Down These Strange Streets

That stuff is worse than murder. You can get away with murder if you make a good case for the son of a bitch needing killing.

Scithe’s man came back. His lantern flung out a blinding blue-white light. Scithe got busy. He used chopsticks to poke, prod, probe, and dig into pockets. Nothing useful surfaced. He moved on to the stench pile. “Check this out.”

He held up what looked like a two-inch lead slug three-eighths of an inch in diameter, pointed at one end. It had four lengthwise channels beginning just behind the ogive. The channels contained traces of brown.

“A missile?”

“Maybe. Definitely poisonous. But delivered how?” By whom, and why, were out there floating, too.

Dean’s delivery has arrived.

I stepped outside.

Jerry the beer guy had pulled up in front of the doctor’s rig. He was making conversation with the delectable Mrs. Harmer. He noticed me, said something to a couple red tops hating him for knowing the beautiful lady well enough to gossip with, and got them to volunteer to show off by helping carry kegs.

They brought in three ponies of froufrou girlie beers. Jerry indicated the crowd outside and the mess in the hallway. “You’re back.”

“What does that mean? Never mind. Just drop those by the kitchen door.” I didn’t want anyone to see John Stretch.

“They keep better if they stay cool.”

“Put them in with the Dead Man, then.”

Jerry and his helpers tiptoed around the mess and entered the demesne of the Dead Man.

I said, “Anywhere out of the way.” I glanced at the cherrywood box, on a shelf with mementos from old cases. “What’re they for, anyway?”

“Dean wanted to test some varietals for your reception.”

“Well. That sneaky old fart.”

A tin whistle pointed. “Is that him?” He’d gone as pale as paper.

My partner is a quarter ton of defunct nonhuman permanently established in a custom-built oak chair. First thing you notice, after his sheer bulk, is his resemblance to a baby mammoth with a midget trunk only a quarter the length you might expect.

Most visitors don’t look close. They’re petrified by the fact that he can read minds.

One red top fingered the whistle on the cord around his neck. The talisman didn’t help. “Too cold in here, brothers.” He beat a retreat. His pal trampled on his heels.

Jerry didn’t get left behind.

The Dead Man is a Loghyr. They are exceedingly rare and exceedingly deliberate about giving up the ghost. This one has been procrastinating since he was murdered more than four hundred years ago.

* * *

DR. HARMER TRIED SMELLING SALTS. THE CHARACTER IN THE HALLWAY didn’t respond. Scithe finally had a flatbed haul him off to Guard headquarters after Harmer slapped a patch on his forehead leak. The bolt stayed where it was.

Scithe left us a promise to share information, worth the paper he never wrote it on. Jerry left a real receipt. I found it a home on Singe’s desk, snuggled up with Dr. Harmer’s bill.

The doctor went away, too, leaving Dean in a drugged sleep.

I let John Stretch know it was safe to come out.

Ratwomen cleaning specialists turned up fast. They had been waiting on the tin whistles. They had nothing flattering to say about the mess. They wrapped their faces with damp cloth and misted the fetid air with something that smelled like the spice in hot peppers. They used garden tools to scoop goop into pails they covered securely before sending them to be chunked in the river. They avoided contact with the goop.

John Stretch and I visited the Dead Man.

“Too cold in here,” the ratman complained.

“Singe’s fault. She claims the colder we keep him the longer he’ll last. And he don’t feel it.”

“I am sure she knows what she is talking about.”

“She knows everything about everything. So, what’s in the precious box?”

Air.

“Excuse me? Nothing? A guy died. Two more got hurt.”

It is a red herring. The real box is somewhere else.

“You came up with that, how?”

With great effort and stubborn determination, reasoned out from what little I retrieved from the creature Lieutenant Scithe took away.

The Dead Man likes his strokes. “That was some good work, then.”

The ladies are returning. It would appear that they enjoyed a limited success.

I let them in. Penny scooted past me and the cleaning women. Singe joined me in the chill.

“I hear you got lucky.” I flipped a thumb at the Dead Man.

“The gods smiled. Just barely. There was no trail for the girl. That means sorcery. We followed the wounded creature. Those things were not with her. We were tracking them when we saw her come out of the Benbow.” The Benbow is a staid old inn in the shadow of the Hill, used by out-of-towners who have business with the sorcerers infesting that neighborhood. “I sent Penny in. She oozed some girl charm and found out that she had just missed her pal Kelly, who calls herself Eliza now. Eliza shares a third-floor suite with her aunt, Miss Grünstrasse. They arrived in TunFaire yesterday.”

Penny joined us. “I had to check on Dean.”

“Doctor says he’ll be fine. Anything to add?”

“The manager is a little guy who looks like a squirrel. I put on some cute. He let me talk to people. Eliza came from Liefmold. There’s something not right about her. She doesn’t talk. Her aunt has a fierce accent. That’s when the squirrel got that I wasn’t really their friend. He sent somebody upstairs, probably with a warning, so I cleared out.”

The Dead Man touched me lightly to let me know I had no need to know about how she had charmed the Benbow staff. He didn’t want me going all dad.

“I pretended I didn’t know Singe or Dollar Dan when I left so they could see if anybody followed me.”

“Good thinking.”

Singe said, “A kitchen boy tried. Dollar Dan scared him so bad he wet himself.”

“He’s not useless after all.”

Singe glowered. She wasn’t ready to concede that. And Penny . . .

Aha! The kitchen boy’s interest hadn’t been his employer’s idea.

Come here. All of you.

The Dead Man can tease out memories you don’t know you have. He’ll put his several minds to work sniffing along several distinct trails and tie everything together in startling ways.

There is nothing beyond the obvious. Our victim, Recide Skedrin, interested at least two parties enough to involve them in murder. It is likely that he was a red herring himself.

How did he know all that, suddenly?

Penny, please stand in for Dean while he recovers. Garrett and Singe will assist where necessary.

Someone had forgotten who was senior executive.

Go open the door, Garrett.

* * *

THE MAN ON THE STOOP WAS SHORT, FLABBY, AND NERVOUS. HE HAD LARGE, wet, brown doggie eyes. He felt like a guy who had lived a life of sorrow. His clothing was threadbare and dated, twenty-years-ago chic. My appearance startled him.

He had been trying to decide whether to knock. He squeaked, “Who are you?” He had a lazy, girly voice and an accent so heavy you needed a machete to cut through it.

To Singe’s office, please.