but have some sort of inside advisor who is currently assisting them in their investigation of these said artifacts.”

  I shook my head amid a cloud of pipe smoke. “Now why are you doing this to me, Jackson? Why? You’ve got what that tells you this? Come on, a little faith between us. This is getting us nowhere.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Baddings. I have already told you a great deal, and you’re the only one of the two of us benefiting from this conversation so far. I am willing to tell you more, but you cannot blame me if I wish to keep a few details to myself. Out of good faith.”

  Good point. Hell, there are times I don’t even trust myself.

  “Fair enough,” I conceded. “The Singing Sword is actually called the Sword of Arannahs.”

  Jackson began feverishly jotting notes on his memo pad, hanging on every syllable coming out of my mouth. I probably could have blurted out Gabby’s batting average in ’28 and he would have made a note of it.

  “What you have to understand about the Sword of Arannahs,” I continued, “is that it’s actually part of a collection of talismans.”

  He paused and looked me incredulously. “Talismans?”

  Ain’t that just like the government? Still, I couldn’t ignore the reality that the Feds were now officially in the middle of my investigation. These boys at the War Department probably had eyes and ears everywhere. Between Jackson’s operation and the Treasury Department keeping an eye on Al, Bugs, and his boys, Chicago was now a regular Secret Policemen’s Ball. Without trying, these government suits would trip over each other. Talk about making my job tough!

  “The Sword itself is more of a ceremonial piece than a weapon, and there is an inscription along its blade.” I chose not to tell him it was Elvish. That would just make this chat even more complicated. “The inscription is part of its prophecy that only the mild and the meek can wield it.”

  “So what if someone strong were to handle it?” Jackson looked up from his memo pad, unable to mask his curiosity. “I don’t mean someone strong in build, mind you. Let say, someone strong in stature, like say…”

  “The current Commander-in-Chief of the United States Armed Forces?” Humans are so thick! They really feel entitled to everything, even when it comes to wielding talismans like the Singing Sword. “I’m not going to lie to you about this, Jackson. I don’t know all the details of what it can do. I do know that armies following the chosen wielder went unchallenged. Those who did challenge the Sword fell before it, subject to the whims and darkest desires of the blessed that wielded it. Something to that effect, you know? The prophecies from my parts tend to sound a lot like that Revelation chapter.”

  I turned from the window to glance out to Miranda and the little party in my waiting area. Miller was fighting to stay on his feet while Doc Roberts gave him a quick eyesight check. Never saw one guy try so hard to keep his peepers on a single finger.

  I turned back to Jackson and added, “As far as what would happen if our man Hoover got a hold of the Sword, I can’t say for sure. When wizards and mages perform their hocus-pocus…”

  “Wizards and mages?” Jackson interjected sharply. “You’re not serious about that, are you, Mr. Baddings?”

  “Ask your partner. He just found out firsthand just how serious these charms and curses on weapons can get.” I could see the denial building in his eyes. With a shrug, I turned my eyes back to the rainwater slowly running down the glass in front of me. “If you really want to understand what you’re dealing with, first you have to open your mind to the oddball and just plain weird, and you might be able to hang on to your sanity, Jackson. When wizards and mages work their charms and-or curses over a talisman, be it a ring, a gauntlet, sword, or even a battle-axe—”

  We both looked over to Miller, now taking a seat next to Miranda’s desk as she came in from outside the hallway with ice pack in hand.

  “—you probably won’t know the results of their work until it’s all said and done. You just don’t know for certain what will happen in the long run. I’ve had that battle-axe long enough to know how it reacts to other people’s touch. Your boy out there was just a little too eager to answer Uncle Sam’s orders. Best to look carefully before crossing any unknown streets. Agreed, Mr. Jackson?”

  Gently placing the pipe on my desk, I hopped back into my chair while Jackson went out to take a closer look at his partner. Evidently, Miller was already returning to his former charming self, snatching his fedora out of Miranda’s hand and grunting at Jackson. (Guess that was War Department code for “I’m okay.”)

  Jackson then turned back toward me. The size of this suit rivaled some kings I’ve stood before, but even with the roscoe resting snug and secure in his shoulder holster and the War Department covering his expenses, I refused to forget that it was my tax dollars that paid for his cheap-ass suit and morning java.

  “If you’re waiting to find out why I’m looking into the Singing Sword alongside you,” I told him through the now-open window, “that ain’t gonna happen. You saw the name on the door, and I made it clear to you when you got here. My clients remain private. If
you can spare the manpower, maybe you’ll find out whom I’m working for; that’s going to be the only way you’re going to find out anything else from me.”

  Jackson gave me a nod. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Baddings,” he spoke flatly.

  “I’m a detective,” I replied in the same tone. “Kinda figured that one out.”

  He was almost out the door when I spoke up again. “Hey, Jackson. Before you go, I do have one more thing I want to know. Just a little detail that’s gnawing at my craw.”

  Jackson turned back, more out of curiosity than courtesy. “Yes, Mr. Baddings?”

  “You said you intercepted that message concerning the Smithsonian folk a month before the murders.” I paused for a moment, making sure I had his undivided attention. “Tell me. Why didn’t you warn them?”

  “We needed to find out how real this threat was, and how far they would be willing to carry out orders.”

  I nodded slowly. “And you can sleep with those deaths on your conscience?”

  Jackson’s expression didn’t change as he turned to join Miller by Miranda’s desk. Miller gave me a final cold stare before tossing Miranda his ice pack. Then they both made to leave, the glass that used to be my window grinding and crunching underneath their steps.

  Suddenly, Jackson whirled around and retrieved his notepad, flipping a few pages forward and reading the notes there. “Where exactly is…” He paused for a moment and slowly formed the word, “Griff-ANN-us?”

  “It’s a small town in Missouri, about an hour outside of Shelbyville,” I replied. “We’re very traditional in our ways when it comes to folklore and all that, so that’s how I come across stuff like this,” I said, motioning to my weapons. “It’s an out-of-the-way sort of place, so you may find it hard to come across it on a map.”

  “Shelbyville.”

  “Missouri,” I confirmed. “I could have told you I am from a realm of wizards, dragons, and trolls, and that I got here by slipping through a Portal of Oblivion.” With a gruff laugh, I added, “but that’s about as believable as a division of the War Department devoted to the study of magic talismans, huh?”

  He didn’t say anything as his notepad closed with a barely audible snap. A few seconds later, my office door closed behind them quietly. Old Doc Roberts still packing up his bag. I waited until Uncle Whiskers’ pals were out of earshot before loosing a long, heavy sigh.

  The Feds. Shit. I really could have done without this new addition to the roster.

  Then again, if what Jackson said were true, gangsters weren’t the only ones on a quest for the Singing Sword and its fellow talismans.

  “As you are a civilian and unfamiliar with the aftermath of a war, Mr. Baddings…”

  I grimaced at the bitterness forming again in my mouth. Jackson didn’t know just how familiar this citizen was with the aftermath of losing a war.

  “Take it from me,” I had replied, “when all you have left is pride, you can build a lot more than a nation.”

  When we lost the First War of The Races, the elves introduced doctrines forbidding dwarves from holding assemblies. But our newly appointed figurehead (and he was barely that) called his court in secret, and could this guy talk! This emperor was a wordsmith, and he appealed to the Gryfennos Empire’s glory days. Word passed from family to family, and slowly we regrouped.

  Twenty-five years later, the elves decided in closed council to fully restore our emperor’s power as a “gift” to us for serving their royal house so diligently over the years. (It really was their way of admitting defeat when our underground’s blockades and declining productivity in their mines had starved out their supply lines.) With the guidance of our emperor, armed only with motivation, we had ultimately won the war against the elves without swinging an axe.

  Yeah, Jackson, I thought as I paid Doc Roberts for the visit, I know all about war, its aftermath, and that one guy who can make a difference.

  I glanced at the clock. Sergio had asked me to come around lunchtime to try on the tux he was stitching together for me. In answer to Miranda’s uncertain look, I fired off a quick wink and returned to what was now a semi-private office.

  Through the curtain of rainwater running slowly against the windowpane, I watched Miller and Jackson cross the street and climb into a parked car that had two others in the front seat. My moment in front of the window turned into five minutes, and five minutes turned into ten. Apparently, they weren’t making plans to leave anytime soon.

  Guess I’d be taking the back door to Sergio’s.

  Chapter Twelve

  I'll Live a Lush Life

  One of the few things dwarves do because they have to—not because they want to—is attend fancy-dress events. Break out the kilt, find the medals and pendants of past glories, and then it’s beard-braiding time. The dwarves of Gryfennos only pulled out the formal military duds from the mothballs for royal appointments, a presentation of a family crest, or the coronation of an emperor. We never did this sort of thing for “fun.” When we threw a party, we dwarves liked to be comfortable. (Trust me, it’s never a good idea to pass out in leather armor and a kilt.)

  Perhaps I was really tempting the Fates by attending this dinner party. But here’s the thing—I’m one of those few dwarves who really enjoy getting dressed up for no good reason. Because of that, and because my pal Sergio handles a needle with the same flair as a blademaster with a sword, I couldn’t help but wear a smug little grin. I didn’t have to ask—I knew I looked good.

  Promptly at seven, a scarecrow of a chauffeur knocked on my office door and accompanied me down to a sharp silver and steel-grey limo idling at the curb of my building. Damned impressive sight. When I arrived at the party, the valet didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t up to par (or height) with the other guests. I could have been a mountain troll stepping out of that ride and he would have still greeted me with the same look. He had a job to do, and intended to do it to the best of his ability so that the Rothchilds would invite him back to the estate…whenever they needed a valet, that is.

  As my feet lightly scuffed against the stone surface of the manor’s wide steps, the tall, double doors in front of me opened wide like the jaws of a great dragon in full roar. I couldn’t help but dwell on that image for a moment. The prospect of entering this beast of splendor and indulgence was giving me a severe knot in the stomach.

  No doubt Miss Rothchild had an agenda in inviting me to her hallowed halls. Maybe it was just to aggravate her old man. That was fine with me, because I had my own reasons for being here, too. All I knew was this: Once I stepped across her threshold, I had to be sure I could handle whatever waited for me on the other side.

  I don’t know how long I stood there. I think three couples passed by me. They could have been laughing at me, or enjoying an early start to the evening’s revels (I preferred to think the latter). Inside, I could hear a string quartet striking up a movement from The Four Seasons. “Winter,” from the sound of the slow, relaxing melody. Probably the Largo movement, so the cellist could steal a bit of the spotlight. Why should the violins have all the fun?

  Hey, I’m a tough-talking detective, not some socially challenged orc who can’t appreciate a good tune.

  The enthusiastic proclamation, “Mr. Baddings, you made it!” pulled me back from my own private abyss. Before me stood Eva Rothchild, extending a flute of champagne to me with a bright smile.

  As for my hostess, she was very much like the house: classical caressing contemporary. Her long blonde tresses were swept up and away from her face, now fresh and soft-looking. While she didn’t sport the bob that many women of this world embraced, she evidently had no qualms in embracing the latest fashions, if her plunging neckline number (probably the latest rage from Paris) was anything to go by. An interesting contradiction Miss Rothchild was proving to be.

  Smoothing out the front of my double-breasted tuxedo as I walked up to her, I couldn’t help but smile at her approving look. I took the glass from her, raised it in a silent
toast, and took a sip. Even filled with the fine sparkling wine that carried a light, slightly floral bouquet, the glass was as light as a feather. Best crystal that money could buy.

  “Yeah, well, usually a big Saturday night for me involves a talkie and a soda. This is a step up for me, so if I seem a little shy, bear with me.”

  She giggled, smiling even wider as she toasted the couple who followed my entrance. “Mr. Baddings, you hardly strike me as being shy about anything.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  I followed her eyes to the couple she was toasting—a couple I recognized (only by face, not by name) from the society pages. Their bright smiles dimmed a little as their eyes fell on me, the dwarf in the tux. While I could dress like their kind, it was clear that I was still far from blending in.

  “Whatever the reason your father had for throwing this little party,” I ventured, “it must be a big deal.” I motioned to a group of couples talking and laughing in the grand foyer. All the gentlemen in this group I recognized as members of the District Attorney’s and Mayor’s offices. It would have not surprised me at all if the Governor of Illinois were in the next room.

  “So tell me, Miss Rothchild, is my presence here specifically to push Daddy closer to a coronary, and you a little closer to the family inheritance?”

  “Now, Mr. Baddings,” she scolded, resting one of her delicate, bejeweled hands on my shoulder. “Your invitation to this gathering is merely a gesture of appreciation.”

  Appreciation? I didn’t buy it for one minute that this lady appreciated anything beyond her own wants. Sometime tonight, I was certain the punch line to this joke of me being here would present itself.

  Until that time, though, I decided to play along. “Well, in light of that, I tell you what, Miss Rothchild. You call me Billi, and I’ll drop the shy, wide-eyed dwarf routine.”

  “Very well then…Billi.” She touched her glass with mine. The tone rang lightly, a perfect tone that continued to echo like a death toll through the surrounding din of the party. “And you may call me Eva.”