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

by Tee Morris

  With her hand still resting lightly on my shoulder, we went for a stroll around this grand palace. The stunning ornaments along the wall, and statues proudly displayed on pedestals in the foyer and adjoining chambers, were impressive…but merely the warm-up for what was in the main banquet room. Illuminating the party was a breathtaking crystal chandelier, a fixture casting more than enough light on the various cuisines offered, the bar (Like the Feds were going to raid this place when the D.A. and police commissioner were hobnobbing with potential backers?), and an impressive collection of pieces that looked like they would be more at home in a museum somewhere. There was no real unifying theme in the pieces here, other than they were rare.

  After we passed an urn that curators would have begged to prominently display in their own institutions, I turned my attentions back to Eva. She saw the pieces as well, but I saw no appreciation in those crystal blues of hers. In fact, her disregard struck me as rather odd. I could at least appreciate the history behind said artifacts, and the events of this case were only adding to my interest in Rothchild’s collection. But Eva seemed more interested in being seen with the dwarf than appreciating the spoils of her numerous digs in Egypt, Europe, and the Orient.

  When my eyes fell on a beautifully carved jade dragon, I tapped my escort on the wrist and pointed up to it. “Now that is a beautiful find, Eva.”

  She shrugged. “If you like that sort of thing, I guess.”

  All right, it was time to play “How Thick Is Eva?” and find out how much of a sham she really was.

  “But the history behind this piece,” I persisted. “Just think about it: Ages ago, artisans could craft something like this,” I motioned to the serpentine creature, “out of a block of pure emerald.”

  “Yeah. That’s really…” Eva paused as she stared blankly at the dragon, “…something.”

  And so the painfully small talk went as we passed various relics, with this intrepid, high-society archeologist missing every contradiction and error I threw at her. Clearly, Little Miss Eva couldn’t tell the difference between a Ming vase and Mick’s plateware. Guess the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. Much like her ruthless robber-baron ancestors, Eva was enjoying her success on the backs of scientists, scholars, and local workers. (I couldn’t help but wonder how many of those dinks were enjoying fine champagne in expensive crystal goblets tonight.) Daddy Rothchild would have really nailed an impersonation of a berserker if he’d known exactly what a waste Eva’s education had been in reality. He always made it clear to the papers how much he loathed wasting his money, especially in light of how hard his family had worked in earning it.

  The Rothchild fortune was built in the oil industry. The family took part in the Great Land Rush and managed a few acres of farmland. Well, as the Fates would have it, oil was discovered on their property—not enough to build the fortune that the Rothchilds currently enjoyed, but enough for Granddaddy Rothchild to invest in Missouri’s mining industry. I give ol’ Granddad credit—he didn’t put all his eggs in one basket. He invested in several mining operations, and they all brought him a solid income. The harder the Rothchilds’ miners worked, the better the Rothchilds lived…and it was apparent that the Rothchilds’ miners were working very, very hard.

  As we passed various pockets of people, my ears picked up bits and pieces of conversation that wasn’t far off from the talk I’d hear at Mick’s. Only difference was in the details. I caught a few words spoken about a close polo game, which didn’t sound very different from talk over the Cubs going into extra innings.

  Before too long, I heard the ding-ding-ding-ding of a small spoon striking the side of a glass. Conversations came to a halt, the music stopped, and guests’ attention gradually turned to the room’s large, elegant fireplace, where it looked like a small group of people was preparing to speak.

  Eva turned to me. “How about I get you a better seat for this moment in Chicago history, little man?”

  Little man? This was definitely not the same Eva Rothchild who had visited my office the other day.

  “Sure, toots.” That was for the “little man” comment. Normally, something like that would have pissed me off, but this was a social event. No need for me to get snippy. “How about you get us a place in the front row?”

  As we worked our way through the crowd of tuxedoes and evening dresses, I could hear the voice pretty clearly now. While he was getting up there in years, the speaker’s deep, confident baritone and dry wit still commanded respect. It was a safe bet that the man flapping his gums would be Franklin Rothchild, the lord and master of this estate. He cracked a joke that I didn’t get, but the socialites seemed to get a kick out of it. The politicians I caught sight of laughed politely, but I could see it in their eyes: They didn’t get the joke either. What a surprise.

  When we finally made it to the front of the crowd, I saw Rothchild and his wife standing there, quite self-assured in their stance (both physically and socially). From his toothy, Cheshire-Cat smile, it was clear that he was no longer the one doing the talking. No, the guy now addressing the crowd was roughly the same age as Rothchild, but looking as if he could easily dance the Charleston into the wee-small hours of the morning. I knew his face from the papers, but I had already seen so many familiar mugs from the Society section tonight that my memory had left the castle for a quick smoke.

  But the third figure standing next to them, I knew at first glance: a shapely socialite with a dress and cleavage that definitely gave my date Eva a run for her money. This raven-haired femme fatale proved to be the punch line to a really bad joke.

  “So tell me, Eva…did you and Miss Lesinger arrange this little rendezvous, or is her presence at your house and home one hell of a coincidence?”

  “Who said this place was my home? I never made mention of that when I invited you. I just told you I’d send a driver and gave you a time. Nothing more.”

  This bitch was so lucky there were people around. While I don’t believe in hitting women, there are some unique members of the pack who really beg for it. Eva just became the leader of said pack!

  “So, this is the Lesinger estate, huh? Nice digs.” My eyes narrowed. “You are a true game mistress, aren’t you?”

  She merely grinned, quite pleased with herself. “Now Billi, do you think I would intentionally try and start up trouble between you and your client?”

  “No…provided you nurture some kind of bizarre fetish for four-foot-one guys with thirty-six inch waists, bushy red beards, and hostile attitudes toward goblins.” If only the edge in my voice were sharp enough to draw blood. “I do think you are capable of painting a picture of me hobnobbing with you in order to outrage your social rival over there, getting her to drop me harder than an elf taking an orc’s arrow to the chest.”

  Her smile softened for a moment, only to flood back more radiantly than before. “You are good, Billi.” She bent down to place a gentle kiss on my cheek. “I look forward to having you on my payroll.”

  I remained indifferent, along with the rest of me. The kiss was specifically for Miss Lesinger’s benefit, because she had just caught sight of me in the tux. It was a shock, I’m sure, to find me there; that shock increased tenfold at Eva’s empty gesture. Shaken, my client returned her gaze to the onlookers as Henry Lesinger continued to address the party.

  “…but as I grow older and wiser—well, all right, as I grow older—I’m finding it harder and harder to move forward on my own. Lesinger Industrial & Technological Development has provided jobs for the workers of America and advancements for the world, but lately I believe we are growing too comfortable. We are not moving forward fast enough, and I believe that two kings work better than one. Alliances have always proven to be the future of business, society, and nations. After all, it was an alliance that brought an end to the Great War in Europe.”

  Yeah, a war that America refused to get involved in until their hand was forced. And what was with the “two kings” comments? He apparently didn’t kn
ow the kings of my realm, who went to war over the position of a tree stump and an invisible line in the ground. I’m sure he meant well, but ol’ Lesinger really needed to lay off the booze, because his tipsy state was altering his take on reality.

  Franklin Rothchild, the earlier voice we heard, now chimed in. “Therefore, for the betterment of the country and for the future of my children and—” He quickly glanced over to Eva with a transparent smile, “—perhaps one day, grandchildren—”

  She returned the nicest “Screw you and the mount you rode in on, Dad” smile I’d ever seen on a lady.

  “—I am announcing tonight the partnership between Rothchild Oil & Mining Industries and Lesinger Industrial & Technological Development.”

  There was a slight gasp from the assembled guests as the men clasped hands. Flashbulbs burst around them like Forest Pixies who, at the time of their deaths, explode at night in a fleeting brilliance and then return to earth in a shower of sparks. The smiles and nods the two tycoons shared were sincere…so sincere that I think it frightened many of the partygoers. Even outside these upper-crust social circles, it was well known what bitter business rivals these men were. This announcement was marking the end of an era of underhanded, cutthroat struggles for financial supremacy in Chicago. Whether or not this new relationship would usher in a new age of cooperation remained to be seen.

  Raising his own glass, Henry Lesinger grinned for the public eyes who were continuing to capture the moment for tomorrow’s front pages. “I do not doubt that this partnership will prove beneficial to all of you who invested in us as individual entities. Now, it’s time to send the news to Wall Street and enjoy the windfall of this merger. Ladies and gentlemen, here’s to 1929. May it be one unforgettable year for us all!”

  Flutes were raised in a unified toast. “1929,” echoed the crowd.

  As Lesinger and Rothchild continued to pose for pictures and the crowd dispersed to discuss this development, Eva gave me a pat on my head (All she was missing was a snout and a bushy tail, wagging wildly behind her!) and then disappeared into a grove of penguin suits and evening dresses, beaming more brightly than a broadsword fresh from the forge and polished to a fine sheen.

  The message was clear: I had served my purpose, and I could now leave whenever I felt like it.

  The quartet started up again. This time they were performing Mozart, a composer I especially liked. Other composers, from both my world and this one, seemed to go easy on the notes and melodies, but this guy really knew how to make his musicians work for their applause.

  “Mr. Baddings,” came the familiar voice I was hoping to talk to first thing Monday morning so I could explain everything.

  “Miss Lesinger…believe me when I tell you this is an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Really?” Oh yeah, she was in a lather, all right. “Is there a reason you are here…with Eva, no less?”

  “Actually, I’m on my own now,” I replied with a slight shrug. “Miss Rothchild invited me here, so I showed up in my best double-breasted to what I thought was the Rothchild mansion and hoped for the best. It wasn’t until I saw you that I realized I was being played for a sucker. Looks like Eva was intending for you to drop me, and drop me quick. I would like to think that, in light of my past service to you, I can continue to disappoint her.”

  I motioned to a grand patio that presented no real view, apart from a grove of trees. There were a few guests out there enjoying the clear night sky, their smokes, and quiet chitchat. “Perhaps we should get some fresh air. No offence, but I find the surroundings here…”

  “Stuffy. I know.” Miss Lesinger turned up a nose and, with a final disdainful glance at the party around her, led the way outside.

  The conversation out here was even less substantial than the talk I had eavesdropped on earlier. What I noticed here were the boys in their slicked-back hair determined to enjoy the company of whatever lady they happened to be chatting with. This, I could only assume, was the optimum place to close a deal and bring home the goods, “the goods” being anything from marriage to a business merger, or just a good night of grunde’malking.

  “So, Miss Lesinger, concerning Tony…”

  She was about to place a cigarette between a pair of freshly decorated lips when her head turned down to me sharply, her voice a harsh whisper. “Mr. Baddings! This is not the time—”

  “Well, if you whisper like that and attract attention to yourself by not acting normally, then yeah, this isn’t the time nor the place. Or did you notice that when you came out here, no one seemed to care?”

  I watched her resume the lighting of her cigarette, nonchalantly looking around her as she blew her first drag’s smoke away from us. I didn’t have a care about becoming the focus of the others’ attentions. Judging from the amount of pheromones being exchanged between couples, we were the farthest things from their minds.

  “Just keep the tone down,” I advised, “act as if you don’t care, and enjoy your smoke. I’ll do the talking.”

  From my inner pocket, I produced my mini-pipe. Little indulgence was about the size of my palm, and good for social situations like this. Then I pulled out a small pouch of weed and packed the bowl. I was relieved when she struck a match for me and lit my smoke as I suckled on the other end of the pipe; she was still miffed, but maybe not as much as I initially thought.

  “Thanks, Miss Lesinger.” I finally got a taste of the sweet leaf and, with a nod to her, I also puffed out a cloud of smoke to the shadows nearby, just to make certain no one was listening in on us.

  “You wanted to know why Tony was bumped off,” I began, “and while I’ve got a handle on the ‘why’, I’m not so sure about the ‘who’ anymore. Seems that Tony wanted to enter the antiques business. His first score, though, was an item in popular demand. In fact, the supplier Tony tried to connect with—your good Dr. Hammil at the Ryerson, in fact—was already in bed with many of the folks here tonight, selling off quite a few museum finds for a tidy profit, then rewriting history in the Acquisition Department.”

  “No!” Miss Lesinger’s mouth fell open in surprise. “Dr. Hammil was illegally selling off some of the Ryerson’s inventory?”

  “Maybe not the most premier ones, but yeah. He was enjoying his own little side business and some of the perks of upper-tier society besides, unbeknownst to the Ryerson staff. And this is where we get confused with the ‘who’ behind Tony’s death.”

  “But we know that Capone was behind it.” She shrugged.

  “We know that, but someone had to nock that arrow and light it. It could either have been someone inside Tony DeMayo’s inner circle, or the supplier himself.”

  “Dr. Hammil could have killed Tony, you mean?”

  “He could have been instrumental in some way. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was the one who ratted out DeMayo to Capone’s organization.”

  I paused to draw from my pipe, studying her partially-lit face. With her volunteer connection to the Ryerson, it was hard to believe she was entirely in the dark over Hammil’s shenanigans. “But something tells me that some of these facts come as no surprise to you.”

  She balanced the cigarette between two fingers, her expression grew pensive. “You’re referring to ‘the score.’ I imagine you mean the Singing Sword, don’t you?” She then threw a slider that only Bruce Cunningham could conjure. “I saw it when it first arrived in Chicago.”

  I nearly coughed on my weed. She saw the damn thing? I think I liked this case better when it was just a mob hit. Now my client was linked to this talisman from my old stomping grounds. Just at the point where I thought I had this case closed…

  “Really, Miss Lesinger?” I said evenly, trying not to give away my total astonishment.

  “Julie, please. Miss Lesinger makes me sound like my mother.”

  “Okay, Julie.” I replied with a nod. Gazing up at the stars for a moment, I decided to keep her talking about the Sword. I needed to find out how much she knew…which, I was praying to the Fates,
wasn’t a lot.

  “You know, I keep feeling as if I’m on the verge of opening a case within a case. What’s with all the fuss over this particular trinket?”

  “It’s a find that archeologists dream about, Billi.” Her eyes caught the light from the mansion, and I could hear it in her voice: This was something that fascinated her unlike anything she had ever known. “Imagine a sword of European design, discovered in a sealed tomb of Ancient Egypt. Mysteries like the Singing Sword are cornerstones that theses, symposiums, and careers are built on.” Then her tone changed. She sounded disappointed. “But sadly, it was Eva who found it. This was going to be her greatest find, provided that she took care to consult her on-site archeologists about what she found, that is. ”

  “You insinuated in my office that Eva was a bit of a loose cannon at the Ryerson.”

  “She supposedly studied history at the finishing school her father shipped her off to, but I doubt that she’d know the value of a true find unless it came from Tiffany’s. That doesn’t deter her from being a little too quick in alerting the press sometimes. Since the tomb of King Tutankhamen was discovered back in ’22, archeology has become all the rage. Eva convinced her daddy to finance her overseas adventures. I was privy to the reports from the Ryerson staff. She only showed up on site when something was discovered, ready to take the credit for it. I also learned that the real archeologists were thrilled whenever Eva was somewhere other than the site.” She shook her head in exasperation and contempt. “I still remember the day we received a wire declaring that Eva had discovered the ‘true’ resting place of King Tut.”

  “Safe to assume that her revolutionary find was nothing more than a scam cooked up by the local boys?”

  Julie nodded, taking a quick puff of her cigarette. Did little to mask the bitterness in her face.

  “If she had succeeded in going public with the discovery, it would have been the iceberg to Ryerson’s Titanic. She’s a benefactor, and that gives her some sway…but I have watched Hammil and his staff avoid potentially disastrous situations. Once they received Eva’s wire about the Singing Sword, it became top priority to keep her quiet.”