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Ineffable Husbands but it’s a Noir Detective Story

The Angel Of Greenwich, my @do-it-with-style-events fic has started posting! The first chapter is up now :D

“Well, you see, Mr Crowley. It would seem that I have been framed for murder.”

— — — — — — — —

A Noir murder mystery set in the 1920's with art from @tayasigerson. Private Detective Crowley has to find the truth about the body found in a bookshop, while trying not to fall in love with the man who hired him. His success might be doomed from the start.

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Crowley takes a slow drag from his cuban cigar.

When he breathes out, the smoke momentarily obscures the man sitting in the chair in front of his desk. His shoulders are hunched and his eyes are flickering from the window, to Crowley, and back again.

This, in itself, is not unusual. There are few men with the ability to not appear anxious within these quarters. But what is out of the ordinary is the way Crowley found himself— affected, lets say, by the stranger’s presence. There is something about those golden curls and sky blue eyes that captures his interest immediately. Like there is strength there, beyond the tartan patterns and soft wool, a sense of power one might be lucky to have revealed to you, in the right circumstances.

The man’s gaze locks with his, and Crowley takes another drag, a shiver coursing down his spine. Obscured in the dark, Crowley lets his lips curl.

It is a rare occurrence indeed for the Devil's curiosity to be piqued without a word of a case uttered.

Somewhere in the abscesses of his mind a silken voice whispers a warning. But he has not come this far by heeding such things. Crowley leans forward, out of the shadows and lets the orange glow of the street lanterns outside grant him an otherworldly appearance.

The man shivers.

Crowley grins. ”Well, my good fellow. What brings you to Hell?"

“To— To Hell’s Kitchen?” the man asks, cowering a little further. His eyes are now divided between Crowley and the exit, as if he’s gauging how long it would take to scurry out to safety.

“If you wish to call it that, sure,” Crowley allows, making a wide gesture with his hands. “Whatever we’re cooking up in here, it is not the kind of thing men like you usually involve yourself with. So I ask again. What brings you to my office, Mister…”

“Fell,” Mr Fell says quickly. “I run a bookshop in Greenwich Village.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

He would have expected something more… elevated. His wealth is easily visible in his clothing—the quality, the details, the custom fit —though only for those who know how to look for it. He does not advertise his means, but it is clear to Crowley that he is a man living in excess. At least compared to the majority of New York’s denizens. Mr Fell huffs. “Yes, quite.” He straightens a bit, puffed up and defensive, though subtly so. “It is a lovely neighbourhood.”

Already, this man is full of intrigue. Crowley allows his grin to widen, leading forward further.

“I’ve heard quite a few things about that Village of yours. Is there anything about its… reputation, that causes you to seek out my help?”

“No, no,” Mr Fell shakes his head effusively. “No, at least. Not quite.”

He falls silent and takes a shuddering breath, and with it his shoulders hunch again.

A car passes by and he flinches. The headlights illuminate his face for but a second, yet it is enough to see deep stains underneath the man’s eyes, accentuating an expression of horror mixed with a sense of shock.

It tells a tale of having discovered something horrific beyond measure, Crowley knows the look very well. But what the nightmare entails depends on the person. For one, it is adultery, for another it is standing at the edge of destitution. There is only one reason why wealthy men come to Crowley; they are too ashamed to bring their problem to the police.

Mr Fell shakes his head again, and takes a deep breath. He leans forward with another furtive glance to the window, the orange glow a shimmer in his hair, and then catches Crowley’s eyes.

At once Crowley realises this is not a case like any other. This is no upper city smuck trying to hide his trysts from the public eye, or an insecure husband wanting his wife followed down the streets.

There is no shame in his expression. Only terror, desperation and utter determination.

Mr Fell takes another breath, licks his lips, and says, “Well, you see, Mr Crowley. It would seem that I have been framed for murder.”

— — — — — — — —

A slight drizzle has begun to fall from the sky. Crowley curses under his breath, thinks momentarily of the recent death of his trusty umbrella, and works quickly to secure the multitude of locks that guard the front door of his establishment.

One of the locks takes some abuse in order to close. Crowley slams the old thing into place until he hears the tell tale click.

“I am truly sorry I cannot answer all your questions at this time,” Mr Fell is saying. “But they did not want me to leave for long. It is better to take you with me.”

Crowley turns to see Mr Fell folding open an umbrella. They fit under it perfectly, standing a little closer together than propriety demands. Mr Fell doesn’t seem to notice.

“I assure you I will provide you with all the information once we are in less of a hurry. He should come—“ Mr Fell interrupts himself when they are suddenly engulfed in light.

Crowley snaps his head around, blinking in the face of it.

Headlights.

“Ah— There he is. He’d hidden himself, I see. I suppose in this neighbourhood he did not want to be obvious.”

A police car drives slowly out of the alleyway opposite from Crowley’s office.

“The cops let you come here while a body lays in your shop? How in the hell did you manage that?” asks Crowley, trying not to sound as shocked as he feels. The New York police force has made it quite clear that they do not want Crowley to touch any of their cases with a six feet pole, never mind involve himself while the blood is still fresh.

Mr Fell huffs, and bounces a little on the heels of his feet. “I asked,” he says primly. “But they only agreed with a chaperone, so I wouldn’t scurry away. As if I would!” He sounds hilariously flabbergasted at the idea, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him. “I want this to be solved as much as anyone. It is my shop, after all, and of course justice must be served.”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise and the car pulls up beside them. If this isn’t all performance, no substance, Mr Fell’s additude promises a lucrative case for him. As opposed to the adultery cases that take no more than a couple of hours to prove that yes, indeed, your spouse has a lover. Or even the minor white collar crimes with clients more stingy than you would think of people wearing a three-piece suit.

The most important ingredient of a case with long working hours, as a murder inevitably will end up being, is the emotional investment of the client. And Mr Fell, at least, seems to be invested. Now it is just hoping he is not because he is trying to cover up his sins.

Mr Fell opens the passenger door of the car—the sound brings Crowley back from his thoughts.

Crowley slips in the back quickly, taking a moment to look at the agent driving: young, overworked judging by the bruises under his eyes, and harried.

“Thank you, sir,” the agent is saying to Mr Fell. “We ought to be back as quickly as possible. I am still not sure—“

“My lawyer will arrive not too long after we return and clear it all up with your superiors,” Mr Fell interrupts— not impolitely, just with a quiet certainty that seems to calm the young officer a fraction.

Crowley personally doubts the reality of Mr Fell’s promise. He wonders if Mr Fell truly believes that he can hire a private detective without drawing the ire of the force. The rich have thought stranger things to be possible, Crowley supposes. If he’s lying, however, then he’s proven himself to be good at the art. Interesting. Investigations are easier when the people involved portray their truths in their brows and eyes, if not in their clumsy words, but Crowley likes a challenge.

“Alright then, sir.” The officer says and begins to drive. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, falling onto Crowley’s figure. “And apologies for not introducing myself. I’m officer Pulsifer, detective in training. You are—“

“Anthony J Crowley, private detective,” Crowley says, with a sly smile. “I assume you know of my reputation.”

“Yes, sir,” Pulsifer says, “I’ve read the articles on the Pen-diamond case, and of course the disappearance of Kelly Donovan. Your work is highly inspiring, sir.”

Ah. A fan in cop’s clothing. Crowley suddenly knows why Mr Fell was able to take such unorthodox steps.

“You flatter me,” Crowley says, “it is rare to hear such positivity from men of your… kind.”

Pulsifer looks away, but his shoulders straighten as if to bolster himself. “Your methods are effective, sir. The Mummy of New Jersey, for example.”

Crowley barks a laugh and says, “Oh that one, that’s been a while.” He shakes his head, chuckeling. “Don’t let your superiors hear you say anything of the sort in the future, Pulsifer, if you want to make Detective one day.”

Pulsifer seems unable to find a response and the drive continues in silence— or at least, verbally so. Mr Fell seems unable to sit still, wiggling in his seat and tugging at his sleeves. Occasionally his eyes flicker to the mirror, and catches Crowley’s gaze only to look away again when caught. Crowley doesn’t hide his staring. He’s supposed to solve a case after all, and Mr Fell is one half of the puzzle.

After one too many glances, Mr Fell’s eyes narrow at him, lined with suspicion. Crowley raises his eyebrows in question. If Mr Fell is regretting his choice already, he much rather have it out now, saving him another altercation with the Detective of the week.

They hold eye contact for a moment, and then Mr Fell harrumphs under his breath, shaking his head a little, and begins to stare out of the window with intense concentration. Crowley doesn’t follow his lead, and continues looking at Mr Fell with the same intensity, as if he could tease out the mysteries just by watching. He doesn’t come up with anything conclusive, and yet he cannot drag his eyes away.

The rest of the travel proceeds in much the same fashion—Crowley looking, and Mr Fell quite purposefully not looking back. Neither of them are willing to budge first.

“Sirs?” says Pulsifer, hesitantly. “We’ve arrived.”

The car has stopped driving. God knows how long they’ve sat there.

“Ah, thank you Pulsifer,” says Mr Fell smoothly. “Your service was most appreciated.” He leans over to shake the agent’s hand, and steps out of the car.

In doing so, Crowley is finally released. A huff of breath escapes him, and he pushes the door open with a deviant click. Once outside, thick raindrops fall onto his brimmed hat. He imagines taking it off and letting the water wash out his strange thoughts, but he casts that idiotic idea aside as well.

“Mr Crowley?”

Mr Fell is looking at him, his head tilted to the side. “Are you coming?”

The question pushes Crowley back into his surroundings and he realises that the rumble of noise is more than the rain: it is a crowd of people. About three dozen onlookers form a half circle around the front of a building— the sign above is only barely visible between their battered umbrellas. Some have grabbed barrels and boxes to stand upon and get a better view.

They’re at Garden Street, his mind provides belatedly. He’d subconsciously recognized the tell tale Dumbbell tenement buildings of the East Side, and the vague smell of the docks being brought by the wind. A strange place to open a bookshop, and even a stranger place to live for a man like Mr Fell. He sticks out as much as his shop does: the rows of tenement apartments suddenly broken up by one large family sized, three story home. He can just see a tree peeking behind the building, meaning there is some sort of garden behind it as well.

Crowley has the vague sense that if the body had been found in any other building on the same street, it wouldn’t nearly have pulled in the same crowd.

“It has become quite the spectacle,” Mr Fell says with a sigh. “The body has already been carried off. I’m not sure why they linger yet.”

“Tragedy attracts, Mr Fell,” Crowley says, omitting ‘certainly when it occurs in conjunction to people like you’, as offending his client at this juncture would not be beneficial. Instead he says, “You must know that, or all the books you sell are children’s tales.”

“Fictional tragedy is quite a different thing.” Mr Fell huffs. “Haven’t we seen enough of it in the real world? I do not understand why—“ he trails off. “Well, no matter. Maybe this is a tragedy that can be solved. I just wish they would have some respect for those who have left us.”

“Don’t condemn the people for their curiosity. Now, you plan to sneak me in?”

Mr Fell’s eyes widen. “Sneak you in?”

“If you haven’t heard, the police do not appreciate me stepping in on their territory. What do you propose?”

“I am going to ask, Mr Crowley,” Mr Fell says and promptly walks towards the shop.

Pulsifer had already started to shoulder-tap his way through the gathering, but his progress is incremental. Mr Fell only has to clear his throat once the crowd part like the sea before Moses. Crowley falls into step behind him, as the people close ranks once they pass.

A hush goes over them as the source of their gossip enters their vicinity. Only a few watch with suspicion— at least, few look with suspicion at Mr Fell. For Crowley, of course, suspicion combined with intrigue is predetermined. Some gasp and whisper ‘The Devil is here’. But the man implicated with murder is welcomed with a hint of relief. “I told you he wouldn’t have left for London,” someone murmurs, though the anonymous voice is shushed quickly.

Mr Fell stands before the shop with his hands clasped behind his back, smiles a sunlight smile at them, and wishes them a good evening.

At that, the crowd slowly begins to disperse.

Crowley does a splendid job not gaping at him.

“And now, we will ask the officers to let you aid in the investigation,” Mr Fell says brightly.

In the moment, Crowley cannot help but believe that if Mr Fell wanted anything, the universe would make it happen.

— — — — — — — —

And it does.

The traditional “What is the meaning of this?!” when Crowley shows up near New York’s finest is smoothly transitioned to a “Just stay out of our way,” as Mr Fell manages to convince the detective that it is no issue for Crowley to be here. He enacts a politeness infused verbal sleight of hand involving concerned looks, earnest eyes, and some kind of high society magic.

Because, as Mr Fell explains, they have taken away the body, after all. They were even already starting to wrap up for the night! So there shouldn’t be any harm in a second pair of eyes. A guest couldn’t mess up a crime scene that was about to be reopened anyway. And besides, the best agents of New York are so skilled that they surely couldn’t have missed anything important. This is merely a precaution to make doubly sure even the little details are in order, don’t you think so Detective?

“Everything is in order. We don’t miss things, Mr Fell,” Detective Mulligan grinds out. “You’ll see. You’re wasting your money on that slicker. If you are as innocent as you claim, you should trust us to handle it.”

“I do so, Detective Mulligan, but you must agree that Mr Crowley has extensive knowledge about… the darker side of this fine city. If my suspicions are correct, then his aid could be a boon to all of us. You must have heard of the recent burglaries. There is trouble breeding in this area, and according to the papers, the officers have had difficulty finding leads. I only wished to provide aid, Detective. I know that taking on consultants is outside of your budget, but it is within mine.”

Crowley hides a smile with his hand. Well well, that answers why Mr Fell approached him. Perhaps his client has a theory of his own.

Detective Mulligan grunts and then throws a glare at Crowley. “We’ve searched the place top to bottom, but if there is anything you learn, you come to me. You hear, son?”

“Of course, sir, right away sir,” Crowley says mockingly, and salutes. “I’m always prepared to aid the valiant warriors of justice.”

Detective Mulligan glares some more. Mr Fell sniffs disapprovingly. Crowley grins at them both.

This is going to be delightful.

Mr Fell and Mulligan continue to speak— though it is not much of a conversation, and more Mr Fell attempting to ask questions on the investigation and receiving only grunts and huffs in return. Crowley, who has prior experience with the detective, knows to ask the crime scene these inquiries instead. A wall has much more to say than Mulligan in his most verbose of moods.

The bookshop is very much a bookshop: tomes of all shapes and sizes line the walls, and bookcases form a small maze, only broken up by a circular space in the middle of the room, the wooden floorboards lovingly engraved with bohemian looking patterning. The shop is cosy, if dusty, and clearly beloved by its owner, but the totality of the decoration isn’t to Crowley’s interest. Though later those details might become of import, as of now, his focus is the entrance space right before the door, where a large gold and red carpet not only welcomes new clients into the shop, but has welcomed Mr Jones into the afterlife. The carpet is drenched in blood: a large stain about one third of the carpet marrs its graceful weave.

Crowley clears his throat. “Mr Fell?”

“Yes?”

Mr Fell turns away from Detective Mulligan, at full attention. Detective Mulligan glares behind him.

“As you said, the officers have been very… expedient in their process, so I cannot inspect the body myself. But if you won’t mind, could you describe, as detailed as possible, what the body looked like when you found it?”

Mr Fell goes a little pale and swallows hard.

Crowley keeps his voice calm and neutral. “Did he lay on his stomach, or on his back? Was his head towards the door? Did you see any obvious wounds?”

“I—Uhm,” Mr Fell says, wringing his hands together nervously. His eyes take on a bit of a glazed effect, as if he’s looking deep into himself as seeing what is before him. “He was on his stomach and—yes, towards the door. As if he was leaving. His wounds were—on his back. It was, there was so much blood. His coat was brown, like a barn owl, but now—it isn't anymore. I knew he was gone.”

“Did you see what kind of wounds he suffered?”

“No, I—I’m not sure. I didn’t come closer. I panicked.”

“Did anyone else see the body up close?”

Mr Fell’s eyes flicker to the Detective, and then to Officer Pulsifer. “The police, of course, maybe a few other people as well. I’d left the door open, some of the youths were walking in.” Mr Fell’s lips twist with disapproval. “Curious little buggers.”

Crowley turns to Pulsifer. “Any specifics of the wounds that you saw?”

Pulsifer straightens to attention. “He appeared to be stabbed many times, sir. We believe he--

“Officer.” Detective Mulligan’s voice interrupts Pulsifer with force. “The details of the case shall not be shared with outside parties unless I say so.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry sir.”

“Mr Fell, where are your business records?”

“In the office, but shouldn’t you wait on my Lawyer until--”

“If you are cooperative, and give me permission now, we all do not have to work through the night. If you are innocent as you claim, there is no harm in it. I only want to ensure there are no financial motives to this crime.”

Mr Fell presses his lips together, but at length he sighs. “Oh well. Have at it. My office is the second door to the right.”

Detective Mulligan huffs. “Officer, you keep an eye on the Devil. If I come to find items missing, your head will roll.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Pulsifer replies.

Before Mulligan steps through the aforementioned office door he stills and turns again. “And, stay away from the negatives. We do not want another Powell situation.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Pulsifer repeats, flushing, and taking shuffling a little further from the camera laid to rest on a table off to the side.

Crowley becomes aware of a shadow on his six. He sighs and attempts to focus once more. But there is another set of footsteps behind him, and Mr Fell joins him by his side, bouncing on his heels and his hands clasped together. He is looking at the blood with wide eyes of sadness.

Crowley suppresses a sigh, knowing his questions will likely exacerbate the emotions. One of the reasons why he prefers cold cases is that when he speaks to people, the balm of time makes them significantly less… fragile.

He takes his detective journal out of his pocket and branishes a pencil, writing down the date and time in the corner. He then clears his throat and schools his face into one of sympathy— but not too much. His expression must be cool and calm, to convince the client that they have nothing to worry about: he has it under control.

“If you will pardon me, but I have to ask. Who was the victim?”

“Hmm? Oh— Yes, you are on the case, I see, that is right.” Mr Fell shakes himself a little bit, and drags his gaze away from the carpet. “Mr Jones— Greg Jones if I’m not mistaken. Something with a G in any case. A very pleasant fellow. I am terribly sorry to see him gone, and in such a way too. It is unbearable to think about.”

“How did you know him?”

“He was a patron of the store. He came in for the first time, what would it be, eight months ago? To get a book for his oldest daughter’s birthday, I believe. I should have the record somewhere.” Mr Fell’s eyes flicker to the side, presumably where those records reside in the office. Crowley makes a note of it.

Mr Fell continues, “He returned the very next day, to my great surprise, as I do not have much of a children’s section, so I had sent him along with a collection of Greek myths. But apparently the young of today have a fascination with the gory, so the book was well received. His daughter’s approval inspired him to explore my collection for himself, and became an avid collector in a scant few weeks. He was one of those rare patrons I could recommend anything to and he would enjoy it thoroughly. Enthusiastic, very much so, though a little uninformed at times.”

Mr Fell pauses, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “He once asked me for the original print of Gilgamesh, and I had to explain to him that this shop does not carry any stone tablets, but I could order the oldest translation I could find on paper.” He chuckles a little, shaking his head, but then trails off with a soft sigh. “He was a good man. He did not deserve this.”

“My condolences,” Crowley says, a little distractedly. Enthusiastic, he was? Hmm. “He had a daughter, then, any more relatives?”

Mr Fell’s eyes widen and he slaps his hand over his mouth, anguish coming over his features. “Oh god, the children! His wife! Have they been informed?”

Crowley redirects his attention to Pulsifer, who is very obviously not trying to get caught eavesdropping. “Have they?”

“Yes, sir. An officer has been sent to tell the family the tragic news.”

“How did they respond?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir, I wasn't there.”

“Pity.”

Mr Fell makes an affronted sound. “Mr Crowley, do you consider the sensitivity of their situation before you prod your nose into private matters? To hear such news as that, it is not to be witnessed by strangers.”

“Prodding my nose into all kinds of matters is in fact my business, Mr Fell. If you are innocent, as you say, would not the next logical suspect be someone close to him, within the family perhaps?”

“You do not mean to accuse the wife?”

“I do not accuse anyone without the evidence, Mr Fell, evidence I cannot have if I do not ‘prod’. The response of the wife is important: she might be aware if her husband thought he was in danger. He might have acted nervous or paranoid in her presence. She might even suspect a cause, or be one herself. Gambling debts, enemies in business, spousal conflict, family tensions. All private matters are of much interest if you wish to remain a free man.”

Mr Fell’s expression of impropriety lessens in gradients as common sense falls onto his shoulders, hunching them with its weight. “This is all just truly horrid, but you are right. I’m not aware of any enemies or nefarity within Mr Jones’ life. He works on Wall Street so there is money to his name. But not so much as to inspire such an act, I would assume. He was an accountant in one of the high offices. He rarely entered the stock market itself. It was much too loud for him, he said.” Mr Fell shakes his head. “I can’t see how such a timid and sweet fellow could have invited his own murder. He does not seem the type to involve himself with things of that nature.”

“You never know someone as well as you think,” Crowley says. “We all have secrets.”

“Secrets dark enough to be killed for?”

“That is exactly what we are going to find out.”

Crowley leaves Mr Fell with a perturbed expression on his face. He is able to take down some details of the scene before another officer bounds down the stairs. Subtlety is truly not their strong suit.

“Nothing much changed sir,” the officer hollers towards Mulligan, who peeks out of the office with a binder in his hands. “Though the new window has been put in, looks like they’re about to start painting. Other than that, same as a fortnight ago. Bit more dusty.”

“No sign of disturbance?”

“Not that I could find sir, but it is very dark up there and a flashlight can only do so much. There is no electric light installed.”

“What happened a fortnight ago?” Crowley asks. The officer seems about to answer in pure reflex, but a glare from Mulligan silences him.

“A burglary,” Mister Fell says, completely impervious to Mulligans’ now redirected glare. “Someone broke into my home.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Through the second floor window?”

“Yes, climbed in with ladders and tossed the place.” Mr Fell huffs. “It was only luck that saved me. I was away for a family dinner that had run late, so I stayed over for the night, only to return to find my home in ravages!”

“What was stol—”

Mulligan steps in with a grunt and says, “You can continue on your own time, Mr Crowley. We are busy. Now, Mr Fell, you must delay the construction of your room for the rest of the week, so a team can return in the morning and search with light.”

“Oh,” Mr Fell says, lips falling into a pout. “I have been waiting for days now and—“ He stills abruptly, a blush blooming on his cheeks. “I’m terribly sorry. Of course I shall delay, a murder has occured! It is just that I had planned to move back home again this weekend, and for a moment I forgot that— You must pardon me for my momentary crassness, the reconstruction has been one of the most frustrating experiences in my life till thus far— though I suppose I should not complain. Mr Jones’ fate is so much—“

Mulligan interrupts him gruffly. “Thank you for your consideration, Mr Fell.” He lumbers up to the table, letting the binder fall heavily on the oakwood. “Now, is this the order?”

“The order?” Mr Fell carefully avoids the carpet to come towards Mulligan. “Oh yes, the order. Indeed. I tried to cancel the--”

Crowley lets the conversation become more like a radio play in the background, tuned down as to barely hear the words. He’ll have time plenty to ask Mr Fell about his business practices, but his time on the crime scene is limited. Certainly in this state. He assumes Mr Fell is not going to keep the carpet for long, judging his pale complexion every time he looks at it.

He walks around the carpet. There are scuffs on the floor, and part of the carpet is bunged up like someone slipped on the corner, but there is little he can do with it, as it just as well could have been one of the many people stomping all over the scene.

But there is something about the stain that tugs at Crowley’s attention. It’s a warped oval, approximately the size of a small man all on its own. With his magnifying glass, Crowley tries to find more stains in the red edge. It is a troublesome endeavor in the low light, but Crowley finds no evidence of discoloration. He hums to himself and then tilts his head up. The ceiling is pristine. The floor around the carpet is also spotless; even if the blood was displaced by people walking, there at least would be smears left behind.

Crowley clears his throat and asks out loud, “Where is the blood?”

Mr Fell and Mulligan snap into silence.

Crowley turns to them, revels in their respective confusion, and raises an eyebrow.

“Ehm, sir,” Pulsifer pipes up, reluctantly. “The blood is on the carpet.”

Crowley only just succes in swallowing a laugh. “Thank you, officer. You are not, wrong, per se. But where is the rest of it? The stain is large, but it is only one. If the victim was stabbed multiple times, as you said, wouldn’t there be a spray, as well as a stain?”

Pulsifier and Mulligan respond in exact opposite manners: the first gapes in obvious revelation, whereas the other locks his jaw and crosses his arms in stubborn denial.

“The ceilings are high, Mr Crowley,” Mulligan grinds out.

“Excellent observation. Maybe the act was not done in an arch.” Crowley pauses to mimic the movement, “but rather in straight lines. Which would be a good theory, only that then there would be variations in the blood stain, and there still should have been more on the floor. Mr Jones would be hit from behind, but it would not kill him instantly, he would move, kneel. The subsequent stabbings would be from different angles. But the stain is uniform, as if it happened all at once.”

Pulsifier nods along with wide eyes. “So what if he was not? What if he had been pushed to the floor first?”

Crowley tilts his head. “Good idea, Officer. That would be more consistent. The perpetrator would stand over the victim, and be stabbing downwards. His wounds would be directly bleeding onto the carpet, slowly and uniformly enlarging the circle. Though he would need to have not been moving during the attack. There are no signs of him crawling to get away.”

“So he was hit on the head first, then stabbed,” Detective Mulligan says gruffly.

“Was there signs of a head wound?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

Crowley looks at Pulsifer, who is very much avoiding his gaze, and then at Mr Fell, who is looking green around the gills.

Detective Mulligan closes the binder with a defiant slam. “We are one here. All that is left is for you to come with us and to answer some questions at the precinct.”

“Is that necessary to do now?”

Mulligan ignores his protests in his customary brutishness and starts to nudge Mr Fell towards the door, hand almost closing around his elbow.

“It is almost past 1 o’clock,” Mr Fell adds, flustered. “Surely this can wait.”

Crowley is about to step in— stupidly so, he’s treading on thin ice, but there is something about the way Mr Fell’s eyes widen that has Crowley unable to stand by and do nothing. But he is saved by the arrival of a man, busting through the doorway.

“Hold on a minute!” he says loudly. “Are you arresting my client?”

“Sir! Watch out! The blood!”

Pulsifer’s warning comes only just on time as the man redirects his feet from landing in the middle of the stain, to only the edge of it. Crowley flinches inwardly as he leaves a dirty footprint. But the commotion has drawn Mulligan away from Mr Fell, who cleverly takes the opportunity to slink away from the entrance, coming to surreptitiously hide behind Crowley instead. Crowley writes down ‘improvised shield’ in his notes for later charging fees.

“What is the meaning of this!” Mulligan shouts. “You are trespassing a crime scene!”

Crowley snorts quietly— it is interesting to be on the other side of this for once.

“I assure you, I have more legal rights to be here than you can imagine,” the man says. He puts his leather briefcase on the floor and takes off his hat, revealing a middle aged man in a suit that has seen better days, and a beard that has never seen a proper barber. His eyes are bright, though, and his bushy eyebrows are raised in a manner that betrays utter confidence. “Now, do you have sufficient evidence for an arrest?”

Mulligan, in the face of the second smooth talker of the evening, forgets to protest the stranger’s presence and instead goes on the defensive. It is a mistake. “It is the first few hours of the investi—“

“Is my client a suspect?”

“Naturally, he is. A body was found in his establishment.”

“And who called the police to report it? My client! Have you any cause to contain my client until his questioning, on account of a notion that he will attempt to flee, or otherwise refuse to cooperate?”

Client, ah—The lawyer. The cast of characters is complete.

Pulsifer pipes up before Mulligan can. “So far, Mr Fell has been nothing but helpful.”

The lawyer claps his hands together, victorious. “There you have it. There is no reason not to let the questioning be on the morrow, fresh and early. It is preposterous to think that at a time such as this, the truth would be interpreted in its full honesty.”

“Mister—

“Shadwell, Witch hunter by night, Lawyer by day. Though I do not charge over-hours in any direction.”

He holds out a hand. No one takes it, but it does not fluster him in the slightest.

Crowley turns to raise an eyebrow at Mr Fell, who seems to be watching the proceedings with amusement, judging by his badly repressed smile.

“Mister Shadwell,” Mulligan says through gritted teeth. “Mr Fell would only be asked preliminary questions…”

“Mr Fell, at this moment, is not under arrest, and has no need to be contained, and has promised to be cooperative and come tomorrow morning….” Shadwell trails off expectantly.

“I promise to be co-operative and I shall come tomorrow morning,” Mr Fell says immediately with fervour, and then adds slightly too innocently, “I can bring scones?”

Shadwell continues with a smile, “So therefore we are going to leave this discussion here. It was very good making your acquaintance, Detective.”

Mulligan makes a grunting noise that would be more appropriate in a zoo than in a bookshop-turned-crime-scene, and stomps out without another word.

Pulsifer, who seems to have realised that he did not do his boss any favours, hesitates a beat too long before following him out, allowing Shadwell to zero in on him.

“Now, you there,” he says. “Thank you for showing your superior that my client is nothing but trustworthy—“

Pulsifer swallows hard. “I don’t think I said—“

Shadwell ignores him entirely. “You have done me a great favour, and in return I will teach you some tricks of the trade. You want to become a detective, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I have participated in many investigations in my day, both in the pursuit of murderers of the human persuasion, and otherwise.”

“Otherwise, sir?”

“Monsters, cursed children, witches, the like. Did you know that witches can be recognized by the presence of a third nipple? And that is not all, mobsters too, have a proclivity towards deviant nipplage. I think it is due to their fundamental evilness, as creatures of the dark their bodies change to meet it. If you learn how to look, they cannot hide their horrid nature from you!”

Crowley clears his throat. “Don’t fill what little brain the city has allocated to the solving of crime with that kind of drivel. Disregard it immediately, Pulsifer.”

“Do not listen to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, good officer, what he says has no credit whatsoever. This is why I advised you against involving him, Mr Fell! He does not even know about the nipples.”

Pulsifer swallows, tugging at his uniform collar as if he’s feeling faint, and takes a step of retreat towards the door. “Thank you, for the advice, good sirs, but I must be going, Mulligan will expect me to do the paperwork for today so—” And then he quickly slips out of the door.

Crowley snorts, that might just be the cleverest thing the officer has said so far. Maybe not all hope is lost for him just yet.

While Shadwell seethes to Mr Fell about Devils and Witches and other such nonsense, Crowley reviews his meager notes. The first hours of a sudden investigation are never to his satisfaction. It has been a while since he’s done an investigation on this scale, but even if it wasn’t as intriguing as it is turning out to be —even if Mr Fell himself hadn’t been like he was —Crowley has no choice but to jump on the opportunity.

“I know, Mr Shadwell, but I do believe this is best for the case,” Mr Fell is saying, his sentence tumbling into a deep yawn. “Assuming, of course, that Mr Crowley wishes to continue.”

“Yes, I’ll take the case.”

The relief on Mr Fell’s face is almost too bright to look at. “Oh, thank you. You have proven yourself very astute, what with all the blood and stains and such. I assume I’ll have to sign something.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley takes out the paperwork and makes a few adjustments now he knows more about the case. When he is done he gives it to Mr Fell, who promptly gives it to Shadwell to read over.

“Why 70% upfront?” he asks, with narrowed eyes.

“Standard procedure with framing cases. If I end up discovering that your client, in fact, is trying to use my labour to cover it all up, I shall give my information to the authorities. With this measure, I won’t be completely without wages, as the officers will not reward me under any circumstances.”

They work out the details for another 20 minutes, with Mr Fell occasionally yawning in the background. Eventually Shadwell reaches over to shake his hand and the deal is done.

Mr Fell gives him the money without complaint, only asking “Are you safe with all that on you?”

Crowley merely smiles, showing his teeth. “I can protect myself.”

“Oh, of course,” Mr Fell says, eyes flickering away. “You must be—You do have—in your occupation.”

“Indeed.”

Mr Fell yawns again.

Where Crowley would rather stay and ask more questions, a small part of him twists at the sight—his eyes are getting puffy, and he’s starting to tremble a little bit. So without his explicit permission, his mouth begins to speak, “ I have all I can glean from the scene without light, and it is getting quite late. I propose to make an appointment for tomorrow. After your talk with the officers?”

“That would be perfect,” Mr Fell says, brightening up a little. “At what time would be preferable?”

“Interviews such as these tend to be long winded, so I would say late afternoon, to be certain.”

“Alright. Is there some place with passable tea where we could meet? That way if I am done earlier, I could wait for you in comfort.”

“Finnegan's should be agreeable. Just on the corner of Washington Square Park.”

“I shall be there.”

Crowley snaps his journal closed. He takes one look around the room, and then another longer look at his client, who flusters a little under his gaze.

“Well, then,” Mr Fell says. “Until tomorrow.”

Crowley sends him a sideways smile, and tips his hat. “Indeed.”

He carefully steps around the stain and exits the bookshop. Mr Shadwell’s continued complaints following in his wake only to be cut off when the heavy door falls closed.

Crowley sighs. It's still drizzling and the air is cold enough for his breath to puff out in gentle clouds of mist. Even with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets —the folded up bills a comforting sensation between his fingers —the walk home is not, say, pleasant but necessary nonetheless. He goes over the events of the evening, organizing his impressions into a new web of clues. He has the name of the victim, at least, which is where he would normally start. He knows he will not. He could blame the alleged framing for his unorthodox approach— but he can’t deny that there is a more subjective affliction pushing him to start his path with someone else.

The web grows and grows as the maze of New York expands under Crowley’s feet. Dark alleys and broad streets filled with secrets of one kind or another; a large mirror to the smaller network of this particular case. Relationships, motivations, interests, ambitions, all connected to the death of an alleged good man, in the shop of a presumed other. Crowley lights up a cigar and smiles. Tomorrow will be a day of hunting for knowledge about the man: the centre of the web and the centre of his mind. Curiosity a hungry spider tugging on a singular thread.

Who is Mr Fell?

#ineffable fic

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#ineffable fic