“What’s that?” Wayne asked, tapping the center of the sketch pad, where Wax had drawn a bunch of straight lines.
“The pattern the killer used baffles me,” Wax said. “The four people in the party he shot, they all fell while in random conversations—look how they were lying. Everyone else who died was part of the larger shoot-out, but these four, they died while the party was still going on. But why did he shoot them from different directions? See, best I can guess, he fired first here, killing Lady Lentin. Her dropped drink was stomped on many times over the next few minutes. But then the killer used his speed to move quickly over here and fire in another direction. Then he moved again, and again. Why four shots from different places?”
“Who was standing where he shot?”
“The people he killed, obviously.”
“No, I mean, who was standing near him when he fired his gun. Not who did he shoot, but who was he near when he shot?”
“Ahh…” Wax said.
“Yep. Looks to me like he was trying to set them all off,” Wayne said, sniffling. “Get everyone in the room shootin’ at each other. See? It’s like how, to start a bar fight, you throw a bottle at some fellow and then turn to the person next to you and cry out, ‘Hey, why’d you throw that bottle at that nice fellow? Rusts, he looks big. And now he’s comin’ for you, and—’”
“I understand the concept,” Wax said dryly. He tapped the drawing pad. “You might have something.”
“It’s not catching.”
Wax smiled, writing some notes on the side of the pad. “So the killer wanted to sow chaos.… He started a firefight by bouncing around the room, making it look like various parties were attacking one another. They would already have been tense, suspicious of one another.…”
“Yup. I’m a genius.”
“You just recognized this because the killer was making others do his work for him, which is an expertise of yours.”
“As I said. Genius. So how are you going to find him?”
“Well, I was thinking of sending you to the Village to—”
“Not today,” Wayne said.
Wax turned to him, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s the first of the month,” Wayne said.
“Ah. I had forgotten. You don’t need to go every month.”
“I do.”
Wax studied him, as if waiting for a further comment or wisecrack. Wayne said nothing. This was actually serious. Slowly, Wax nodded. “I see. Then why haven’t you left yet?”
“Well, you know,” Wayne said. “It’s like I often say…”
“Greet every morning with a smile. That way it won’t know what you’re planning to do to it?”
“No, not that one.”
“Until you know it ain’t true, treat every woman like she has an older brother what is stronger than you are?”
“No, not … Wait, I said that?”
“Yes,” Wax said, turning back to his notes. “It was a very chivalrous moment for you.”
“Rusts. I should really write these things down.”
“I believe that is another thing you often say.” Wax made a notation. “Unfortunately, you’d first have to learn how to write.”
“Now, that’s unfair,” Wayne said, walking over to Wax’s desk and poking around in its drawers. “I can write—I know four whole letters, and one’s not even in my name!”
Wax smiled. “Are you going to tell me what you always say?”
Wayne found a bottle in the bottom drawer and lifted it up, dropping in the lace he’d taken from outside as a replacement. “If you’re going to have to do something awful, stop by Wax’s room and trade for some of his rum first.”
“I don’t believe you’ve ever said that.”
“I just did.” Wayne took a gulp of the rum.
“I…” Wax frowned. “I have no response to that.” He sighed, setting down his pencil. “However, since you’re going to be indisposed, then I suppose I will have to go visit the Village.”
“Sorry. I know you hate that place.”
“I will survive,” Wax said, grimacing.
“Wanna piece of advice?”
“From you? Probably not. But please feel free.”
“You should stop by Wax’s room before you go,” Wayne said, trailing out toward the door, “and pinch some of his rum.”
“The rum you just pocketed?”
Wayne hesitated, then took the rum out of his pocket. “Ah, mate. Sorry. Tough for you.” He shook his head. Poor fellow. He pulled the door closed behind him, took a pull on the rum, and continued on his way down the stairs and out of the mansion.
*
Marasi tugged at the collar of her jacket, glad for the seaborne wind that blew across her. It could get warm in her uniform—a proper one today, with a buttoned white blouse and brown skirt to match the brown coat.
Next to her, the newsman wasn’t so thankful for the wind. He cursed, throwing a heavy chunk of iron—it looked like a piece of an old axle—onto his stack of broadsheets. On the street, the traffic slowed in a moment of congestion. Motorcar drivers and coachmen yelled at one another.