“No, not at all. I knocked on his door to check, and he opened it, looking a bit tired and holding on to that tuning fork, but otherwise healthy. I did not wish to alarm him, so I told him I was just keeping an eye on the whole building. He bade me good night and went back inside, his lock and deadbolt clicking soundly after the door was shut. I took up a position in the hallway. I knew he was still there for several hours, because I could hear the chime of the tuning fork every minute or so on the other side of the door.
“My hearing is very good, sir, and I was watching and listening for anything strange at all in the building. It must have been close to midnight when there finally came some sort of clinking sound from the stairwell. It was terribly familiar, but I couldn’t place when I had heard it before. The hallway was dark, and I kept to the shadows as I crept over to investigate. The floorboards must have given me away as I got nearer, because when they creaked under my footstep, the noise stopped. I raced in and had a look, but there was nothing in the stairwell.
“I did not dare leave the third floor with Henderson unguarded, so I slipped back down the hallway toward my post. I could see his door clearly as I came nearer—the hallway lights are kept lit at night, and the moonlight through the window was even brighter. As I drew close, I could swear I heard a noise in his room, just a bump in the night. So, quiet as a mouse, I listened at the door. I must have listened for five or six minutes, not moving, barely breathing, but not another sound came from Henderson’s room. That was when I knew something was terribly wrong.”
“You knew something was wrong because you . . . didn’t hear anything?” Jackaby asked.
“Sorry to say, it took a few minutes to realize it, but yes, sir. Specifically, what I did not hear was the ping of your tuning fork. Henderson’s room was, as they say, as silent as the grave. I knocked first, and announced myself, just as we’re taught to do. I got no answer and the door was still locked tight, so I had to”—Charlie, ahead by a few paces, shot a glance over his shoulder at Jackaby—“to kick it in. It was a horrible sight, Detective, and the smell! He was there, still wearing those red pajamas, only the red was spreading across the floor. More than the last one, much more. The window was wide-open, and the room was so cold, you could see the heat rising off the body in thick, steamy clouds.
“I scanned the room and hurried to the window, but there was no one in sight. I heard him, though. The sound rang like horseshoes on pavement, but the rhythm was a man’s steps. He was moving fast, so fast he was blocks away before I could even pick out a direction from the echoes. I was too slow. Too slow and too late.
“I looked around for any clues, but there was nothing at all out of the ordinary—except, of course, the body bleeding on the floor. I ran for the station on Mason Street and sent a runner to alert the chief inspector. I brought a few of the night shift back with me, and then waited for Inspector Marlowe to arrive.”
We reached the third floor just as his story came to an end. A guard had been posted at either end of the hallway. As we approached the first, he narrowed his eyes, but he gave Charlie a nod of recognition and let us pass. That same strong, coppery smell spilled through the hallway, and I noticed Jackaby was feeling at the air with his hands, just as he had when we approached the first victim.
“Speaking of Marlowe,” Jackaby said, his hand still gently coasting beside him, “where is the old boy? I should think he would be keeping a tight grip on the scene this time.”
“He is.” The voice came from the doorway ahead as the chief inspector stepped into the hallway to meet us. In spite of his midnight awakening, Marlowe looked as clean-shaven and pressed as he had the day before. The handcuffs still swung from his belt as he moved, and the silver bars on his uniform caught the morning light streaming through the hallway.
“Ah, Marlowe, good morning!” said Jackaby, a little too cheerfully. “You’re looking well.”
“And you look like you’ve been dragged through hell, as usual. Enough pleasantries. I’ve had a short night and a long morning, and I’m overdue an explanation.”
“Ah, yes. Don’t be too hard on the junior detective—it isn’t his fault. We were just in the area and thought it would be rude if we didn’t stop by to—”
“Detective Cane is not working behind my back . . . not this time.” Marlowe shot a finely sharpened glance at Charlie, who shrank into the collar of his uniform. “He brought you here on my orders. He didn’t tell you? I mean that I am overdue an explanation about this.” The inspector stepped back and gestured toward the open door of room 313.
The door was splintered and raked with gashes, and the frame had come apart around the lock. The smell was strongest here, metallic and sickly sweet, like pennies and spoiled fruit. Inside, beside his worn sofa, lay the body of Mr. Henderson.
My breath caught in my throat. This body was worse than the last one, and the blood was everywhere. A splash of deep burgundy had painted a sloppy scar across the wallpaper, and it had dripped dark lines back down to the floor. The late William Henderson’s bright red pajamas were dyed an even deeper crimson, and the wound on his chest was a match to Arthur Bragg’s, down the hall. The blood had poured across the room, rivulets tracing the corners of the floorboards and mapping the topography of the room with dark pools. My vision swam and my stomach lurched, but try as I might, I could not pull my eyes from the horrible scene. Marlowe stepped forward, cutting off my line of sight, and I blinked and breathed again, the trance broken.
“May I?” my employer asked, and Marlowe nodded his permission to enter. Jackaby stepped carefully into the chamber, taking wide, uneven strides to avoid the spill. I remained by the doorway behind Marlowe while Jackaby examined the body. He followed a trail of drips to the window and glanced out.
The chief inspector watched closely, but he did not interrupt or question the detective as the man danced around the crime scene, peering through the vials and lenses he produced from his pockets, and even leaning in to sniff the windowsill. Jackaby moved with all the gangling grace of a newborn foal, but he kept clear of the puddles of liquid evidence. At length, he hopscotched his way back to the door, where he knelt and ran a finger gently across the splintered gashes in the wood. With one fluid, almost imperceptible motion, he plucked some small sample from the splinters and, like a street magician with a tricky coin, made it vanish in his hands before he rose.
“You said you saw no one in the hall, and the door was still secured from the inside when you forced your entry?” he asked, turning around.
“That’s right,” Charlie confirmed. “I found the window open, inside.”
“And the scene has not changed since your first impression?”
Charlie looked inside and swallowed hard, nodding. “It’s spread. But otherwise, yes, it’s just the same.”
“Not forgetting something?” Inspector Marlowe prompted his detective, not taking his eyes off Jackaby.