She gave me a pitying smile. “Sorry, dear. You might try the post office—they get pretty busy over there—but I’ve got all the help I need.”
I looked briefly to the shelves behind her, sagging slightly under the weight of the merchandise, and wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “You’re quite sure you couldn’t use just a little help?”
She sent me on my way with a wrapped piece of fudge for being such a good girl, which did nothing for my self-confidence as a mature adult. I picked up my suitcase and, following Mr. Stapleton’s advice, did my best to keep my pretty chin up as I plodded farther into town.
I met more polite but unavailing storekeepers and office managers as I explored the frosted streets of New Fiddleham. It was a remarkable city, though difficult to wrap my head around geographically. It felt as though no two roads ran parallel for more than a few blocks. Each avenue seemed to have been built to accommodate necessity, rather than according to any city-wide orchestration. Gradually I began to recognize the town’s loosely defined quarters: a cluster of showy commercial buildings here; a block of practical, nondescript office buildings there; and the industrial district, where the buildings grew into wide factories and sprouted smokestacks. Residential neighborhoods overflowed in the gaps between.
Every street was bursting with character, with broad structures elbowing one another on either side for dominance of the neighborhood. The roads were dotted with street vendors peddling their wares in spite of the snow, kids racing up the sloping hills to slide back down on soapbox sleds, and the press of people marching every which way, their footsteps and carriage wheels beating out the constant pulse of city life.
I had been at my task for hours when I finally found myself in the New Fiddleham post office. In spite of the shopkeeper’s suggestion, I found no better luck there. As I turned to go, however, something caught my eye. On a public posting board, peppered with lost pets and rooms to let, hung a simple sheet of creased paper with the words —SSISTANT WANTE—just visible between a sketch of a runaway collie and notice of a room to let on Walnut Street.
I carefully freed the advertisement, which read as follows:
INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES
ASSISTANT WANTED
$8 PER WEEK
MUST BE LITERATE AND POSSESS A
KEEN INTELLECT AND OPEN MIND
STRONG STOMACH PREFERRED
INQUIRE AT 926 AUGUR LANE
DO NOT STARE AT THE FROG.
Peculiar though the notice was, I felt I met the requirements soundly—and eight dollars per week would keep me fed and out of the snow. I got directions from the postman and walked the short mile or so to the address.
The little building was nestled among much taller, wider structures in the business district. On either side, men in stiff suits hurried along the frosty walk. As they passed number 926, they seemed to walk all the more quickly and find things in the opposite direction in which to take a sudden interest, like schoolboys carefully avoiding an embarrassing younger sibling at recess.
From a curled, wrought-iron pole above the door hung a sign that announced: 926—INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES in large letters and PRIVATE DETECTION & CONSULTATIONS: UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA OUR SPECIALTY in smaller ones.
Three stories tall with, perhaps, room for a small attic, the building was busy with gables and ornate trim. With no apparent consideration for either form or function, the architect seemed to have included columns, arches, and carved festoons wherever space was available in whatever style was handy. Balustrades and cornice windows peeked out from a variety of angles, some of which seemed uncertain to which floor they belonged. Despite all of the mismatched chaos of its design, the building coalesced into something that seemed, somehow, right. No two elements of the property belonged together, but taken as a whole, not a thing stood out of place.
The door was brilliant red and humbly adorned with a knocker the size and shape of a horseshoe. I stepped up and rapped three times, then waited. I strained my ears for the telltale sounds of footsteps approaching or a chair shifting in the interior. After several long moments, I tried the handle, and the door swung open.
“Hello?” I called, gingerly stepping in. The entryway opened into what might have been intended as a waiting room of sorts. A wooden bench faced a desk, which was occupied only by stacks of books and loose papers. I set my suitcase to the side and stepped in farther. On the right side of the room, a long bookshelf housed several leather-bound volumes and strange, assorted artifacts including an animal skull, a small stone statue of a fat, nude figure, and a nestlike bundle of sticks and string. At the end of the shelf sat a glass box with dirt, leaves, and a little pool of water inside it.
I leaned down and peered into the glass, looking for an inhabitant. It took several seconds before I recognized the shape of a lumpy, gray-green frog that had been staring back at me all along. It glowered, and its tiny nostrils flared. With a sudden burp it puffed up its throat at me, bulging out a massive double chin. As the chin tightened, a visible stream of gas puffed out from the creature’s eyes. I stared. I was not mistaken. A gas, not far different in color from the amphibian’s damp skin, vented in quick streams from each eye. Soon the entire terrarium was a cube of drab smoke, and the continued venting could only be inferred by a faint whistle issuing from behind the clouded glass. The stench followed.
A door shut behind me and I whirled around. From an interior room, slipping an arm into his bulky coat as he walked, strode none other than Mr. R. F. Jackaby. He paused and eyed me in confusion as he buttoned up the coat. I, for my part, added nothing to the conversation save the eloquent, “Uh . . .”
His expression suddenly contorted and he broke the silence. “Oh good God! You stared at the frog, didn’t you? Well, don’t just stand there. Get the window up on your side. It’ll be hours before it clears.” He rapidly unclasped and drew up a window on the far side of the room. I glanced behind me, spotting another, and repeated the motion. The acrid stink crept from the terrarium and assaulted my nostrils, gradually easing into full force like a boxer warming up before a fight.
“Are you . . . ?” I began, and then tried again. “I’m here about the posting posted in the, er, post office. You . . .”
“Out! Out!” Jackaby snatched his knit hat from a hook beside the door and gestured emphatically. “You can tag along if you like. Just get out!”
We managed to reach the sidewalk before my eyes began to water, and I welcomed the fresh, cold air. I glanced back at the red door and hesitated, wondering if I should dart back in for my luggage. Jackaby pressed on down the lane, tossing his long scarf over one shoulder. After a rapid consideration, I left the case behind to hurry after the enigmatic man.
Chapter Three