by C. A. Asbrey
A lean, gray-haired man glanced at Jake. “This is the witness?”
“Yes, Captain. He doesn’t know much. If he was involved, his clothes would be covered in blood. He only found the body.”
The captain strode forward and clattered a bucket of gore on the table. “Offal.”
“It sure is.” Clay agreed. “Real awful.”
“No.” The doctor put his pail on the floor, showing the grisly contents. “It’s offal. Guts, organs and entrails. If I remember correctly from my student days, it looks like pig. We’d dissect those because they’re so similar to humans.” He played with his mutton chops. “Well, it’s bits of probably three, maybe four pigs.”
“A pig?” Jake and Clay exclaimed in unison.
The captain cut in. “The guts of three-and-a-half pigs so far, to be precise. Not to mention buckets of blood and a half-carcass. I’m guessing none of it’s human.”
“We found seven kidneys and who knows how many feet of intestines,” said the doctor. “They were everywhere.”
Jake’s brows met in a frown. “Where would Tibby get them from? I was with him all morning.”
“And why would he throw that lot around after killing that poor woman?” asked Clay.
“Woman? There was no dead woman,” Captain Sumner snorted. “It was all some kind of elaborate hoax.”
“But I saw actual ribs where the dress was pulled up. I saw it, I tell you. I’m not makin’ this up.” Jake sat forward, pressing home his insistence by stabbing the air with his forefinger. “And guts—loads of ’em. It was horrible.”
“What you saw was a set-up.” The doctor’s patient smile split his round face between his mutton chops. “Half a pig was wrapped in the dress and positioned so it was poking out from under the bed to hide the fact it had no legs. They covered the absence of a head by pulling up the petticoats, and they draped in a few bits of guts and swilled the blood around to make it look like a massacre. The room’s uninhabitable. It’s the worst practical joke I ever saw in all my born days.”
Jake’s face was still crowded by confusion. “But Tibby. Tibby was unconscious.”
“Chloroform is my guess. He’s come round and has one hell of a headache. He said it smelled sweet and sickly,” Doctor Bishop sighed. “It took someone strong. I know he’s only small, but it takes a full five minutes to render someone unconscious with chloroform, and that means being strong enough to hold them down. Most women couldn’t do that on their own, not even to a little man. We’re simply much stronger than they are.”
“I was outside the door. Nobody went in.” Jake was still having difficulty taking everything in. “I’d have seen them.”
“Well, that’s why this could only have happened at the Occidental.” The chief thrust out his chin. “It’s new and modern. All the rooms have what they call ‘Jack-and-Jill’ doors. They can all be opened up with the room next to them to make a suite. I checked the one next door and found 128 was a bloody mess, too. It looks like someone lay in wait to attack him from there and then set up this scene.” The captain leaned forward, his round shoulders and lean frame making him look like an earnest hound. “Can you tell me why anyone would do this to him?”
Jake blinked in confusion, a parade of expressions passing over his bemused face. “I thought he was worried about being beaten up. Somethin’ to do with this job he’s workin on. He’s pretending to be a tramp and trying to track down a wanted man for his newspaper.” Jake paused as the realization finally hit him. “His files and photographs. He had them in his room. Are they gone?”
“Newspaper?” The chief threw up his hands in exasperation. “He’s a journalist? Why didn’t you tell me? They’re all villains. Damn it. Who’s his biggest rival? It’ll be him. They’re always trying to get the opposition arrested and the like so they can steal a story. They’re the lowest of the low. They’ll tamper with evidence and everything.”
“You don’t think it could be the wanted man stealing his files?” asked Jake.
“A criminal would just steal them, and maybe hurt your friend. They wouldn’t turn the place into an abattoir.” The chief’s eyes narrowed. “Go and find out who his rival is, Honeybun. Then let’s find out if the rogue’s in town.”
“What about me?” asked Jake.
“Are you a damned journalist?” Chief Sumner demanded.
Jake shook his tousled head, fairly sure that even his real occupation would meet with more approval than a career in journalism. “Nope. Visitin’ a friend who just got married.”
“I take it Honeybun already has your address?” Jake nodded as the chief waved a dismissive hand. “You can go. If I could have five minutes alone with them journalists, I’d give them something else to worry about. Find out who else is working on that story. I want that time-wasting hack behind bars.”
♦◊♦
Jake shook Clay’s hand, his whole posture relaxing and the tension dropping from his shoulders now he was on his way out of the police station. “Thanks, Inspector Honeybun. You’ve been great. You made this real easy. I didn’t know what to expect when I was brought here.”
The detective grinned. “You’re an innocent man. I’m not about to make life hard for a witness, especially one who’s trying to help.” Clay broke from the handshake and slapped Jake on the shoulder. “You should think about joining up. You’re a fine figure of a man and you already work in security. We’re looking for men right now. The city’s growing fast.”
Jake’s brows rose as a wry smile licked across his face. “Nah. I make out pretty well doin’ what I do now.”
“There’s a pension.” Clay’s head inclined to underscore the offer. “I bet you don’t get a pension where you are. Regular pay, too. A man’s gotta think of the future.”
Only someone who knew Jake intimately would have recognized the flicker of regret in his blue eyes. Clay read it as temptation. “Think about it. Ask for me, if you’re interested. I’ll show you around. It’s a real interesting job. No two days are the same.”
The screech of a female voice rasped across the air like fingernails on a blackboard. “Take your grubby paws off me! I’m a victim.”
Jake turned, swiftly spinning his back against the sight of Madeleine struggling with two officers who were dragging her off toward a door on the right. “Yeah, so I see.”
“I was kidnapped,” Madeleine bellowed at the top of a trained singer’s lungs. That voice carried and reverberated off the walls until it filled the back office. “What are you doing? Don’t you dare—”
Clay’s light chuckle grew more audible as the cacophony was shut out by the door to the cells closing behind the unfortunate woman. “Yeah, females are the worst. We got matrons to deal with them. I’ll see you out so nobody thinks you’re escaping, huh?”
Jake strolled into the caustic summer sunshine, looking both ways before crossing the busy road. He was keen to put the police station behind him so he stepped out, letting the milling townsfolk close over his wake until he was just another face in the crowd. His guard was still up when he heard footsteps hurrying along behind him and his hand dropped down to his gun.
“Jake!”
The anxiety in his chest fell at the sound of his nephew’s voice and the gunman turned on his heel, his blue eyes dancing with relief. His brows rose. “You got rid of the face fuzz?”
“Yeah, well. They thought I was a Pinkerton. I thought it was best to get back to normal in case anyone saw us together.”
“What the hell were you doin’ in there, Nat? It’s a police station.”
“I know.” His cheeks dimpled with mischief. “We worked out Mission would be the first one Madeleine came to and told them she was an escaped prisoner to keep her away from Bartholemew. We knew she’d report a kidnapping there. She’s being held on a fake warrant.”
Jake’s jaw dropped open and his guffaw rang in the bright air. “Hah! That explains why I saw her bein’ dragged off to the cells.”
“They got her?
Great news. So we know she’s safe. Now we’ve gotta use that time to find out how he kills them. So, tell me all about your case. A body cut up? What the hell happened, and where’s Tibby”
“Nat, you won’t believe it even when I tell you.” Jake draped an arm around his nephew’s shoulders. “Let’s go eat and I’ll explain everything.” Jake paused. “No pork or ketchup.” A picture of the intestines dangling from the curtain rail loomed into the forefront of his mind’s eye. “Or sausages. Definitely no sausages.”
Chapter 10
Abigail’s eyes widened as Jake sat back with one wry brow tweaked in challenge, defying her not to believe him.
“A pig?” she asked.
“Bits of lots of pigs,” Jake answered. “I thought it was a massacre.”
“How are you after seeing that?” Her gaze softened. “That must have been very upsetting. You thought it was a woman. I know how that hits you.”
“I’m fine.” She noticed Jake glanced away, though. “Findin’ out it was all a practical joke helped.”
“Hmm,” Abigail mused, not buying it. “So, what happened to Mrs. Consedine?”
“Dunno.” Jake shrugged.
“Room 128 was next door, you said. Did you see anyone come out of that room?”
“Now that you mention it, Abi, there was that old couple.” Jake held his forefinger horizontally about halfway up his nose. “The woman had a veil down to here on her hat.”
Abigail’s eyes gleamed. “And nobody else?”
Jake rolled his eyes in exasperation. “They came from that damned room. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“Probably because the scene was so shocking, Jake.” Abi smiled. “Things like that are set up to make an impact. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“So we need to find out where they went.” Nat glanced away from the window from which he was watching Bartholemew’s house.
“Why?” asked Abigail. “This has nothing to do with us. It’s a rivalry between Tibby and some other journalist.”
Nat shook his head. “They wanted into his room for a reason. They could have set him up anywhere, but they chose his room.”
“But they could already get in from the adjoining door.” Abigail frowned.
Nat looked at them in turn. “They must have needed something he carried with him all the time. Setting him up for jail probably killed two birds with one stone. He couldn’t follow them from a cell.”
“Well, we’ll have to see what Tibby says when he’s released,” shrugged Abigail. “That’s if we can believe a word he says, anyway.”
“I know we’re dealing with your sister, Abi, but we need that file and photograph. Smitty’s been prepared to see innocent people die just to bring us in. Who knows what he’ll do next?” Nat paused, peering out of the window. “We can’t just let Tibby walk away until we have as much information as he does.”
“Then it’s a good thing there’s two of us, ain’t it?” Jake sat back. “I guess I need to go back and ask the doorman if he remembers where that old couple went. You can stay and help Abi.”
Nat stiffened, staring out at the street. “Yeah, but right now I need you to back me up. There’s a police officer knocking at Bartholemew’s door.”
“There is?” Abigail scampered over and gawped at the scene outside. “Now what could he want?”
“I dunno.” A wry dimple pitted Nat’s cheek. “But I’m going to find out.”
“You can’t. What are you going to say to him?”
“I’ve no idea, Abi. I’ll decide that when I hear what he’s got to say. Bartholemew isn’t in. He left this morning and hasn’t come back yet.”
♦◊♦
The police officer rattled the brass doorknocker against the strike plate. It was a novel little piece in the form of a grinning ovoid brass devil with pointed ears and an extravagant mustache which curled over the metal hoop dangling from its mouth. The sharp rap sliced through the quiet of South Street, an abrupt drumming which turned the heads of passersby and made a woman’s poodle tug at the leash and yap in annoyance.
The lawman waited and knocked once more, leaning over to stare through the stained glass insert beneath a shading hand as his gray uniform trousers wrinkled around his bent knees.
“Looking for someone?”
The lawman turned to face Nat, examining him with round hazel eyes. “I’m looking for Robert Bartholemew…”
Nat smiled his most charming smile. “How can I help?”
“You live here, sir?”
“Yes.” Nat felt in his pocket for his lock pick and forced himself to look suitably concerned. “Has someone been hurt? What’s wrong? I’ve never had a policeman at the door before.”
Nat palmed the pick and mounted the steps, ushering the officer aside so he could mask his nefarious tinkering in the lock from his view. “This damn lock. I need to get this looked at.” He turned at the sound of a satisfying click as the tumblers turned. “Ah, that’s it. You need to jiggle it a little. Do you know a good locksmith? The maid could never work it at all. So? What did you want?”
“It’s about your wife, sir.”
“My wife?” Nat’s brows rose in query. “I don’t have a wife.”
“We have a lady in the cells who insists she’s married to the Robert Bartholemew who lives here.”
Nat shook his head. “Nope. What is she in for?”
The officer’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at Nat. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose that, Mr. Bartholemew. She insists she lives here, and that she’s your wife.”
“Well, she’s obviously lying to get out of jail. I think I’d know if I had a wife wouldn’t I? And if I’d lost one, I’d have reported her missing. That hasn’t happened, either. I can’t help you.” Nat pushed the door ajar and put a foot into the hallway. “Was there anything else?”
“No, sorry to disturb you.” The officer paused and stared at Nat whose nerves tightened into a hard ball in his belly.
“There’s one on Stockton Street.”
“One what, Officer…”
“Smith. Officer George Smith, sir. There a locksmith on Stockton Street. You asked about one. The station calls him out sometimes.”
Nat’s curt nod was one of dismissal. “Thanks, Officer Smith. That’s very helpful of you.”
He strode inside and closed the door, making sure to lock it behind him. He glanced around the hallway and took in the mess. Boxes of various sizes lay scattered everywhere, still lying where they’d been tossed. The straw packing disgorged and spread everywhere, carried by the feet of anyone walking through the hall.
The trail led directly to the dining room where Bartholemew had set up his laboratory. Nat’s curiosity burned brighter than his caution, so he padded through to see what had been in the discarded packing.
The room was still a mess, much like the men who had repossessed the copper wire had left it, but there was something new. A collection of glass bottles were in a block on a tray. Each bottle was filled with fluid and a thick rod, while the lids had wires protruding from the top. He frowned and quickly counted them. There were twenty-five of them forming a square and intricately connected. He frowned. Individually, they looked like the batteries used to power telegraph machines, but they only used one at a time. What could they do all together? Were they there to replace the circuits he’d built up in the copper wire the men had taken back for non-payment?
He mentally stored them away for some research and followed the copper wire which trailed away from the bottles. Bartholemew had obviously bought more wire. Nat followed it, hand-over-hand, but it only led to the end of the table, and wasn’t connected to anything. He shrugged and dropped it, moving on to the bottles arranged on the sideboard. He scanned the labels—sodium chlorine, sulphuric acid, aluminum sulfate, and ammonia solution. A small bottle of belladonna sat off to the side along with a few containers with what looked like metallic shavings inside.
Nat’s gaze drifted over to the large jar near th
e door he’d examined on his last visit. The last time he’d seen it, the jar was on its side, but it was now righted. The thought of Bartholemew’s anger at finding the destruction still amused him mightily. It appeared to have been valuable with the gold metal embossed with Chinese-style designs echoed in the frosted etchings in the glass, but the lid was now broken, splitting up the pair—and that had to hurt a man with money problems. Something lying behind the large jar caught his eye. He carefully picked out what looked like a copper wand with a chain dangling from it. Nat paused, his dark eyes glittering as he turned the metal stick over in his hands. The top was threaded as thought it was intended to screw into something. What was this for?
The metallic rattling of a key in the lock shook him out of his musings. Bartholemew was back. Time to go. He stuck the wand into his waistband, wondering why even as he did it. Maybe it was his habitual stealing? It felt like the right thing to do anyhow, and he was an acquisitive creature by nature.
Nat scurried on his toes as he heard the door open. The dining room lay between the hallway and the kitchen at the back of the house, and Nat knew he could make his escape from the back door with ease.
Bartholemew’s feet clattered down the tiled hall and Nat only just managed to swing behind the door to the kitchen as the householder strode in and put a full, stiff brown paper bag on the table. He tossed his hat carelessly beside it and opened his purchase, the man’s eyes gleaming as a satisfied smirk spread over his face. He put in his hand and allowed the granules to run through his fingers from a height, the white grains falling like snow.
Nat peered through the gap in the door and felt the hackles rise at the back of his neck at the malevolence in the grin. Whatever that powder was, every instinct told him it wasn’t intended for any worthy purpose.
The man seemed satisfied and scrunched the top of the bag closed and turned on his heel. Nat heard him stomp up the stairs and a door close. His breath quickened and his mind ran like quicksilver. He had to know what was in that bag. He slipped out from his concealment and crept toward the table.
