{"id":295,"date":"2014-01-19T08:52:37","date_gmt":"2014-01-19T15:52:37","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/wordpress\/?p=295"},"modified":"2014-01-19T09:04:52","modified_gmt":"2014-01-19T16:04:52","slug":"fortunes-mysteries-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/?p=295","title":{"rendered":"Fortunes & Mysteries (#1)"},"content":{"rendered":"

This is a short story. For more short stories,\u00a0click here<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

The problem with using tarot cards to play solitaire is that no matter how careful you are to shuffle out the Major Arcana, some malefic image like the Devil or the Hanged Man always turns up in a tableau where it doesn\u2019t belong.<\/p>\n

I had decided to ride out the storm in my office. The walk home would have drowned me, and there wasn\u2019t a hansom cab in all of New Orleans that\u2019d brave a trip to Storyville on New Year\u2019s Eve. But by nine o\u2019clock I\u2019d drained half a dozen highballs and played as many hands of cards, and it was still wetter than Genesis outside.<\/p>\n

The Queen of Pentacles and I had begun exchanging smiles when a blanched, waterlogged man with the posture of a crawfish tail and a suit the color of roux cannonballed his way into my office.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m looking for Mr. Toups,\u201d he wheezed, uncurling himself.<\/p>\n

I nodded to the floor, where the man\u2019s explosive entrance had left the nameplate that normally hung from my door. It read Arlen Toups: Fortunes Told and Mysteries Solved<\/i>.<\/p>\n

\u201cTerribly sorry, sir.\u201d He wrenched a handkerchief from his pocket, dusted off the plaque and returned it to me with a flourish. \u201cMy name is Theriot. I\u2019ve come to deliver an urgent message.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s usually the most lucrative kind,\u201d I said. \u201cSit down, Mr. Theriot. Make yourself comfortable while I fetch you a drink.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI insist. Happy New Year\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shrugged. \u201cDaresay I need one, anyway.\u201d Collapsing into a chair, he removed a sheath of papers from his coat before wringing out his hat.<\/p>\n

On the way to the liquor cabinet I stole a glance at Theriot\u2019s bald scalp. The empiricists are calling phrenologists charlatans these days, but I\u2019ve never been one to count out quackery when there\u2019s still profit in its misuse. So I knew from experience what the so-called quacks might have inferred from the topology of my visitor\u2019s head. They\u2019d have used terms like \u201csimian\u201d and \u201ccavernous,\u201d and would most certainly have noted a conspicuous double-bulge at the center of the man\u2019s skull that mapped to the spiritualist region of the human brain. Add all that up, multiply the sum by your own intuitions and prejudices, and you\u2019ve got a working theory like the one I\u2019d come up with: that Theriot was simple-minded, superstitious, and conveniently credulous. A dreamer.<\/p>\n

I poured him some gin with a splash of soda water and decided to test my hypothesis.<\/p>\n

\u201cTell me, Theriot: do you believe in the power of the tarot?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m afraid not, sir, begging your pardon. It\u2019s not that I have any religious objections. It\u2019s just that I\u2019ve entertained readings before, you see, and I find that the conclusions are always very vague. Generalities, nothing more. Seems to me that you mystics simply say what most people would want to hear.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that so?\u201d I asked, dealing a card face-up from the deck. I breathed in theatrically and closed my eyes. \u201cBut certainly you don\u2019t think that a celebrated detective like Jerry Drighton would have dispatched one of his own off-duty police officers to deliver so urgent a message to a mere peddler of generalities<\/i>?\u201d<\/p>\n

Theriot had to table his drink. He gazed fearfully at the card I\u2019d overturned \u2013 the Four of Swords \u2013 as though it was levitating, then at me. \u201cBut I haven\u2019t told you any of that! You mean to say that your card told you all that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d I lied.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, that\u2019s incredible!\u201d<\/p>\n

Only a fool credits the incredible, Theriot. <\/i>He couldn\u2019t have been a more obvious cop if he\u2019d been wearing his badge on his forehead. The lopsided bulge beneath his coat, his obligatory handlebar mustache, the paramilitary way he\u2019d straightened himself out upon entering my office \u2013 it all screamed law enforcement. And there was only one detective left in New Orleans humble enough to have solicited my assistance.<\/p>\n

\u201cHad the tarot failed, I\u2019d have opted for chiromancy,\u201d I assured him. \u201cDo you know how much you can learn from a person\u2019s hands, Theriot? The rings \u2013 or ring marks \u2013 on his fingers. The types and locations of his calluses. The varieties of sediment lodged beneath his fingernails. Cuts, scars. Christ, the real marvel is how many dolts pay decent coin just to be reminded of what they\u2019ve already made evident. But enough of that. What\u2019s this message you\u2019ve brought for me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight, yes,\u201d said Theriot, now wholly befuddled. From the papers spilling across his lap he selected two envelopes, then slid both across my desk. \u201cThis one here is from Detective Drighton. He asked that you read it first. Not sure what the other one is.\u201d<\/p>\n

Drighton\u2019s envelope was characteristically drab: mildewed, hastily sealed. It contained a scrap of paper torn from a police department ledger \u2013 evidently the closest writing material at hand \u2013 with a brief paragraph scrawled on the back.<\/p>\n

Arlen \u2013<\/i><\/p>\n

Received the enclosed invitation this afternoon. After considering contents, decided you ought to be involved. Sent messenger to Madame El, who is now aware of and amenable to your attendance. Come at once. \u00a0\u00a0– Drighton<\/i><\/p>\n

\u00a0Folding Drighton\u2019s note into my coat pocket, I turned my attention to the second envelope. It was an ornate invitational. Textured card stock laden with silver foil. A deep coffee stain beside the broken seal testified against Drighton\u2019s grace.<\/p>\n

Inside the envelope I found two documents: an invitation, printed on matching paper, and a handwritten letter. Scratching my beard, I unfolded this latter piece.<\/p>\n

\u00a0Dear Detective Drighton,<\/i>\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n

The letter you have in your hands is the fourth of its kind; its predecessors I burned before posting. I have spent nearly a week deliberating over whether to involve the police, and only now, on the morning of what may prove a catastrophic day, have I decided to do so. I can only hope you receive this message in time to act accordingly.<\/i><\/p>\n

<\/i>You will learn from the enclosed invitation that tonight I will host a modest (if unconventional) New Year\u2019s Eve celebration, during which several hours of cocktails and hobnobbing will culminate in a midnight s\u00e9ance. What the invitation will not tell you is this: that during the s\u00e9ance I plan to reveal a rather shocking truth about a certain guest, and that my revelation will incriminate this guest beyond any shadow of a doubt.<\/i><\/p>\n

<\/i>As I have no guarantee that this letter will reach you unread, I cannot write in any more detail about my guest\u2019s identity or his reprehensible crime. I will add, however, that several friends and colleagues of his victim will attend tonight\u2019s celebration, and that my original intentions were to allow these individuals to dispense justice as they saw fit. Whether they chose to proceed through institutionalized legal means, or in some less traditional manner, I deemed their own prerogative. Consequently I was inclined to exclude the police altogether.<\/i><\/p>\n

<\/i>But my hand has been forced. I now fear that if confronted, the criminal in question will react violently \u2013 perhaps murderously \u2013 to any accusations leveled against him. In such an event I must assume that I would be his principle target, and for this reason I now seek your protection.<\/i><\/p>\n

<\/i>I beg of you to attend tonight\u2019s celebration and, furthermore, to announce your title and rank upon entrance. Given your estimable record jailing our city\u2019s most recreant villains, I am confident that the guest in question will take no action in your presence. Nor, I think, would he attempt to abscond, for doing so would amount to an admission of guilt.<\/i><\/p>\n

In waiting,
\nM<\/i>adame El
\n<\/i>Spiritual Medium<\/i><\/p>\n

The invitation itself was unremarkable. It listed an uptown address riverside of St.<\/p>\n

Charles as the event\u2019s venue, black tie as its dress code, and ten o\u2019clock as its start time. I had just over half an hour if I was going to be on time. I wasn\u2019t. And I\u2019d have to forgo the formalwear.<\/p>\n

Theriot had finished his drink and now slouched casually in his chair. He snapped upright as soon as I looked up from Madame El\u2019s invitation.<\/p>\n

\u201cWalk with me,\u201d I told him. \u201cAnd keep up.\u201d<\/p>\n

I collected my umbrella and we stepped outside. The weather hadn\u2019t improved; rain pattered like Tommy gun fire against Storyville\u2019s crumbling wooden brothels. I set a brisk pace and clamped my free hand onto the revolver in my waistband. We passed a few dark corners lit only by the bloodshot eyes of their inhabitants, whores and boozers who\u2019d have clubbed Theriot dead just to lick the gin residue from his lips.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t until we\u2019d reached the relatively safe streets of the French Quarter that we managed to hail a pair of hansom cabs.<\/p>\n

\u201cMust be bad business if Drighton\u2019s got you running off in the rain like this,\u201d remarked Theriot, climbing into one of the carriages. \u201cOn New Year\u2019s Eve, no less.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can tell you this, Mr. Theriot: There\u2019s at least one person alive tonight who won\u2019t see a single day of 1910.\u201d<\/p>\n

——-<\/p>\n

Jerry Drighton, a taller, hairier variant of Theriot covered in a mess of muscle and scar tissue, stood awaiting my arrival on Madame El\u2019s doorstep with a toothpick stuck in his frown. Detective Dour, they called him. Just a few years ago he\u2019d been built like a prizefighter, but since then New Orleans\u2019 metastasizing demimonde had landed a few too many haymakers, and the man I presently beheld looked more like a back-alley pug.<\/p>\n

The past decade hadn\u2019t spared me, either. At some point it had sprayed gray across my beloved beard, and no matter how frequently I scratched it or how thoroughly I scrubbed it, I\u2019d never managed to restore its glorious Cimmerian blackness.<\/p>\n

\u201cEvening Arlen.\u201d He slapped me on the back, unfrowning. Guys like Jerry don\u2019t smile. They just unfrown. \u201cYou\u2019re twenty minutes late. And dressed rather oddly.\u201d<\/p>\n

He was referring to the overpolished silver rings adorning my fingers and the velvet cape draped over my shoulders. Gimmicks. The notions people have of mystics these days are preposterous. \u201cAs to that, Jerry, you might have sent a more punctual messenger. But that\u2019s hardly important. Do you hear what I hear?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t hear a thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cExactly. No chatter, no laughter, no music. Either Madame El is an enormously dull host or something is awry. We\u2019d better hurry in.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jerry refrowned, swiveled, and lunged for the door. Before he could turn the knob I reached up and seized his arm. It had been a while since I\u2019d worked with Drighton. I wanted to be sure we were on the same page.<\/p>\n

\u201cI trust you remember my methods,\u201d I said. \u201cBut in case you don\u2019t, I\u2019d like to remind you to introduce me to the other guests as a medium. Or a fortune teller. But not a detective. Never a detective.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever you say, Arlen. Let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n

We walked into a barrage of gasps. Four, five, six wide-eyed faces stared up at us from whatever it was they\u2019d been huddled over before we came in. I knew what it was, of course. There\u2019s only one thing grisly enough to draw half a dozen otherwise occupied individuals like leeches to an open wound.<\/p>\n

Jerry knew, too. \u201cI\u2019m Detective Drighton. New Orleans Police. What\u2019s going on here?\u201d<\/p>\n

They all exchanged baffled looks. Then one of them \u2013 tall, bespectacled, and the only one still holding a drink \u2013 voiced the question on everyone else\u2019s mind: \u201cHow could you have possibly known to come here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was invited,\u201d replied Jerry. \u201cJust like the rest of you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Another volley of blank expressions. \u201cWell, Detective,\u201d continued the tall man, \u201cyou have impeccable timing. Not five minutes ago our hostess dropped dead. Right here in front of the fireplace.\u201d<\/p>\n

The guests broke their huddle as we approached. Drighton knelt to inspect Madam El\u2019s corpse while I took stock of our situation. Six guests: three women, three men. One of the men \u2013 middle-aged, paunchy, and exceptionally well-dressed \u2013 looked familiar. The others were strangers. Cocktail glasses were littered everywhere: one on the mantle, three on the coffee table, two overturned on the floor, and one in Tall Man\u2019s hand. Two of the women were crying. The third stared vacantly at Madame El, her palms glued to her cheeks, presumably in shock. I shifted my attention to the cadaver that had been our hostess. No blood. No bruises. Poison?<\/p>\n

\u201cYou,\u201d I said, pointing to Tall Man. \u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cName\u2019s Tom Gaumond. Lawyer. And who might you be?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis,\u201d interjected Drighton from his perch on the floor, \u201cis Mr. Arlen Toups, a peer of Madam El\u2019s in the psychic arts, and a close friend of mine. Please answer any questions he asks you as if they were my own.\u201d<\/p>\n

I bowed. \u201cThank you, Jerry. Now, Thomas, can you tell us what happened here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s not much to tell, I\u2019m afraid. We\u2019d all been drinking and talking \u2013 just idle conversation, you know \u2013 when Madam El ducked into the kitchen. She\u2019d been doing that quite a bit tonight. I believe there were some hors d\u2019ouvres<\/i> in the oven she\u2019d been checking on. Anyway, when she came back out this time she had her hand on her brow and mentioned that she wasn\u2019t feeling good. She was breathing very quickly \u2013 desperately, like. And shaking a little. Then, just as she was passing the fireplace there, she stumbled and braced herself against the mantle. You can see where she had to set down her drink. She took another step or two, and just collapsed. Harold here tried to help her up.\u201d He gestured to the porcine, sartorially adroit individual who I now recognized as Harold Baur, one of Louisiana\u2019s feted cotton moguls. \u201cBut when she didn\u2019t respond, he felt for a heartbeat. He announced to the rest of us that she was dead. We were about to call for help when you and the detective arrived \u2013 rather unannounced, I might add \u2013 and scared the wits out of us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe is<\/i> quite dead,\u201d confirmed Drighton. \u201cNo signs of physical injury.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cVery well. So you\u2019re Tom, a lawyer. And Mr. Baur\u2019s reputation precedes him. How about the rest of you?\u201d<\/p>\n

The third man introduced himself as Patrick Murtagh, a scientist. What kind of science, I asked? Chemistry, he replied, gulping. Then he introduced his wife, one of the two sobbers, who was young, fair-skinned and attractive just like her husband. Her name was Isabelle. Patrick spoke like a chemist, regulating the flow of his words like he was squeezing them from an eyedropper. Isabelle spoke no words at all.<\/p>\n

Then the woman whose gaze had been transfixed upon the heap of dead flesh lying at her feet finally managed to pry her palms from her cheeks and eke out a few words. Her name was Michelle Lambert. Between a body like an hourglass and her sericeous French accent, she trumped the other two women in the appeal department. Which fit, because she was an actress at the Saenger Theater. Single, to an extent. Engaged.<\/p>\n

The last of the guests was yet another dazzler. No surprise there, either, considering her last name was Baur. She didn\u2019t work, of course, unless there\u2019s such a thing as being a professional trophy. Her first name was Betsy, and she looked the part \u2013 blonde, red dress, deep voice. She introduced herself between sobs and cigarette drags, then buried her face into her husband\u2019s shoulder.<\/p>\n

I addressed Tom again. \u201cHow do you all know each other? Or do you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFunny you should ask. We were discussing just that with Madame El before she\u2026 Well, fact is, we all used the same physician. Man named Dr. Pallis. Perhaps you\u2019ve heard of him?\u201d<\/p>\n

I was about to shake my head when Drighton piped up. \u201cYou can\u2019t mean Dr. Hugh Pallis, surely?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the man.\u201d<\/p>\n

Drighton rose, shaking his head. \u201cDr. Hugh Pallis was killed a few weeks back. His assistant found him with a syringe full of poison stuck in his leg. It\u2019s on the books as a freak accident, but we all had our suspicions.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo did Madame El,\u201d added Michelle. \u201cThat\u2019s why she planned tonight\u2019s s\u00e9ance.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a damn shame we\u2019ll have to go without it,\u201d said Tom. \u201cAs a law man myself, I\u2019d have enjoyed learning what really happened to Dr. Pallis. Not that I believe in any of that hocus pocus stuff, of course. But you\u2019ve got to wonder whether Madame El knew something we didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

I grinned wider than a Cheshire cat. \u201cNot to worry, Tom. You came here for a s\u00e9ance, and a s\u00e9ance you\u2019ll yet have. But with two key differences: First, that it will be the spirit of Madame El herself, rather than that of Dr. Pallis, whose testimony you\u2019ll hear. And second, that in Madame El\u2019s earthly absence it will be I, Arlen Toups, who will serve as tonight\u2019s medium.\u201d<\/p>\n

——-<\/p>\n

Harold Baur, at least, had no intention of lounging around a murder scene while some crackpot psychic readied the dining room for a s\u00e9ance, and he didn\u2019t mind saying so. But when Detective Drighton politely suggested that anyone who left the premises might as well proceed directly to jail, Baur \u2013 and the other guests \u2013 truckled.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust what the hell are you up to, Arlen?\u201d demanded Drighton once we\u2019d sequestered ourselves in the dining room. \u201cYou can\u2019t possibly expect these people to sit around a corpse until you\u2019re ready to perform some phony midnight voodoo ritual.\u201d<\/p>\n

I balked. \u201cDon\u2019t be absurd. Midnight is an hour away, and I won\u2019t have the local gossips claiming that it took Arlen Toups until 1910 to solve a case he\u2019d accepted the year prior. I should require no more than twenty minutes, depending on how quickly you complete your assignment.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? What assignment?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI need you to take an inventory of everyone\u2019s possessions. Make a list of everything \u2013 and I do mean everything \u2013 on their persons. Money, documents, medicines, timepieces, jewelry, photographs. And see if you can\u2019t learn a little more about each of them in the process, though I suspect biography won\u2019t matter much here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cChrist, Arlen, we don\u2019t even know for sure that the woman was<\/i> murdered. People die suddenly for other reasons, you know. Don\u2019t you think we ought to inspect her glass for poison before we go making suspects out of everyone?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally, Jerry, your shortsightedness astounds me. Do you remember how the guests were situated when we came in? All knotted around that body, like moths on a lantern. In those moments the killer could easily have swapped Madame El\u2019s glass on the mantle for some other guest\u2019s on the table or the floor. Or he could have swapped it with his own, which he might well be cleaning as we speak. No, Jerry, an inspection of the glass might confound us, and at best it would only confirm what I already know: that our hostess was poisoned. Better explore other paths first.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut how could it have been done? It\u2019s not so easy to slip poison into someone\u2019s drink, you know. Not without them noticing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTom mentioned that Madame El stopped into her kitchen regularly to check on something she was cooking. Chances are she\u2019d have set her drink down on the way in. Say our murderer notices this the first time it happens. Then he poisons his own drink, waits for her to enter the kitchen a second time, and casually trades his glass for hers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut she knew<\/i> she was in danger. Told us as much in her letter. You\u2019d think she\u2019d have taken a few precautions.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs a matter of fact, Jerry, it\u2019s precisely because she took precautions that she behaved so foolishly.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI mean that she took the ultimate precaution: She summoned the storied Detective Jerry Drighton to serve as her sentential. With a man as redoubtable as yourself chaperoning her cocktail party, no criminal would think to pilfer a spoon from her table, much less poison her drink. I fear that your acceptance of her invitation doubled \u2013 at least in her mind \u2013 as an unspoken promise of safety, and that from that point forward Madame El felt secure enough to relax her guard. A fatal mistake.\u201d<\/p>\n

Drighton grumbled. \u201cI suppose that\u2019s possible, though I don\u2019t see how you can be so sure. But seeing as you are, I\u2019ll play along. For now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Once Drighton had marched back into the parlor and begun barking orders, I turned to study Madame El\u2019s oversized circular dinner table. A curious shape by pedestrian standards, designed not for practicality or surface area but for communal discourse. For ceremony. It was perfect. And at the center of each place setting, just as I\u2019d hoped, stood a neatly folded card bearing each guest\u2019s name. So Madame El had premeditated a seating chart<\/i>. Clockwise: Madame El, Harold Baur, Betsy Baur, Tom Gaumond, Michelle Lambert, Patrick Murtagh, Isabelle Murtagh, Arlen Toups, Jerry Drighton. I committed this arrangement to memory (I never employ ink where the mind will suffice) before gathering up the name cards and shuffling through them. I was searching for irregularities \u2013 an invitee not among the guests present, for instance, or a conspicuous misspelling. But the only anomalous name was my own, penned unevenly on an inferior grade of paper. An eleventh-hour provision.<\/p>\n

There was nothing left to do until Drighton returned, so I planted myself in a chair, took another stab at the grey in my beard, and surveyed Madam El\u2019s outlandishly ornamented dining room. Mounted on each of the four walls was an exotic creature\u2019s severed head: a snarling bear, a toothy alligator, a boar, and something else. A bird? It had feathers, anyway, and a beak. It seemed out of place, too wildly colorful and plumy to have ever been as vicious as its counterparts. No doubt each of these creatures bore some symbolic meaning \u2013 a meaning that an enterprising spiritualist like Madame El would have adjusted according to the preferences of her customers.<\/p>\n

The door swung open a few minutes later and Drighton filled its frame, brandishing a tattered notepad.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere you are,\u201d he said, tossing it at me. \u201cEvery possession, down to the lint in their pockets. Nothing too unusual. No pills or powders or liquids.\u201d<\/p>\n

Meticulousness was not one of Drighton\u2019s shortcomings. He had recorded the guests\u2019 personal effects down to the number of buttons on their coats and pennies in their pockets; his entry for Isabelle Murtagh even listed \u201cseveral crumbs, presumably chocolate, settled at base of purse.\u201d A trace of satire from Detective Dour? I wondered.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was thinking,\u201d he announced as I thumbed through his notes, \u201cthat we can rule out Mrs. Baur and Mrs. Murtagh, can\u2019t we? Madam El didn\u2019t invite them, I mean. They were guests of their husbands.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut she could have reasonably expected their attendance.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTrue enough. And poison is a woman\u2019s weapon, they say. But listen, I had another idea. What if Madame El herself didn\u2019t know exactly who she was looking for? What if she just invited a list of likely suspects, as it were, and had devised some means of using tonight\u2019s proceedings to ferret out the bad apple?\u201d<\/p>\n

My eyebrows rose. \u201cNow that<\/i>, Jerry, is first-rate thinking.\u201d But my own thoughts were on Jerry\u2019s list. \u201cWhat more can you tell me about these two individuals?\u201d I asked, indicating two names: Harold Baur and Michelle Lambert.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you know Baur as well as I do. Cotton king. Social elite. Rolling in wealth. Come to think of it, it\u2019s almost suspicious that a man with such bottomless coffers chose to spend his New Year\u2019s Eve here, of all places.\u201d A pause. Then Drighton snapped his fingers. \u201cAnd he\u2019s the one who rushed to help Madame El when she fell! Didn\u2019t seem too excited to stick around, neither, when we asked him too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes he have children?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThree, if memory serves. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Michelle Lambert?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s a seedy character in her own right,\u201d answered Drighton, who had apparently interpreted my question as an invitation to articulate his own prejudices. \u201cAll those theater types are. Slippery, vague, know what I mean? Plus she\u2019s the only woman who Madame El invited directly, and it\u2019s like I said earlier: poison\u2019s a woman\u2019s weapon.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s fine, but did you learn anything more\u2026 factual?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot much. She\u2019s French \u2013 Europe-born, not Cajun. She\u2019s engaged to a Dryade. You know the name, don\u2019t you? Reputable family around here. Banking, I believe.\u201d<\/p>\n

Pushing my chair back, I indulged in one last, especially thorough beard scratch before standing. \u201cWhat makes this case so intriguing, Jerry, is that a tenured sleuth \u2013 a professional like yourself, even \u2013 would have been trained to begin in all the wrong ways. Customary procedure might, for example, have dictated that we look further into Dr. Pallis\u2019s death, that we search for parallels between his murder and Madam El\u2019s. Procedure might, too, have led us to submit the cocktail glasses in the parlor for analysis, or to ask ourselves whether Madame El really knew who she intended to accuse tonight. But all of these avenues are detours. In the first case, why should we divert our attention to Dr. Pallis\u2019 infinitely more nebulous death when we have before us an opportunity to catch Madame El\u2019s killer practically red-handed? As for the wine glasses, I\u2019ve already spoken to how further inspection might confound us. And what does it matter if Madame El knew who she intended to accuse? Regardless of whether she knew, we<\/i> must know. No, Jerry, I\u2019m more convinced than ever that to expose our killer we need merely to examine the facts at hand open-mindedly, scientifically, and with the razor-sharp intellects that have earned us each the reputations we enjoy today. That said, let us commence tonight\u2019s s\u00e9ance.\u201d<\/p>\n

Drighton went cock-eyed.<\/p>\n

——-<\/p>\n

I instantly regretted sitting across from the bird. Where Madame El had found so eldritch a creature I couldn\u2019t imagine, but I half-suspected that she\u2019d plucked it from some feverish child\u2019s nightmare. It seemed constantly on the verge of speech: Yes<\/i>, I imagined it saying, my friends on the other three walls will rend your body. But I will haunt your dreams and dismantle your psyche. I will rend your mind<\/i>. Of one thing I felt certain: This otherworldly bird knew who\u2019d poisoned its owner. That, at least, we had in common. And so I\u2019d decided that it and I ought to join forces.<\/p>\n

As our six suspects streamed in from the parlor, I asked them to heed their seat assignments then instructed Jerry to snuff out all but one of the candles. Harold Baur and Michelle Lambert sat beside me, and the other four guests in an arbitrary order across from us. Drighton stood under the bird by the door, hands folded, watching Argus-eyed over the assembly.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hope this won\u2019t take long,\u201d spat Baur. \u201cCandidly, I\u2019m astonished that our police department\u201d \u2013 he shot an eyeful of daggers at Drighton \u2013 \u201cwould resort to this medieval farce in a twentieth-century murder investigation.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt does seem rather unscientific,\u201d added Patrick Murtagh.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I find it tres amusant<\/i>!\u201d said Lambert. \u201cAll wonderfully dramatic, like at Saenger Theater.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said to Baur, \u201cit won\u2019t take long. Just a few minutes. But for those few minutes I expect your full cooperation. I\u2019m entirely aware that you and others at this table doubt the integrity of my profession and the efficacy of ceremonies like this one. Think what you like. But tonight there will be real powers at work. Unseen powers, true, but as real as the chairs we sit in. And I\u2019ll stake Detective Drighton\u2019s faultless reputation as well as my own that starting tomorrow morning you\u2019ll never again cast aspersion upon palm readers and fortune tellers and so-called charlatans like me, because tonight, Mr. Baur, those very powers in which you\u2019ve never believed will reveal a killer in our midst.\u201d I paused, allowing silence to settle over the group. \u201cNow, please join hands.\u201d<\/p>\n

Baur and Lambert both elevated their hands, seeking mine. But instead of clasping their palms, I slipped my hands higher and held their wrists gently. Both guests tensed a bit, unaccustomed to the awkward grip. But neither objected.<\/p>\n

Having laced my fore and middle fingers across two sets of veins, I could now gauge the pulses of both Harold Baur and Michelle Lambert. Both were fast. No surprise given the circumstances. Baur\u2019s was slightly faster, but his girth, disgruntled state, or a combination of the two might have accounted for the difference. Excellent. Now for the set up.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou must all remain in complete silence,\u201d I announced, \u201cwhile I summon the spirit of Madame El. You may hear strange sounds. Things in the room may even move. But no matter what happens, it is imperative that our hands remain interlocked, and that you do not speak or cry out. Let us begin.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rolling my eyes back, I began to breathe deeply, audibly. I continued in this manner for several minutes, until everyone had a chance to make themselves comfortable and I felt Baur\u2019s and Lambert\u2019s pulses decelerate. To my heavy breathing I added a hum, subtle and indistinct at first, then deeper, cacophonous. A rumble.<\/p>\n

\u201cOur beloved Madame El,\u201d I began in a loud, monotone chant, \u201cangry and unavenged, seeking retribution, join us now and move among us! Commune with us now and move among us! Move among us!\u201d<\/p>\n

I repeated my summons three times. In the middle of my fourth repetition I stopped abruptly mid-sentence.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe is here,\u201d I whispered. Then, booming: \u201cShe is here!\u201d<\/p>\n

Slowly, I rotated my head clockwise, leveling an empty gaze upon each of the guests in turn. As my eyes passed over Detective Drighton, he nodded. He had followed my instructions. The time had come for our master stroke.<\/p>\n

\u201cMadame El, there are skeptics among us. There are those at this table who would doubt your presence, your power \u2013 your anger! Give them a sign!\u201d<\/p>\n

At precisely that moment the decapitated bird perched over Drighton\u2019s head crashed to the floor, triggering a series of gasps and shrieks. Drighton himself even loosed an affected yelp. Baur\u2019s and Lambert\u2019s pulses raced. I could hardly contain the Cheshire cat tugging at my lips.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow, Madam El, speak to us! Reveal your killer, that we might confront him in your presence here tonight!\u201d<\/p>\n

A long silence. I resumed my hum. The pulses I held in my hands slowed gradually as they recovered from the shock Drighton and I had engineered.<\/p>\n

Under my breath, at first: \u201cYes\u2026 yes!\u201d Then excitedly: \u201cYou speak! You say that your killer is indeed here, at this very table!\u201d<\/p>\n

The pulse in my left hand quickened.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou say\u2026 that this person came here tonight hoping to silence you. To bribe<\/i> you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Faster.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes?\u201d I paused, then stole glances at Lambert and Baur. \u201cYou say that your killer is very close to me. Right beside me, even!\u201d<\/p>\n

Faster.<\/p>\n

Baur and Lambert both opened their mouths to object, but I drowned them out. \u201cQuiet! What now, Madame El? Tell me which of these two poisoned you tonight! Expose your killer!\u201d<\/p>\n

I maintained silence for just a few more seconds, smiling inside as the one wrist pulsed furiously.<\/p>\n

Then I locked eyes with Michelle Lambert.<\/p>\n

——-<\/p>\n

Two days later Jerry Drighton marched through the door of my Storyville office carrying a large box wrapped in green gift paper and crowned with a bow. I\u2019d never known the man to knock. But neither had I known him to bear gifts.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d I asked, standing.<\/p>\n

He ignored my question. \u201cWe found that letter in Lambert\u2019s apartment, just like you said we would. How the devil did you know it would be there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust a hunch,\u201d I lied.<\/p>\n

\u201cThought you\u2019d say something like that,\u201d he replied. \u201cSo I came prepared to force your tongue. Until you provide me with a full explanation, I\u2019m not going to let you open this present. And seeing as you\u2019re a man of insatiable curiosity, I don\u2019t believe you\u2019ll sleep tonight if you never find out what\u2019s in this box.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut that\u2019s blackmail!\u201d I cried.<\/p>\n

\u201cCorrect. Appropriate, isn\u2019t it? Now stop stalling and tell me everything. If I didn\u2019t know you better I\u2019d assume your selection of Michelle Lambert as Madame El\u2019s murderer was sheer, dumb luck.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou do know me better, though. Tell me, what did the letter say, exactly?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have it here.\u201d Drighton reached into his pocket, withdrawing a half-sheet of paper featuring a few lines of neat cursive. \u201cWe found it in an envelope along with a copy of the invitation Madame El sent me on the day of her death. It reads: \u2018Dear Ms. Lambert. I know you murdered Doctor Hugh Pallis, and I know why. I have enclosed an invitation to a New Year\u2019s Eve soiree I\u2019ll be hosting. If you do not attend with $1,000 in cash, I will reveal everything to the other guests.\u2019 Signed, Madame El. After that she\u2019s listed the other guests, along with their professions.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that,\u201d I explained, \u201cis where my own suspicions began: with the guests\u2019 professions. She invited both a lawyer and a chemist, which struck me as a telling combination given that Madam El had intended, according to the letter you forwarded to me, to conduct a sort of unofficial trial against Dr. Pallis\u2019s killer. To let the guests \u2018dispense justice as they saw fit,\u2019 I believe she wrote. Rather chilling idea. Anyway, the lawyer \u2013 Tom Gaumond \u2013 would presumably serve as prosecutor, while the chemist \u2013 Patrick Murtagh \u2013 might speak as an expert on poisons. But the professions of Ms. Lambert and Mr. Baur struck me as inconsistent: what possible value could an actress and a cotton magnate add to the evening\u2019s proceedings?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that how you managed to narrow it down to those two?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Actually, you very nearly stumbled upon the key to the whole conundrum yourself, Jerry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow so?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you remember suggesting that perhaps Madame El didn\u2019t actually know who\u2019d killed Dr. Pallis, but rather had drawn up a guest list of likely suspects and had devised some plan to single out the culprit that very night? Your idea being that perhaps we might reconstruct her plan and unmask the villain ourselves.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI remember.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were close. But Madame El did<\/i> know who she intended to accuse. The question she must have asked herself weeks ago \u2013 and the question we should have been asking ourselves that night \u2013 was how she might possibly have convinced Dr. Pallis\u2019s killer to attend his or her own tribunal. Madam El\u2019s entire plan \u2013 the unofficial trial, that is \u2013 hinged upon the guilty party\u2019s presence. And the best way to guarantee a criminal\u2019s attendance is by arranging an exchange: the promise of secrecy at a considerable price.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBlackmail. So that\u2019s why you had me list everyone\u2019s possessions.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPrecisely. If my assumption was correct, it followed that we needed only to determine which of the guests was carrying an abnormally large sum of money. Your list told me that both Michelle Lambert and Harold Baur had over a thousand dollars with them that night. Baur is a millionaire; transporting so fat a bankroll might not be too unusual for him. But it was certainly irregular for an actress<\/i> to have that kind of cash on her. Something else stuck me, too: why had Lambert showed up in the first place? Certainly her fianc\u00e9\u2019s family, the well-known Dryades, would have been hosting festivities infinitely more entertaining than Madame El\u2019s. Like Baur, it seemed she would have had better places to be.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen there were Madam El\u2019s seat assignments. It seems natural to me that if you intend to confront someone during a s\u00e9ance, you\u2019d want to sit diametrically opposite that person. Unfortunately, my last-minute invitation forced Madam El to make room for a ninth guest. When there are an odd number of people at a circular table, you don\u2019t sit directly opposite any one person. But the two individuals to be seated across from Madame El were Patrick Murtagh and Michelle Lambert. I had already ruled out Patrick Murtagh, so my suspicions came to rest upon Lambert. All that remained was to confirm those suspicions, which I did by monitoring her pulse for the duration of our s\u00e9ance.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut wait. If Lambert believed she could buy Madame El\u2019s silence, why kill her?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSimple. Lambert knew the problem with blackmail: there\u2019s only one way to be sure it ends.\u201d<\/p>\n

Drighton nodded. \u201cWhat about the illustrious Mr. Baur, then? Why did he deign to attend Madam El\u2019s humble little gathering?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s no secret that Harold Baur suffered a ruinous bout of influenza some two years ago. Nearly killed him. I\u2019d wager that Doctor Pallis played a critical role in his recovery. However callous he may have seemed the night we met him, Baur is a fundamentally good person. He owed Pallis his life, and he would have wanted to see his savior\u2019s killer brought to justice.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs to that,\u201d noted Drighton, \u201cwe\u2019ve already re-opened the case on Doctor Pallis. Why do you suppose Lambert killed him?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shrugged. \u201cThere\u2019s no telling for sure. But I can think of at least one reason a young woman engaged to be married might worry about her doctor\u2019s privileged knowledge. I never met Pallis, but I know that under the influence of the right bribe \u2013 monetary or otherwise \u2013 even the best of men can be convinced to perform odious deeds. Even, perhaps, illicit procedures that terminate embarrassing pregnancies.\u201d<\/p>\n

Drighton snorted. \u201cYou can\u2019t possibly mean \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike I said, I don\u2019t know. Maybe it was less sinister than that. Maybe Doctor Pallis and Michelle Lambert themselves had an affair. In any case, I suspect that one of them, fraught with guilt, let their story slip to a certain confidante. A person whose job it is to elicit confessions too dark for priests. The spiritualist Madame El.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI say, Arlen, something\u2019s just occurred to me. Do you think it\u2019s possible that Madam El planned all along to accept Lambert\u2019s blackmail payment? That she only intended to conduct her unofficial trial if Lambert failed to pay?\u201d<\/p>\n

I laughed. \u201cOf course. Why, that was precisely her plan all the way up to the morning of New Year\u2019s Eve, when either her conscience or a premonition overpowered her greed and she solicited your guardianship.\u201d<\/p>\n

My friend leaned back and shook his head admiringly. \u201cIncredible work, Arlen. Absolutely incredible.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOnly a fool credits the incredible, Jerry. You would have arrived at all the same conclusions by way of your own methods if I hadn\u2019t insisted upon mine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Detective Dour unbent the characteristic droop in his lips. For a fleeting moment I thought he might even have inverted it. \u201cYou\u2019re right, I suppose,\u201d he said. With a quick thrust of his leg he sent his gift sliding under my desk until it came to rest at my feet. \u201cAfter all,\u201d he continued, \u201cit\u2019s not as though you and I solved this thing ourselves.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was my turn to register confusion. But having inferred from Drighton\u2019s cryptic tone that I would find the answer to my unspoken question sealed in his box, I eagerly picked off the bow and stripped away the wrapping paper beneath, then peered inside. Blinked. Smiled. Trembled a little.<\/p>\n

The otherworldly bird stared up at me.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This is a short story. For more short stories,\u00a0click here. The problem with using tarot cards to play solitaire is that no matter how careful you are to shuffle out the Major Arcana, some malefic image like the Devil or the Hanged Man always turns up in a tableau where it doesn\u2019t belong. I had […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":299,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[14,13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-295","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fortunes-mysteries","category-short-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/295","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=295"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/295\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":300,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/295\/revisions\/300"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/299"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=295"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=295"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=295"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}