“Oh. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. There has been one item removed as evidence.” Charlie grimaced and pointed to Henderson’s hand, which was clenched, but empty.
Marlowe nodded and reached into his own pocket, producing a small cloth packet. “Mr. Jackaby,” he said, shifting the bundle from one hand to the other as he spoke, “you’ve had a look around. Anything to share?”
Jackaby glanced from Charlie to Marlowe before answering. “We are obviously faced with the same villain. Rushed, this time, but otherwise consistent in every detail.”
“And what details would those be?” Marlowe pressed. His voice was flat, and his eyes locked on Jackaby like a raptor on a field mouse. “Be specific.”
“The chest wound, most obviously, and the removal of blood. Avarice is clearly not a motive in either killing—there is a rather expensive pocket watch on the end table, just there, by the window, but the culprit passed it by, just as he left Mr. Bragg’s wallet. He also left Mr. Henderson clutching my tuning fork, which I assume is the object you have tucked in your handkerchief now, an item of considerable value to me, and one I would like back when this business is all over.”
Marlowe raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and made no motion to relinquish the parcel. “Would you, now? Anything else to say?”
“I would also mention the residual supernatural aura, which is exceptionally strong and clear inside the room, but we both know you’ll dismiss it as hokum, so I refrain from wasting any time describing it.”
“Your restraint is appreciated,” said Marlowe drily. “But what was that you said about the blood? You were right that the last victim was surprisingly clean—but you can hardly say the same about Henderson.”
“You must have noticed the smearing on the body?” Jackaby asked. “And the trail?” Marlowe’s face was impassive and unreadable, and after a pause Jackaby resumed. “Just there, along the torso, and continuing a short way up the side of the sofa. The rest of the blood appears to have dropped, splattered, or run in a natural fashion, but there you can see it’s been smeared. Someone was soaking up a bit of it, perhaps with a simple rag. There are then droplets of blood on the arm of the sofa marking a trail, obscured briefly by that pool, but resuming on a straight course for the window. One can only deduce that the culprit daubed some item in the wound, then ran for his exit. I imagine the trail continues on the pavement below. If followed, it might just lead to—”
“It doesn’t,” Marlowe interrupted. “I followed it myself with two of my best detectives.”
Jackaby glanced at Charlie again for a moment, and addressed his next question to him. “And all three of you lost the scent?”
“Detective Cane was not present during the pursuit,” Marlowe cut in. “But yes, the blood droplets petered out by Winston Street. I was able to track his footprints a few blocks farther, to Market, but there the trail became impossibly lost.” The inspector continued to stare at Jackaby, his gaze locked as tight as a pair of manacles.
Jackaby, whether by mere affectation or true obliviousness, paid no mind to the inspector’s focused attention. “Interesting. And why wasn’t he present during the pursuit?”
Marlowe blinked. “What?”
“Detective Cane. He discovered the body, after all. Is there any reason he was not involved in the search?”
Marlowe flashed a stern glance at Charlie, who slunk back slightly like a scolded puppy. “Junior Detective Cane was otherwise occupied.”
“Ah, I believe I understand.” Jackaby nodded. “Just how long did you keep your detective incarcerated?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Yes, but it is what you meant. You did not trust your detective, just as you do not trust me. I’m sure you questioned him first, which was wise. Probably did so before you bothered to follow the legitimate lead, though, which was not. Is it any wonder the trail went cold? Having been cooped up in a cell certainly accounts for his increased agitation as well. Was he released exclusively to fetch me, I wonder?” Jackaby seemed almost amused at the thought.
Inspector Marlowe’s brow furrowed, and his eyes developed the menacing sort of shadows usually reserved for dark alleys in bad neighborhoods. Jackaby continued.
“You did have him followed as he called on me, of course. Yes, I thought I recognized Lieutenant Dupin keeping an inconspicuous distance as we passed Fourth Street. It becomes evident that you did not summon me for a professional consultation, Inspector. I thought, perhaps, you might have realized you were out of your depth and actually sought my input, but we both know that is not the case. So, you’ve had time to observe me at the crime scene, and your men have had plenty of time to ransack my establishment. Would you like to actually ask me any questions before tossing me in lockup?”
“I think that can wait until we’ve reached the station,” Marlowe said with a grunt.
The watchmen from either end of the hallway suddenly appeared at the door. Jackaby stepped out as calmly as one might exit a coach, presenting his wrists to be handcuffed.
“What?” My mind reeled at the sudden, extreme turn the day was taking. This was madness! “Mr. Jackaby—can they do this? You haven’t done anything! Inspector, please. He hasn’t done anything!”
Marlowe delicately folded back the corner of the handkerchief in his hands, revealing the metallic sheen of the fork, and a crimson stain, which could only be blood. He made a show of thinking about the object for a few moments while Jackaby was shackled. “Don’t worry, Miss Rook.” He turned to me, flipping the cloth back over the tuning fork. “He won’t be leaving alone. I did warn you not to let him drag you into his craziness, didn’t I?”
Marlowe’s heavy, iron handcuffs were icy cold as he clicked them onto my wrists. As we drew into the lobby, we passed a small crowd of tenants being herded into the office by uniformed officers. A woman in a canary yellow dress made a point of alerting as many of her neighbors as she could nudge that we were passing through. They shuffled and watched our approach, in no hurry to be interviewed, but eager to eavesdrop. A reporter had set up a camera by the doorway, and he flashed a photograph as we arrived. Marlowe barked at him to put it away, and an officer crossed to block his view, but I tucked my head as deeply into my coat’s collar as I could, flushing with embarrassment. Jackaby, for his part, seemed unflappably comfortable, striding with as much confidence as if he were leading the policemen and not the other way around. The reporter didn’t try for any more photographs, but the nosy gossip in yellow had found her way over to him. She was stealing glances at us, and I saw her mouth form the words “that girl” with haughty disdain, before another figure burst from the milling crowd.