Dwellings Debacle

by David Lee Stone

“LOOK, AT LEAST HEAR ME OUT! I MIGHT HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO SAY!”

  “Fat chance.”

  Obegarde bit his lip and counted to ten. Then he said, very calmly:

  “If you don’t come down from that tree in the next twenty seconds, I’m going to come up and get you. Understand?”

  “Ah, threats now, is it?”

  “ONE.”

  “I could’ve guessed as much.”

  “TWO.”

  “It always comes down to temper with you bloodsuckers.”

  “THREE.”

  “I’m not coming down.”

  “EIGHT.”

  “Where’d you learn to count?”

  “ELVEN.”

  “Elven? That’s not a number, that’s a race.”

  “NINETEEN.”

  “OK, now you’re just being stupid.”

  “TWENTY.”

  “I’m just on my way down.”

  There was an uncomfortable-looking backward swing followed by a number of yelps and crunches as Jimmy Quickstint fell out of the tree, hitting practically every branch on the way down. Eventually, he hit the ground, dusted himself off and stared up at a very irritated vampire.

  “So,” he said, fingering a cut on his bottom lip. “What are you trying to break into?”

  Obegarde took a sudden step back, and studied the gravedigger’s expression.

  “How did you guess?” he asked, cautiously.

  Jimmy shrugged.

  “I only have two skills, and I take it you don’t want someone buried?”

  “Well, actually …”

  “No chance.”

  “I was going to say that you were right the first time: I do need to get inside a certain place …”

  “It’ll cost you.”

  Obegarde shrugged.

  “Fine. How much?”

  Jimmy seemed to pay serious attention for the first time. His hands came out of his pockets and his tired, put-upon expression changed to one of mild interest.

  “That all depends on the property,” he muttered. “Is it uptown or downtown?”

  “It’s … er … central.”

  “Does it have a back garden?”

  “It has … land around it.”

  “Guarded?”

  “Heavily.”

  “Hmm … how many of you going in?”

  “Just me.”

  “Night or day?”

  “Night, preferably.”

  “Right.” Jimmy did some quick mental arithmetic, and seemed to reach a conclusion. “That’ll cost you fifty crowns.”

  Obegarde’s jaw dropped open.

  “Er … I said I wanted to break in, not buy the joint.”

  Jimmy sighed.

  “Well, that’s the best deal you’re going to get out of Quickstint Enterprises.”

  “Ten crowns.”

  “Get out o’ town! I wouldn’t break into a dogs’ home for that!”

  Obegarde thought for a moment.

  “Twenty crowns and you can take whatever you find there,” he said, conclusively.

  “Done.”

  “Shake on it?”

  The two men clasped hands to seal the deal, with Obegarde pulling back when he noticed that Jimmy had spat on his first.

  “So,” the gravedigger muttered, his trademark grin returning. “Where is it we’re going, exactly?”

  “The palace.”

  “Say that again?”

  “The palace.”

  “As in THE PALACE? Viscount Curfew’s palace?”

  “Uhuh.”

  “It’s back to fifty crowns, then,” Jimmy said, through gritted teeth. “They haven’t got anything worth stealing.”

  Obegarde rolled his eyes.

  “Look, are you in or not?” he demanded, thrusting a finger in the gravedigger’s face.

  “I’m in.”

  “Great. Where shall I meet you?”

  Jimmy sighed.

  “You know the manhole cover in Royal Road?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meet me there, stroke o’ midnight.”

  The gravedigger turned and strode off toward the cathedral, whistling a merry tune.

  “Just listen to me, Wheredad. Let’s say for now that the kidnappers are from Crust. They take Curfew last night, drive him out of the city via the North Gate, where the guards are probably playing cards, and get him back to their hideout. With me?”

  “Yes …”

  “OK, then this morning at eight o’clock the guards find two Crust bodies on the same vegetable cart that was in the palace last night. Don’t you see what this means?”

  “Um …”

  “It means, numb-brain, that they came back! One or all of the cronies who kidnapped Curfew must have returned to Dullitch this morning! They’re here now!”

  “B-but why: when they’ve already got the viscount?”

  “That, my friend, is what we need to find out.”

  Dwellings and Wheredad marched through the crowded streets en route to the militia’s jail. In the Market Place, they sidled carefully past two quarreling ogres while at the same time narrowly avoiding a dwarfish slambol team recruitment officer. Sensing that it was likely to be one of those afternoons, they quickly headed down Quack Avenue for some peace and quiet.

  “So what do you think about the officer they found on the roof, Enoch?” said Wheredad, swinging his thick arms as he walked.

  Dwellings shrugged.

  “The guards seemed to think a lot of him; so I suspect that the assailant who cut him down was highly adept at swordplay. It’s strange, though; we had our suspicions pinned on the cart team, and now there’s yet another player in the mix.”

  “You mean …?”

  “Precisely, Wheredad: I think the person on the roof was involved with the group on the cart. We just have to work out how … and why.”

  Nine

  “WELL, LOOK HERE, TIDDLES, if it isn’t that nice Mr. Obegarde!”

  The vampire, who’d only just walked through the front door, froze. His head dipped ever so slightly, as if he was expecting a barrage of flying crockery.

  Lusa was sitting, cross-legged, at the foot of the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. She was holding Tiddles on her lap.

  “Ah, I see you found him, then,” Obegarde muttered, mooching over to his desk. “How did you manage that?”

  Lusa shrugged.

  “I investigated,” she said. “And in case you don’t know, ‘investigate’ is when people find things out for themselves, not when they leech and spy on other, better investigators, in order to steal cases from them.”

  Obegarde’s half-grimace melted away.

  “My,” he said. “But you really have been snooping around, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Funny that: I was looking for my cat.” She jumped up from the step and began to walk determinedly toward him. Just think, if I hadn’t had to go searching for the pet that you stole from me, I’d never have discovered your little doorway into the Dwellings house, now would I?”

  “Now look,” said Obegarde, nervously. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

  Lusa put a finger to her lips and frowned, as if she was mulling over a very difficult problem.

  “Tell him what exactly? That a devious, despicable, backstabbing, case-stealing bloodsucker of a vampire has been sneaking into his house each night through a concealed door in his bedroom? Um … yes, I actually think I might.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Shut up.”

  “If you do —”

  “You’ll what? You’re a loftwing, remember? You’ve only got the one tooth.”

  “Now listen to me. I’m not just going to let you walk in there and —”

  “I’m your daughter.”

  “That’s all very well, but as I said … as I said then … as I … YOU’RE MY WHAT?”

  “Daughter.”

  Obegarde’s jaw practically broke his knees.

  “What d’you mean? How o
n Illmoor can you be my daughter?”

  “Um … the usual way, probably.”

  “B-but … but …”

  Lusa rolled her eyes and allowed some time for her statement to sink in.

  Obegarde swallowed a few times. He tried to speak, but his lips were suddenly dry. He hunted around in his desk for the vinegar he always kept handy. Then, after finding the bottle and taking several gulps of the vile liquid, he looked up at the girl beside the stairs.

  “You’re … Audrey’s daughter?”

  Lusa shook her head, causing Obegarde a moment of anxiety.

  “Sarah’s daughter?”

  “No!”

  “You’re not Flapjack’s daughter, are you?”

  “Flapjack?” Lusa gasped. “You had a … relationship … with someone called Flapjack?”

  “Yes, but don’t get melodramatic about it — I was a bat, then.”

  “Oh … right.”

  Obegarde’s face had flushed red with embarrassment. “I have to confess that I don’t have the slightest inkling of an idea whose daughter you might be.”

  Lusa stopped in the center of the room, and folded her arms.

  “I’m yours,” she said, dispassionately. “Trust me.”

  The vampire hung his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You … er … must be very disappointed.”

  Lusa thought about this for a time.

  “Not really,” she said, putting her head to one side. “My mother told me exactly what to expect.”

  “Well, whatever she told you … it’s bound to be true. I’m not a good person. I did sort of help save the country once, but I don’t suppose that really evens the score on a one-to-one basis …”

  “No.”

  “Right. So … what have you really been doing here, all this time? Reporting back to your mother — whoever she is — about what a terrible cretin I am?”

  “No; of course not!”

  “Do you need money?”

  “No: I need your time.”

  Obegarde sighed.

  “I don’t have any,” he said, weakly. “Besides, the more we get to know each other, the more you’ll hate me!”

  “Not necessarily …”

  “You hate me now, don’t you?”

  “At the moment I do.”

  “Exactly, and we’ve only been working together for three weeks!”

  “But I only hate you because you stole my cat!”

  “So why did you bring it in here in the first place?”

  “Because I was new in the city; I didn’t know anybody well enough to leave him with!”

  “Oh get over it. Anyway, I didn’t steal the cat!”

  “What happened, then?”

  Obegarde stomped over to his coffin and slumped down on top of it.

  “Well, that day you came in …”

  “Yes, I remember it clearly. You asked me if I’d work for bread and water.”

  “Right, well, when I got up to go to the toilet, your cat followed me.”

  “And?”

  “And I sort of accidentally led him to the top floor and shoved him through the secret wall.”

  “You are a total —”

  “Hey, I needed you to work for me!”

  “So? You didn’t have to kidnap my cat!”

  Obegarde gave a half-hearted shrug.

  “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “Ha! What kind of twisted logic is that?”

  “The normal kind! Besides, I knew damn well that Dwellings and Whydude would take good care of him.”

  “That’s beside the point: you still did it, and my first impression of my father was that he was a kidnapper. Can you imagine how impressed I was when you told me I had to work here or you’d harm the cat?”

  “I said I’m sorry — what more do you want?”

  “I’ll tell you what I want, I want YOU to go next door and tell Mr. Dwellings exactly what you’ve been up to for the last … for the last however many months you’ve been doing it!”

  “Are you insane? I’ll be ruined!”

  “Ha! At least you’d have a clear conscience.”

  “I’ve got a clear conscience now!”

  Lusa swept back a lock of blonde hair, gritted her teeth.

  “If you don’t go there this instant, I’m going to tell them everything myself!”

  Obegarde let out an exasperated breath.

  “All right,” he said, bleakly. “I’ll go. Satisfied?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Thank the gods for that. Personally, I can’t believe I’m being pressured into this. Whose daughter did you say you were?”

  Enoch Dwellings stood back as the city militia’s personal guard escort wheeled out the vegetable cart and gently lowered its wobbly front end onto the cobbles. The two men were still inside the cart, bound together by a thick rope.

  “Crossbow wound?” Wheredad hazarded.

  “You think?” said Dwellings, sarcastically. “I was going for poison, myself.”

  Wheredad shook his head.

  “No, Enoch, I don’t think they’d have shot a bolt through each if they were going to poison them. It wouldn’t make any sense …”

  Dwellings ignored the statement, and instead reached into the cart to examine the men’s clothing.

  “This is all Crust issue,” he said in conclusion, a few minutes later. “The boots, the jerkin, all of it.”

  “We thought as much,” said Burnie, who’d arrived just in time to accompany the two investigators to the militia’s storage yard. “Strange, though: it’s quite a distinctive cart. I had a really good pair of guards on the North Gate that night, and they both swear blind that they saw this cart come and go last night, driven by somebody else entirely.”

  “I’ll wager it was the one that visited the palace,” Dwellings muttered conspiratorially to Wheredad.

  “You reckon so, Enoch?”

  “Well, it would be a funny coincidence, wouldn’t it?”

  Wheredad brought out his notepad and quickly read through his scrawl.

  “So we think that the veg bloke drove this cart into town at about —”

  “Half-past five,” Burnie interrupted, sharp as a button. “That’s when the guards saw the cart through the gate.”

  “Right,” said Wheredad, a little resentfully. “Then he stopped at the palace at just past six o’clock, leaving again at …?”

  “We didn’t ask when he left the palace,” said Dwellings, suddenly annoyed at his own forgetfulness.

  “Obviously, I can’t help you there,” said Burnie. “But I can tell you that the cart went back out of the North Gate just after ten o’clock. The guards were awake, for once. They didn’t stop it, mind; probably used to seeing it come and go.”

  Dwellings nodded.

  “Your help has been invaluable, Mr. Chairman,” he said. “Now, I don’t suppose your men have any record of a cart full of drop cloths leaving or entering the city that evening?”

  Burnie consulted the scroll he’d brought with him, and shook his head.

  “Some hope,” he said, casting a disgruntled glance at the nearest guard-post. “Some of ’em don’t stop playing cards long enough to tie their shoes.”

  Dwellings nodded, and turned back to his colleague.

  “Wheredad, make a note that the second cart probably came from outside the city.” He nodded appreciatively at Burnie and his assistants. “My thanks go out to you, gentlemen; do come back to me if you think of anything else.”

  He bowed slightly and departed, Wheredad trailing in his wake.

  Ten

  OBEGARDE SWALLOWED A FEW times, and straightened himself up. Then he checked out of the corner of his eye to make sure that the wretched girl was still watching him from the bay window and — realizing she was — took a reluctant step forward and rapped loudly on the door of Enoch Dwellings.

  A few tense seconds passed, in which he actually stepped back from the threshold to prepare h
imself, but there came no answer from within.

  Obegarde made a beseeching grin at his eagle-eyed daughter, then gave a shrug and tried again.

  Nothing.

  “He’s not in,” he called up at the neighbouring window. Lusa frowned, mouthed something.

  “I said: ‘HE’S NOT IN.’”

  The right-side window was suddenly hoisted open.

  “What?”

  Obegarde rolled his eyes.

  “He’s not in.”

  “He’s out?”

  “Yes! Look, I know it’s very difficult to understand, but if you’re not in, you’re out; and if you’re not out, you’re in. That’s the way it works. OK? Now I really have to go: I’ve promised to meet someone later, and I need to get some sleep …”

  Lusa took a deep breath, rolled her eyes.

  “Well, I suppose you could try him later on,” she said.

  “You betcha,” said Obegarde, a merry smile on his pale lips. “I’ll be back here the first chance I get; you can bet your wages on it.”

  “You don’t pay me any wages …”

  “Exactly.”

  Lusa muttered something under her breath, then folded her arms.

  “Leave him a note,” she demanded.

  “What? You can’t be serious: he’ll think I’m out of my tree!”

  “Just DO IT.”

  Obegarde bit his bottom lip, quickly remembered why his father had told him never to do that, and cried out in pain.

  Secretary Spires was just nodding off when a gangly, out-of-breath guard came pelting into the secretary’s elaborately decorative bedroom.

  “M-murder,” he panted, almost bent double with exhaustion. “M-murder, Mr. Spires.”

  The secretary, who hadn’t been able to catch a wink since the viscount’s kidnapping two nights before, automatically leaped to his feet, knocking over his wash bowl in the process.

  “Is it the viscount?” he said, staring around bleary-eyed. “Have you found Lord Curfew?”

  The guard shook his head.

  “No, Mr. Spires, it’s definitely not the viscount,” the guard wheezed on. “We found this fella wedged inside a wardrobe in one of the first-floor bedrooms.”

  Spires heaved a slightly diluted sigh of relief, then sat back down on the bed, realized the magnitude of what he’d just been told, and leaped back up again.

  “Do we have any idea who it is?”

  The guard shrugged.

  “I’ve never seen him before, Mr. Spires, but the lads on the gate reckon it’s the man who brings in all the vegetables.”