“Where are we going?” I asked.
“About to find out.” He ducked his head into the manager’s office. His voice and another responding one came to me in mumbles, and then he popped back out and gestured at the stairs. “Room 301. Shall we?”
Our steps echoed up the stairwell as we started up the first flight.
“So, that policeman just told you where to go?” I asked.
“Yes, very helpful gentleman,” said Jackaby.
“Then, you really are working with the police.”
“No, no, not on this case . . . not as of yet. I simply asked and he told me.” Jackaby swung around the banister as he rounded the curve up to the next flight of stairs.
I thought for a moment. “Is it some kind of magic?” I felt stupid asking.
“Of course not.” Jackaby scoffed at the idea. He paused to examine the banister, and then resumed his trek upward.
“No? Then you didn’t, I don’t know, cast some kind of spell on him or something?”
The man stopped and turned to me. “What on earth makes you think that?” he asked.
“Well, we seem to be sneaking into a crime scene, but you’re not worried about rousing police suspicion, and all your talk about . . . you know.”
“What has that policeman got to be suspicious about? There are half a dozen armed watchmen outside ensuring that only authorized personnel are allowed in. Not unlike your little feigned faint, I merely allowed his assumption to work for me. A far cry from magic spells, Miss Rook, honestly.”
“Well, it’s hard to know what to expect from you. I don’t exactly believe in all this . . . this . . . this occult business. I don’t believe in house spirits, or goblins, or Santa Claus!”
“Well of course not, that’s silliness. Not the spirits or goblins, of course, they’re quite real, but the Santa nonsense.”
“That’s just it! How can you call anything nonsense when you believe in fairy tales?”
“Miss Rook, I am not an occultist.” Jackaby turned on the landing and faced me. “I am a man of reason and science. I believe what I can see or prove, and what I can see is often difficult for others to grasp. I have a gift that is, as far as I have found, unique to me. It allows me to see truth where others see the illusion—and there are many illusions, so many masks and facades. All the world’s a stage, as they say, and I seem to have the only seat in the house with a view behind the curtain.
“I do not believe, for example, that pixies enjoy honey and milk because some old superstition says they do . . . I believe it because when I leave a dish out for them a few times a week, they stop by and drink. They’re fascinating creatures, by the way. Lovely wings: cobweb thin and iridescent in moonlight.”
He spoke with such earnest conviction, it was difficult to dismiss even his oddest claims. “If you have a . . . ,” I spoke carefully, “a special sight, then what is it that you see here? What are we after?”
Dark shadows clouded Jackaby’s brow. “I’m never sure what others see for themselves. Tell me what you observe, first, and I’ll amend. Use all your senses.”
I looked around the stairwell. “We’re on the second-floor landing. The stairs are wooden and aging, but they look sturdy. There are oil lamps hanging along the walls, but they’re not lit—the light is coming from those greasy windows running up the outer wall. Let’s see . . . There are particles of dust dancing in the sunbeams, and the air is crisp and nipping at my ears. It tastes of old wood and something else.” I sniffed and tried to describe a scent I hadn’t noticed before. “It’s sort of . . . metallic.”
Jackaby nodded. “Interesting,” he said. “I like the way you said all that. The dust-dancing business, very poetic.”
“Well?” I prompted. “What do you see?”
He frowned and slowly continued to the third floor. As we entered the hallway, he reached his hand down and felt the air, as if reaching over a rowboat to trace ripples in the wake. His expression was somber and his brow furrowed. “It gets thicker as we near. It’s dark and bleeding outward, like a drop of ink in water, spreading out and fading in curls and wisps.”
“What is it?” My question came as a whisper, my eyes straining to see the invisible.
Jackaby’s voice was softer still: “Death.”
Chapter Five
The hallway was long and narrow, concluding with a wide window at the far end. It was lit by oil lamps, which cast a sepia glow over the scene. A single uniformed policeman waited outside the apartment immediately ahead. He stood leaning against the frame of the open door, peering back into the room he guarded. A plaque above him declared it apartment 301. The smell, like copper and rot, grew more powerful as we advanced. Jackaby walked ahead of me, and I noticed his step falter slightly. He paused, cocking his head to one side as he looked at the policeman.
At the sound of the stairway door closing, the officer snapped to attention, then relaxed his stance a bit as he made eye contact. He watched our approach, but made no move to engage us. He was clean-cut, his uniform crisp and neatly ironed. His collar was starched, and his badge and buttons shone. His shoes, which looked more like the sharp-toed wingtips of a dress uniform than the sturdy boots of an average beat cop, were buffed so brightly they might have looked more at home on a brass statue than a living body.
“Good day, Officer,” said Jackaby. “Marlowe is waiting for us inside. Don’t want to keep him.”
“No, he isn’t,” said the man, simply. His face was expressionless, studying Jackaby. By the light of the lamps I made him out to be just a year or two older than I. Curls of jet-black hair peeked out from beneath the brim of his uniform cap. He turned to acknowledge me with a polite nod, and his rich brown eyes paused on mine. He smiled shyly, turning his attention quickly back to the detective. My face felt suddenly warm, and I was grateful that he had looked away again.
“Ah, yes,” responded Jackaby, not losing pace, “but he’ll be wanting to see us in there, nonetheless. Bit of a surprise. He’ll be thrilled.”
“I doubt that very much,” said the policeman. His accent was difficult to place—Americanized but faintly eastern European. “I know you,” he said.
Jackaby’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
“Yes, you’re the detective. You solve the”—he sought for a word—“special crimes. Inspector Marlowe doesn’t like you.”
“We have a complicated relationship, the inspector and I. What’s your name, then, lad?”
“Charlie Cane, sir. You can call me Charlie. The chief inspector is down the hall right now, talking to witnesses.” He stepped aside, opening the doorway for Jackaby. “I know all about you. You help people. Helped a friend of mine, a baker down on Market Street. No one else would help him. No one else would believe him. He had no money, but you helped anyway.”
“Anton? Good baker. Still saves me a baguette every Saturday.”