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Fool’s Gold

Dan Willis


CHAPTER 1

WHAT’S IN A NAME


“Paul,” the man gasped as Alex raised his head. He coughed, sending flecks of blood and spittle as he struggled to breathe.

“Hold on.” Alex implored the man, trying to keep his head up to ease his labored breathing. “Help’s on the way.”

Alex Lockerby, private detective and runewright, had just left the unimaginatively named Fifth Street Diner where he’d delivered the bad news to a Mrs. Larkin that her husband was cheating on her. It wasn’t his most scintillating case, but a man had to eat. When Alex had crossed the street at the corner, however, someone had rushed past him, going against the signal and right out into traffic.

The cab driver hadn’t even seen him.

“Paul,” the man gasped again, blood flowing from his mouth now. “Paul . . . Aaron Monson.”

“What’s going on here?” a voice demanded.

Alex looked up to see a uniformed police officer come around the back of the cab. His face was stern and red, his brows knit together, obviously wondering why the taxi was blocking the road. When he saw the bleeding man, his color changed.

“He ran right in front of me,” the cabbie protested as the officer took in the scene.

“Call for a doctor,” Alex yelled, breaking the spell of shock that had kept the policeman immobile.

“Right,” the officer said, turning and sprinting away to the nearest police call box.

“Just a bit longer,” Alex told the wounded man, struggling to keep him from drowning in his own blood. He looked to be in his early thirties, older than Alex, but nowhere near old. His features were thick and masculine with brown eyes and a Roman nose, all framed by angular cheekbones.

“Paul,” he croaked again, his eyes seeming to look past Alex. “Aaron Monson.”

Alex opened his mouth to chide the man, to tell him to save his strength, but he realized it was a useless gesture. Whoever the young man had been, he was a corpse now.

Resisting the urge to swear, Alex gently laid the man back down on the cobblestones of Fifth Avenue. It had been such a good day, March 7, 1931. That morning Alex, and his secretary Leslie Tompkins, had moved from his little basement office in Harlem to a fourth-floor walkup in the East Side Mid-Ring. The Harlem office was decidedly Outer-Ring, meaning it got very little of the power broadcast from Empire Tower. In the Mid-Ring Alex wouldn’t have to worry about his lights going out ever again. That, plus his closing the case of Mrs. Larkin’s philandering husband should have made this a day to remember.

A red-letter day.

Now, as Alex stood up, he found himself dabbing a different kind of red from the lapels of his trench-style overcoat.

“Doctor’s on the way,” the policeman called as he came running back up.

“Call him back,” Alex said. “Tell them to send the coroner instead.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Two hours later, Alex trudged up the steps to a modest brownstone in the middle of a quiet block. This was the home of his landlord and mentor, Dr. Ignatius Bell, late of His Majesty’s Navy. Iggy, as Alex was wont to call him, was in his seventies and an accomplished runewright and physician. He’d moved to New York to live with his adult son, but the man had succumbed to pneumonia before Iggy even arrived, leaving the old man with the empty building.

Iggy had found Alex peddling barrier runes on a street corner during a particularly rainy spring over ten years ago. Obviously, he’d seen something in Alex because he’d taken him in and trained him to be both a detective and a proper runewright. These days, Alex rented a room on the third floor from Iggy.

The front door of the brownstone was fancy, with a large, oval-shaped stained glass window in its front. As Alex approached it, he grinned. The door might look like just a door, but it was held in place by powerful runic constructs Iggy had carved into the main beam of the roof. A team of men with a battering ram wouldn’t be able to break that glass.

Fishing his pocket watch out of his vest, Alex flipped it open. Immediately, he felt the tiny runes etched inside the cover begin to pulse with magic. An answering pulse radiated from the door, along with an audible click as the lock disengaged, and Alex went in.

“You’re a trifle early, lad.” Iggy’s voice came from the front library. Alex hung up his trench coat and hat on a row of pegs just inside the vestibule. “I’ve got a stew simmering, but I’m afraid it won’t be ready for at least half an hour.”

Iggy did the cooking around the brownstone; he’d picked it up as a serious hobby during his navy days and he liked to keep his hand in.

Alex made his way into the library. Along the far wall a series of bookshelves had been built in, surrounding a small hearth where a few coals still burned. Just opposite the fire sat two overstuffed chairs, each with a matching ottoman, and an end table between them. The table supported a lamp with a multicolored glass shade, an ashtray with the stub of a lit cigar in it, and a Glencairn glass half full of what Alex knew to be his mentor’s favorite single malt scotch.

The man himself sat in the chair furthest from Alex, dressed in a tweed suit with the coat replaced by his crimson smoking jacket. A pulp novel was open on his lap and he had his slipper-clad feet crossed on the ottoman.

Alex gave him a nod, then slumped down in the second reading chair with a weary sigh.

“I would have thought your first day in your new office would carry a decent amount of excitement throughout the day,” Iggy said with a chuckle. He reached for his whiskey but stopped before his hand touched the glass. “Is that blood on your shirt collar?” he asked.

Alex tried and failed to look at his collar, then just nodded.

“A man ran into the street and got hit by a cab. I tried to help him, but he was too badly busted up.”

“Was he being chased?” Iggy asked, his reading material forgotten.

Realizing he wasn’t going to get any rest or any dinner until his mentor had the whole story, Alex launched into a detailed recitation of the accident.

“Paul Aaron Monson,” Iggy mused when Alex finished. “He said those exact words.”

Alex nodded.

“Three times.”

“So what does it mean? Who is Paul Aaron Monson?”

“No idea,” Alex admitted, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the chair. He was more than ready to forget this day and move on to dinner.

“I’m surprised at you, lad,” Iggy said, reproach in his tone. “I trained you to be a detective. Whoever this man was, he thought that name was so important he said it with his dying breath. I’m simply aghast that your professional curiosity didn’t compel you to find out what he meant.”

Alex pinched the bridge of his nose and resisted the urge to swear. As a proper English gentleman, Iggy didn’t hold with swearing. As Alex’s mentor, Iggy never passed up an opportunity to test his protégé’s skills. It seemed like the man had found the next challenge for his pupil.

“All right,” Alex sighed. “I’ve barely got enough money to buy cigarettes, but I’ll find out who Paul Aaron Monson was just the same.”

“Now,” Iggy pressed on, “tell me about the man who ran into traffic. Who was he?”

“I didn’t get a name, and the way the cops were asking questions, I’m guessing he didn’t have an identity card on him.”

“Tosh,” Iggy said. “You saw him; tell me what you observed.”

Alex didn’t answer right away, casting his mind back to earlier that day.

“He was right handed,” Alex started out. “There was a fairly big divot in his middle finger from where he held a pen or pencil, so I’d say he did a lot of writing for his profession. His clothes weren’t new, but they were of good quality and his shoes had been resoled sometime in the last six months.”

“And what does that tell you?” Iggy prodded.

“He’s a professional man,” Alex concluded. “Works in an office and is paid fairly well.”

“Just because he bought quality clothes at some point doesn’t mean he’s well paid now,” Iggy pointed out.

“No,” Alex agreed, “but he smelled of pipe tobacco, not the cheap stuff, but something high end.”

“You need to take the time to learn to identify tobacco by its smell,” Iggy chided. “Anything else?”

“I’m pretty sure he was an alchemist.”

“Chemical stains on his shirt cuffs?” Iggy guessed.

“No, there’s just always a certain smell about alchemists,” Alex said. “They never seem to be able to wash it off.”

Iggy nodded, finishing his scotch.

“Very impressive,” he declared at last. “That’s excellent observation and deduction. Now all that remains is to find out who Paul Aaron Monson is.”

“I will,” Alex protested.

“There’s a good lad,” Iggy said. “I’ll expect a full report tomorrow at dinner.”

Alex ground his teeth but kept his tongue firmly ensconced behind them.

“Speaking of dinner,” the old doctor said, setting his book aside and rising. “Ours should be just about ready. Come along.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Alex was up early the next morning, arriving at his office at eight-thirty. Leslie was already in, and when Alex arrived, she was adding a boiler stone to a pot of new coffee to heat it up.

“Morning, boss,” she said, greeting him with a dazzling smile. Leslie was a looker and she knew it. A former beauty queen from Iowa, Leslie knew how to sit, stand, walk, and dress to impress. Today she wore a green blouse with a knee-length skirt and black pumps. It was a simple outfit, but nothing was plain when Leslie wore it. Alex took full advantage of that, teaching Leslie the finer arts of soft interrogation. There wasn’t much Leslie couldn’t worm out of someone with a cup of coffee and a smile.

“Do we have anything pressing?” Alex asked, tossing his overcoat on the battered couch that sat in the waiting area in front of Leslie’s desk.

“Nothing right now,” she said. “Don’t worry, though. It’ll take people some time to find the new office.”

Alex hoped she was right, they’d both taken quite a risk moving from his one-room basement office to this place. Leslie seemed to read what he was thinking in his expression and she flashed him one of her million-dollar, beauty queen smiles. Despite his worry, it made him feel better.

“Good,” he said, getting back on topic. “I’ve got a job for you this morning.” He took out the flip notebook he kept in his shirt pocket and tore off the top page. “I need you to go down to the hall of records once it opens and find out everything you can about this man.”

Leslie picked up the paper and read off the name.

“Paul Aaron Monson?” She gave him an incredulous look. “Is this for a case?”

“Yes,” Alex said, “just not a paying one. Iggy wants to know.”

Leslie sighed and tucked the note into her handbag.

“Well, I wouldn’t do it for you,” she joked, “but I suppose I can do it for Dr. Bell.”

Leslie was far too proper to call a septuagenarian “Iggy.”

“Good,” Alex said. “I want to know everything, birth record, marriage, or death if they exist, whether he owned property or a business, the works.”

“That’s going to take me some time,” she said in a suggestive voice. “I probably won’t be back till the afternoon.”

Alex wanted to sigh but fought the urge.

“Take a couple of bucks out of the cashbox and get lunch while you’re out.”

Leslie’s expression jumped back to the million-dollar smile.

“Thanks, boss,” she said.

As she dug into her bottom desk drawer for the cashbox, Alex turned to the second door in his waiting room. It had a frosted glass panel and the word “Private” had been painted on it in gold. He hesitated for a moment before reaching for the knob. This was something new, something Alex had never possessed. His own private office. He knew that inside was only a plain desk, two wooden chairs, and a telephone, but it was his, and that made it special.

“I’m down to my last finding rune,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be in my office writing some more.”

Before he could enter, however, the outer door opened, admitting a young woman with a tear-stained face.

“Can I help you?” Leslie said, but the woman ignored her, turning to Alex.

“Are you Mr. Lockerby?”

She appeared to be in her thirties with dirty-blonde hair, worn long, and a heart-shaped face with a button nose. Her eyes were red and puffy and her nose was running, but despite all that she was quite attractive. The clothes she wore were of decent quality, but Alex noticed a threadbare place on the cuff of her sleeve and her shoes showed signs of frequent wear. She did have a shiny gold wedding band on her left hand, but that was the only thing that looked new.

She’s trying to look better off than she actually is, Alex thought.

Out loud, he said, “Call me Alex. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to find the man who killed my husband,” she said in a weak voice, her hand clutching the handkerchief she had pressed to her eyes.

“If someone killed your husband,” Leslie said, “you need to contact the police right away.”

“They already know,” the woman said, trying and failing to stifle a sob.

“If the police already know,” Alex said, “then why do you want me to look into your husband’s death, Mrs. . . . ”

“Tisdale,” the woman said. “Flora Tisdale. And I came to you because you were with Hubert when he died.”

“I think you’re a bit confused,” Alex began.

“No,” Flora cut him off. “You were with him, it said so in the paper.”

Alex exchanged confused glances with Leslie. The only man who had died anywhere near Alex had been hit by a car after running into traffic.

It wasn’t murder.

“Yes, it was,” Flora said when Alex pointed that out. “The police found a bullet wound in his back.”

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a folded copy of the Times. Handing it over, she pointed to a block of text that had been circled with a pencil. Just as she’d said, the article mentioned the police finding that Hubert Tisdale had, in fact, been shot, and that a private detective named Alex Lockerby was first on the scene.

Alex had never imagined that his name would appear anywhere in a newspaper, but there it was in black and white. It took him a moment to get his mind back on the woman in his office.

“Okay, I guess I was with your husband when he died,” Alex admitted, “but I didn’t see anyone shoot him. How, exactly, can I help?”

Flora seemed to shrink in on herself a bit and she didn’t want to meet Alex’s gaze.

“You’re going to think I’m horrible,” she declared. “You see, Hubert and I were married three days ago. Hubert said that he wanted to leave the city, make a clean break, so we were planning to leave tomorrow.”

“Let me guess,” Alex said. “You converted all your assets to cash?”

It was an older scheme, played on women of a certain age who might be more desperate to marry, but it still worked.

Flora nodded.

“He converted everything to gold,” she explained. “It was in a briefcase he had with him, along with our train tickets for tomorrow. If you don’t help me get that back, Mr. Lockerby, I’m going to be destitute.”

Alex thought about telling her that Hubert was a con man, but Hubert was dead, shot in the back. That could mean that he had a partner and they had a falling out. Since Hubert was dead, it was quite possible the partner was still in the city.

“Your husband’s missing briefcase,” Alex said. “Was there anything in there of yours?”

Flora shook her head morosely.

“My things are in a suitcase at my apartment. At least until tomorrow when my lease is up.”

“You said Hubert converted your assets to gold,” Alex said. “He didn’t, by any chance, have that ring made at the same time?”

Alex pointed to the shiny gold band.

“Yes,” she said, a note of hope in her voice. “Why?”

“Because, Mrs. Tisdale, in addition to being a detective, I’m also a runewright. If that ring came from the same batch of gold that Hubert bought, I can use a finding rune to track down the rest of it.”

Flora started crying again and Alex excused himself. He entered his office and retrieved an old-fashioned doctor’s bag where he kept his magical gear. When he returned to the waiting room, he placed the bag on Leslie’s desk, then opened it and took out a map of Manhattan. Next he removed a battered brass compass, setting the bag on one end of the map and Sherry’s telephone on the other to keep it from rolling up.

“Now I need to borrow your ring,” Alex said, holding his hand out to Flora.

She looked skeptical, but removed the ring and passed it over.

“What is this going to do?” she asked as Alex took a red pasteboard book from the pocket of his suit coat.

Moving deftly Alex paged through the book, being careful not to tear the delicate pages. After a moment of searching, he tore out a page containing an octagonal symbol drawing in multicolored inks. Folding the paper, he placed it on top of the brass compass, then added the gold ring to the top.

“Now I want you to think about your ring,” Alex instructed Flora.

He took the metal match from the touch-tip lighter on his desk, then struck it with the sparker.

“What are you going to do?” Flora gasped, fear in her voice.

“Don’t worry,” Alex said, touching the lit match to the folded flash paper.

As soon as the flame touched the paper, it burned away to nothing in an instant. There was a bang and an orange rune appeared, hovering over the compass. After a few seconds, it suddenly vanished with a small pop and Alex ground his teeth.

“Did it work?” Flora asked when no one spoke.

“No,” Alex said, resigning himself to finding Flora’s missing property the hard way. “I’ll need to try that again this afternoon,” he said. “Can I borrow your ring until then? I promise to return it without a scratch.”

“Y-yes,” Fiona said, trepidation plain in her voice.

“Thank you, and don’t worry,” Alex said, packing up his bag. “Give Miss Tompkins your information and I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

Flora’s eyes brimmed with new hope as she turned to Leslie. For his part, Alex went into his private office and picked up his telephone. According to the paper, the police knew a lot more about the death of Hubert Tisdale than he did, and he needed to rectify that.

“Get me Detective Danny Pak,” he said when the police operator picked up the phone. A few moments later his friend’s voice greeted him over the wire. “I need a favor,” he said once the greetings were done.

“What kind of favor?”

“You know that guy who was killed by a cab yesterday?”

Danny groaned.

“It’s not my case,” he said.

“I just need to know if the cops doing the canvass found anything,” Alex said.

“You want a slice of the moon while I’m at it?” Danny groused.

“What’s in the report will be fine,” Alex said, then said goodbye and hung up.


CHAPTER 2

CHEMISTRY


The morgue for the Borough of Manhattan was in the basement of an innocuous-looking building in the Midtown Inner-Ring. An older policeman sat at the front desk reading a paper and he gave Alex the once-over as the younger man pushed through the front door.

“Bit early to be seeing you,” the desk sergeant said over the top of his paper.

“Mornin,’ Charlie,” Alex said, heading for the stairs. “Just need a quick word with Dr. Anderson.”

“Well, you know the way,” Charlie said, going back to his paper.

Alex took the stairs down one floor to the basement and quickly found himself in a dimly lit hallway. The floor was covered with green tiles that ran up the wall to the level of Alex’s shoulder. It always reminded Alex of the kind of places you saw in films about maniacal killers.

Turning left, Alex made his way to the second door on the right. A brass placard in the center of the door read DR. ROBERT ANDERSON. Alex knocked, then let himself in.

“Doc?” he called as he opened the door.

The room beyond was large with an important-looking desk fronting a wall full of awards, framed newspaper stories, and plaques of recognition. Along the opposite wall ran a bank of five large filing cabinets and a low table stacked with cardboard boxes. Alex knew from previous visits that the door in the back wall went to a washroom and shower.

He was about to call again, but before he could, the washroom door opened, and Dr. Anderson appeared. He was a portly man in his fifties with large hands, a gray mustache, a pair of wire-rim spectacles on his nose, and a broad, affable smile.

“Alex,” he boomed, once he recognized his visitor. “Is Ignatius with you? Our pinochle game isn’t until Thursday.”

“No,” Alex chuckled, “it’s just me today. I have a couple of questions about a guy who was brought in here yesterday.”

“That would be the man who ran in front of a taxi,” Anderson said, nodding his head sagely. “What do you want to know?”

“I was hoping to get a look at the autopsy report. Someone said he might have been shot before he ran into traffic.”

Dr. Anderson nodded before opening the box and picking up a stack of papers that had been clipped together.

“Your source is well informed,” he said, folding over the top sheets of the paper stack. He scanned the page, then held it out so Alex could see it. “I pulled two small-caliber slugs out of our John Doe’s back.”

“.38s?” Alex asked.

Anderson shook his head.

“Smaller,” he said. “I figure they’re .22s.”

Alex took out his notepad and scribbled that down. He’d been wondering how Tisdale could have been shot without anyone hearing it; a small-caliber weapon like a .22 could explain that.

“Broken ribs, fractured tibia, broken clavicle, damage to the gall bladder, and several soft-tissue injuries,” Dr. Anderson read. “His wounds were serious, but he probably would have survived if he hadn’t been shot as well.”

Alex made notes, then looked into the still open box.

“These his effects?”

“Just the clothing,” Anderson said. “Anything he had on him is in an evidence box over at the Central Office of Police. Feel free to look through the clothing if you want. You can take it down to operating theater two.”

Alex thanked the doctor and, picking up the box of clothing, headed down to the end of the hall to a round room with a wheeled gurney in the center and a drain in the floor. Iggy had brought him here many times to watch him and Dr. Anderson work on the victims of crime. Alex hated every minute of it.

“At least you’re in here alone this time,” he told himself as he took the items of Hubert Tisdale’s clothing from the box and laid them out on the gurney. There was a bloody shirt, a pair of trousers, socks, shoes, suspenders, and a handkerchief. It wasn’t much, but Alex had worked with less.

One by one, he examined each item, making notes in his flipbook as he went. The shoes had mud on the edges, but the bottoms were clean; there were also traces of mud on the cuffs of the trousers and on the knees. That wasn’t surprising in a city where many streets and alleyways weren’t paved.

As expected, there were two small holes in Hubert’s shirt in the middle of his lower back, but nothing else of note. The socks, suspenders, and handkerchief yielded little, beyond the smell of sweat, so Alex put them back in the box with the rest of the clothing and stood, staring at the empty gurney. He’d hoped there would be something for him to go on.

“You look frustrated,” the voice of Danny Pak greeted him.

Alex looked up to find his friend standing in the open door of the operating theater. Danny was of Japanese descent with a tan complexion, black hair, and almond-shaped eyes. Having been raised in the States, he had no trace of an accent and he usually wore an infectious smile that got him past a lot of the usual prejudice against Orientals. He’d been a beat cop until recently when Alex helped him make detective. Now Danny had his gold detective badge clipped to the outside breast pocket of his gray suit coat.

“I was going to come see you,” Alex said.

Danny shrugged at that.

“I had to check on a few things with Dr. Anderson anyway,” he said with a grin. “Besides, if Callahan saw you in the bullpen, he could make trouble for me.”

Frank Callahan was Danny’s lieutenant and he wasn’t a fan of magic, private detectives in general, or Alex in particular.

“Were you able to find out anything about the Tisdale case?”

“Yeah,” Danny said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handing it over. “The detective who’s handling the case is named Sheffield. He’s a real piece of work, so I’m not going to be looking through any more of his case files for you. As for what he had, nothing. The police that did the canvass found out that Tisdale visited a chemist right before he was shot, but that’s consistent if he’s an alchemist like you think.”

Alex opened the paper and found a list of chemicals and equipment that Tisdale purchased.

“Did the beat cops find any of this stuff?” Alex asked.

Danny shook his head.

“That’s from the shopkeeper,” he said. “None of it was recovered from the scene.”

“So, Tisdale might have been shot somewhere else, and then ran to where he died,” Alex concluded.

“Or whoever shot Tisdale took them,” Danny said.

If that was the case, it would make Tisdale’s shooting a simple robbery, but why would an opportunistic thief take a bunch of chemicals and chemistry supplies when Hubert had a briefcase full of gold? It seemed much more likely to Alex that whoever shot Tisdale knew about the gold and wouldn’t have cared about the rest.

“All right,” he said, picking up the box of Tisdale’s clothing and handing it to Danny. “Give this to Dr. Anderson when you see him.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Alex caught a crosstown crawler back to his office, arriving just after noon. When he got to his door, he was glad to see that the lights in the office were on and the “closed” sign had been taken in. That meant Leslie was back.

When Alex opened the door, however, he found three men in his waiting room. Two were broad and thick, with flat faces and short-cropped hair. They were standing with their hands in their pockets and their expressions were thuggish. They reminded Alex of nightclub bouncers.

The third man sat on the worn-out couch with his legs crossed and a cigarette in his hand. His suit was expensive and he wore the petulant expression of a person who was used to getting his own way.

“Mr. Lockerby?” he asked when Alex came in.

Alex plastered his friendly smile on his face and shut the door behind him.

“Who wants to know?”

The thug closest to Alex clenched his fists but before he could take a step forward, the seated man waved a hand at him.

“My name is Carlson, Oliver Carlson.”

He said it as if he expected Alex to recognize him. When Alex didn’t respond, his expression soured and he went on.

“I’m the president of Argonaut Chemical. Hubert Tisdale worked for me, and I want to know what he told you before he died.”

“Who?” Alex said, keeping his expression neutral while stalling to give himself time to think.

The bouncer started to move again, but Carlson waved him off once more.

“How many people have you heard last words from?” Carlson asked, a smirk crawling across his lips.

“You’d be surprised,” Alex said, “but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that you mean the man hit by a car yesterday. I know that you found me, thanks to that story in the Times, but I am curious why you care what he might have said.”

Carlson’s sneer melted away to be replaced by a smile.

“You’re wondering if I had him killed,” he said with no trace of offense.

“The thought crossed my mind,” Alex said, glancing at the pair of thugs.

“I suspected Hubert of stealing from the company,” Carlson said. “So I had a man following him. And no, my man didn’t shoot Hubert or chase him into traffic.”

Alex weighed that statement. Iggy had trained him to spot a liar, and Alex had become very good at it. That said, Carlson was either a spectacular liar, or he was telling the truth.

“Now, I’ve put my cards on the table, Mr. Lockerby. I would appreciate some reciprocity.”

“Paul Aaron Monson,” Alex said.

“Who’s that?”

Alex could only shrug.

“That’s what he said.”

Oliver Carlson sat, staring at Alex for a long moment, judging whether he believed him or not.

“Does it mean anything to you?” he said at last.

“Not a thing.”

“How hard would it be for you to find out who Paul Aaron Monson is?”

That sent Alex’s eyebrows rising.

“You want to hire me?”

“You are a private detective,” Carlson said, “are you not?”

Alex considered that. Carlson was an ass and he’d brought his personal thugs to beat answers out of Alex if it became necessary. On the other hand, he was already looking into the elusive Paul Aaron Monson, so he might as well get paid for his trouble.

“I can do a records search for him,” Alex said. “I can also talk to Tisdale’s neighbors and see if the name rings any bells. Have you searched his home?”

“Tisdale had an apartment,” Carlson said, “and when my people went there, they found it empty. According to his landlord, he paid his rent up to the end of the month and told the building supervisor he was moving out.”

That actually tracked with what Flora told him about Hubert wanting to leave town.

“That sounds like something a thief would do,” Alex said. “What did Tisdale steal from you?”

“That’s not your affair,” Carlson said, a note of finality in his voice.

“It sounds to me,” Alex pressed on, “that this Monson person probably has what you’re looking for. If I find him, it would be easy for me to get it back for you. If I have to stop and phone you, however, Monson might disappear.”

“It’s a recipe,” Carlson said after a pause.

“An alchemical recipe?” Alex asked.

Carlson nodded.

“Would you know one if you saw it?” he asked.

“No,” Alex admitted, “but I can bring you every complex-looking paper I find and you can figure it out from there.”

Carlson crushed out his cigarette in the side table ashtray, then stood.

“All right, Mr. Lockerby,” he said. “I’ll give you two days to find Mr. Monson and return my property.”

Alex nodded his assent and Carlson departed along with his muscle. When he was sure they were gone, Alex made his way to Leslie’s desk and sat down on the corner. His hand trembled as he fished a cigarette from his silver case and lit it.

He had just taken a puff to calm his nerves when Leslie’s voice reached him from the hallway.

“Are they gone?”

“It’s safe,” Alex called.

The door opened and Leslie entered.

“I heard them talking when I got back and decided to hide in the ladies’ room. They sounded like trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Alex said, offering Leslie one of his precious few remaining cigarettes. “He wanted to know about Paul Aaron Monson so I let him hire me to find out about him.”

Leslie gave him a distraught look and Alex sighed.

“You didn’t find him?”

“No,” she admitted. “No one named Paul Aaron Monson has been born, married, or died in the city, and there aren’t any property records either.”

Alex resisted the urge to swear.

“There was an Aaron Monson,” Leslie went on, fishing a yellow notepad from her handbag. “He owned a shipping company just after the revolutionary war.”

“Does he have any living family?”

Leslie shook her head.

“He died a bachelor and had no heirs. There was also a Paul Monson, but he died in a shootout with police back in Aught-six.”

Alex ground his teeth. Despite the confidence he displayed to Oliver Carlson, it was going to be hard to find someone who, at least according to the Manhattan office of records, didn’t exist.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Leslie said, reading Alex’s expression.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “You did good. I’ve got to go write some more finding runes, but I want you to go back over to the record office.”

Leslie sighed, then held up her notepad and pencil.

“What am I looking for this time?”

“Everything you can tell me about Argonaut Chemical and their president, Oliver Carlson.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Entering his office, Alex sat behind his desk and pulled open the bottom-right drawer. From inside he removed his mostly empty bottle of cheap bourbon and a glass tumbler. Filling it up two fingers worth, he chugged it down and refilled it again.

His practical side knew he should get to work on the finding runes, but his mind simply refused to focus. In the beginning, he thought that Hubert was conning Flora, getting her to sell her assets then planning to leave her penniless. It made sense that Hubert had a partner and that partner had killed him, but none of that worked with Hubert’s being an alchemist for Argonaut Chemical. Alchemists made good money, way more than could be scammed out of lovesick women. And how did the theft of some secret alchemy recipe fit in?

The more Alex thought about it, the more confused he got. The only thing that made any sense about this case were Iggy’s words to him that whoever Paul Aaron Monson was, Hubert thought he was so important that he said Monson’s name with his last breath.

Twice.

“Stop it,” he growled at himself. He finished the last of the bourbon, then took a stack of loose flash paper out of his desk and set to work creating runes.

He kept going as the afternoon passed, and by the time Leslie stuck her head in, the shadows outside his window had grown long.

“You’re back early,” he said, causing her to laugh.

“No,” she countered, “you lost track of time. It’s late. Let me give you what I found so I can go home.”

Alex sat up as she sauntered into the room and stood by his desk.

“Argonaut Chemical is exactly what it sounds like, although they do more alchemy than chemistry.” She consulted her pad and went on. “They mostly make potions, oils, and additives useful for manufacturing across a dozen different industries.”

“What about Carlson?”

“Oliver Carlson, forty-two, raised in Boston,” Leslie said. “He’s not only the president of Argonaut Chemical, he’s also on the board for Argonaut Holdings.”

Alex wasn’t very familiar with the corporate world, but he knew some companies owned and controlled other companies.

“Argonaut Holdings,” Leslie went on, “own a lumber yard, several canneries, an architectural firm, and even a private bank.”

“I’m sure that’s a great comfort to their stockholders,” Alex sighed.

“That’s all I could find,” Leslie said.

Alex thanked her and bade her “good night” as she headed back out of the office. He’d hoped something suspicious would turn up, but Argonaut Chemical sounded just like any other large business, so he put it out of his mind and went back to work.

He finished the rune he was working on, then took out his screw-post rune book so he could restock it. As the book came free of his pocket, something heavy hit the hardwood and rolled noisily across the floor.

With no one around to restrain him, Alex cursed as he got up to retrieve Mrs. Tisdale’s wedding ring from the floor. Picking it up, he examined it for any damage, then returned it to his pocket. He had almost made it back to his desk before he jammed his hand in his pocket and pulled the ring back out.

Holding the ring under the beam of his desk lamp, Alex turned it over and over, examining every side. After a minute, he nodded to himself, then picked up the candlestick telephone on his desk.

“Hello, Iggy?” he asked once his mentor answered. “Do you know any alchemists? I mean a real good one.”

“Of course,” Iggy said, as if the question itself were absurd. “I know several.”

“Good,” Alex charged on, speaking quickly. “I’ll be by the brownstone in twenty minutes to drop something off to you. Also, do you have a spade I can borrow?”


CHAPTER 3

MAKING MONEY


The grandfather clock in the brownstone’s foyer chimed the beginning bars of “Greensleeves” as Alex opened the vestibule door, indicating it was a quarter past the hour. Usually Alex had a good sense of time, but he had to look up at the clock’s face to find out what the hour was. To his surprise it was nine.

“Well, you look like the very devil,” Iggy observed, looking down from the second-floor landing. “What happened?”

Alex looked at himself. A layer of dry dirt covered his shoes and his trousers, with concentrations on his toes and knees. His shirt was sweat stained and there was black dirt under his fingernails.

“I . . . uh, fell down,” Alex replied.

Iggy gave him a penetrating look as his eyebrows dropped down over his eyes.

“Repeatedly, by the look of it,” he said at last.

“You don’t happen to have a couple of cleaning runes on you?”

Iggy’s eyebrows got so low at that request that it looked like his eyeballs were wearing wigs. Cleaning runes were extremely useful, but difficult to write with lots of intricate work. Alex had come a long way with his rune-writing abilities, but cleaning runes were still beyond him.

Iggy sighed and began descending the stairs.

“I suppose if I don’t, you’ll track that mess up here and I’ll have to use more to clean the carpet.”

He took out a pasteboard rune book just like Alex’s, except the older man’s book had a green cover. He tore out two runes and pressed them into Alex’s outstretched hand.

“Better use those out back,” Iggy said as Alex removed his tie.

Cleaning runes were very good at removing dirt and stains from clothing, but they had a tendency to deposit it anywhere nearby. They were best used outside.

“Are you going to tell me why I had to go out to talk to an alchemist on your behalf?” Iggy asked as Alex headed out the back door.

“Did you learn anything interesting?”

Iggy’s bottle-brush mustache bent upward as he smiled.

“You first,” he said.

Alex hesitated for a minute, then gestured for Iggy to follow.

✧ ✧ ✧

Ten o’clock the following day found Alex sitting in a booth at the Fairlane Diner. It was still early in the day, and he wasn’t really a morning person by nature, but having been raised by a priest who ran a soup kitchen, Alex had developed early-bird habits.

He just didn’t like them.

They did serve him well on occasion, however, like today.

“Why do I have to meet you here?” an oily voice interrupted his reverie.

Alex looked up to find Oliver Carlson, president of Argonaut Chemical, standing over him. True to form, his beefy minions were standing behind him, glaring at Alex.

“Your boys seemed a little antsy last time,” Alex said, pushing over so they could sit down. “I figured a nice public place would keep everyone friendly.”

The nearest of Carlson’s bodyguards growled at Alex, but he ignored the man.

“Your message said you’d found something,” Carlson said, sliding into the booth opposite Alex. The two thugs sat on the ends, one on either side, pinning Alex in.

“I did say that,” Alex said, taking a cigarette from his silver case. “Didn’t I?”

Alex was pulling Carlson’s leg and the man knew it. A predatory smile spread across the man’s face and he held up a solid gold lighter to offer Alex a light.

“You think you’re clever, Lockerby,” he said in a soft voice that carried a wealth of malice. “But I don’t play games.”

As he spoke the thug next to Alex jammed the muzzle of a pistol into his ribs.

“Now,” Carlson continued, snapping his lighter closed. “Have you found my missing property?”

“Did you know that Hubert Tisdale got married?” Alex asked.

Carlson looked like he wanted to threaten Alex again, but the question was so out of the blue, he hesitated.

“I hadn’t heard that,” he said. “Why is it important?”

“He told his wife that he wanted to get out of town,” Alex explained. “Presumably with your stolen formula.”

“My patience for your storytelling is wearing thin, Mr. Lockerby. Get to the point.”

“This is the point,” Alex said, reaching back into the booth behind. As he moved, the thug with the pistol ground it against his ribs. “Easy,” Alex protested.

“Please don’t make any sudden moves,” Carlson said, amusement in his voice. “Maximillian here is a little jumpy.”

Moving slowly, Alex grabbed the handle of Hubert’s briefcase and hefted it over to the table.

“Hubert sold everything he had, as did his wife,” Alex explained, laying the briefcase flat with a heavy thump. He thumbed the locking mechanism, then turned the case so Oliver Carlson could see it. “As you can see, he converted everything to gold.”

Inside the case was a padded well that held forty ten-ounce gold bars. The rest of the case contained an envelope with railroad tickets in Hubert and Flora’s names, a folded letter, a notebook where Hubert wrote down his alchemical experiments, and a Colt 1913 hammerless pocket pistol.

“I removed the bullets from the gun,” Alex said, “but other than that, everything is here.”

Carlson reached into the case and pulled out one of the ten-ounce bars. It was about the size of a normal business card, but with rounded corners, and about a quarter inch thick. The profile of a soldier wearing a plumed helmet had been stamped onto the front of each bar.

“Hubert didn’t buy this gold,” Carlson said. “He stole it.”

“I figured,” Alex admitted. “The gold in this case is worth about eight Gs; that’s enough to buy yourself two houses. What I can’t figure is where he got it.”

“In addition to being president of Argonaut Chemical, I am also on the board of Argo Bank & Trust,” Carlson said. “This gold came from there.”

“Ah,” Alex said, nodding. “The logo, I should have guessed.”

“As appreciative as I am to have stolen gold returned,” Carlson said, depositing the bar back into the briefcase, “I’m more concerned about the missing formula.”

“Well, you can look through that notebook,” Alex said, pointing to the slim volume. “It’s got lots of math and formulas in it, but I think what you want is this.”

Alex picked up the folded letter and handed it over.

“What is it?” Carlson demanded.

“It’s a letter from Hubert to his wife,” Alex explained. “He says that he believes he’s being followed, then he says he’s going to destroy the formula. Says it’s the only way they can live in peace.”

Carlson’s calm expression twisted into rage for a moment but he mastered himself quickly. Opening the note, he perused it, then set it aside and opened the notebook. Paging through it, his face got redder and redder until he slammed it down on the table.

“That’s everything you found in this case?” he demanded.

Alex nodded.

“Well, I’ll thank you for returning the gold, but I can’t take the chance that you have my formula. Maximillian, wait until we’re outside, then shoot Mr. Lockerby.”

“With pleasure,” the big man growled.

The second thug stood and Carlson slid over, closing the briefcase as he went. He attempted to stand but his muscle hadn’t moved out of the way.

“Well, what have we here?” a deep voice asked.

Before Carlson could move, his thug stepped aside and put his hands up. Beyond him stood three men. One of them, a balding man with a no-nonsense look, was holding a pistol on the thug. The man on the left was small and slight, with dark hair, a gray mustache, and horn-rimmed spectacles poised on his nose. The man in the middle was tall, with broad shoulders and the kind of rugged good looks that always attracted female attention.

“I’ll thank you to mind your business,” Carlson said.

“But you are my business,” the big man said. “I’m Lieutenant Callahan of the New York Police, and could swear I saw a stack of shiny gold bars in that case. That’s a lot of money for someone to be carrying in an establishment like this.”

“I’m on the board of Argo Bank,” Carlson continued, his arrogant tone not slipping a bit. “The gold had been stolen by an employee and this man just got it back for us.” He nodded at Alex.

“Well, well,” Callahan said in his gravelly voice. “Alex Lockerby. I thought I told you to stay out of police matters.”

“Finding stolen goods is only a police matter if it’s reported,” Alex said with a shrug and his most innocent smile.

“Is what this man says the truth?” Callahan asked Alex.

“Mostly,” Alex said. “He is on the board of Argo Bank & Trust, as well as Argonaut Chemicals, and those bars were stolen from the bank. The only thing he lied about is those bars being made of gold. They’re fakes.”

Alex turned to look right at Carlson when he finished speaking. Gone was the man’s imperious look and the color had drained from his face.

“I guess I’d better take a look at that then,” Callahan said, wrenching the case out of Carlson’s hands and opening it. He quickly secured the gun, dropping it in the pocket of his suit coat, then picked up one of the bars. “These look like gold to me.”

“They’re supposed to,” Alex explained. “But alchemists have been looking for a way to turn lead into gold for years, so far the best they can manage is an alchemical version of fool’s gold known as alchemical pyrite. It looks like gold for a few days, then begins to break down.”

“Well, Hubert had this for over a week,” Carlson said. “Do they look like they’re breaking down?”

“No, they don’t,” Alex admitted. “But that’s where Hubert Tisdale came in. He worked as an alchemist for Mr. Carlson here,” Alex said to Callahan. “He found a way to make alchemical pyrite that doesn’t degrade. In fact, it will never tarnish, it will always be bright and shiny. It won’t be gold, but it will always look like gold. Except to a really good alchemist,” he added, “they can tell the difference.”

“And these bars are made of this new pyrite?” Callahan asked.

“Yes, but that’s not the really interesting thing,” Alex said, unable to keep a smirk from crossing his lips. “Those bars have the symbol of Argo Bank & Trust stamped on them. If I had to guess, Mr. Carlson here has been substituting gold bars held in his bank for the ones made of Hubert’s persistent pyrite.”

“That’s absurd,” Carlson shouted. “You have no evidence that any of what you say is true.”

“You are correct, Mr. Carlson,” the small man with the gray mustache spoke for the first time, “but I think it bears further investigation.”

“And who, exactly are you?” Carlson spat.

“My name is Peter Willabee,” he answered. “I’m the bank examiner for New York County.”

Oliver Carlson snapped his mouth shut and refused to say another word.

“You’d better give me your gun,” Alex whispered to Maximillian. “I’m rather certain you don’t want the lieutenant to know you were pointing it at me.”

A brief flash of anger lit Maximillian’s eyes, but he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Turning the pistol grip first, he pressed the weapon into Alex’s hand and muttered, “Thanks.” Alex slipped the gun, a Navy Colt 1911, into his pocket and a moment later the booth was surrounded by uniformed cops who took Carlson and his men into custody.

“Not bad, scribbler,” Callahan said as Alex slid out of the booth, last of all.

“I’ll send you my bill,” Alex said without any trace of a smile.

“For what?” Callahan said, not bothering to hide his own smile. “You just called in a tip to the police, and the city of New York thanks you for doing your civic duty. Now get lost, I don’t want to have to explain you to the captain when he shows up.”

With a sigh, Alex turned and headed out of the diner. He still had one more stop to make.

✧ ✧ ✧

Alex caught a cab and found himself outside another diner fifteen minutes later. When he entered this one, it smelled the same as the last: a mix of fried food, toasted bread, bacon grease, and stale coffee. The main difference this time was that instead of being there ahead of his client, his client was waiting for him.

“Mr. Lockerby,” Flora Tisdale said as Alex slid into the booth opposite her. “Did you find my husband’s briefcase?”

“I did,” he admitted. “It was buried in the churchyard at St. Paul’s Chapel behind the grave of a former shipping magnate named Aaron Monson.”

Flora hesitated a moment, mulling over what Alex had said, then her face broke out in a relieved smile.

“That’s very clever,” she said. “Figuring out Hubert’s last words, like that. I am forced to wonder, though, why you didn’t bring the briefcase with you.”

Alex took out his cigarette case and offered Flora one.

“Unfortunately, I couldn’t,” he said, offering her a light. “Right now that case, and the fake gold bars you and Hubert stole from Argo Bank & Trust, are in police custody. They’re evidence that Hubert’s boss, Oliver Carlson, was replacing the bank’s assets with non-decaying alchemical pyrite.”

“Hubert and I never—” Flora began, but Alex waved her silent.

“I know how to read the financial report in the newspaper, Mrs. Tisdale. This morning one ounce of gold was valued at twenty-seven dollars. That means you had over eight grand in that case, so don’t tell me the two of you had that kind of scratch after selling your things.”

Flora’s outraged look disappeared, to be replaced by a conspiratorial smile.

“I can’t fool you,” she admitted, “you’re too smart.”

Alex just shrugged at the compliment.

“You’re also far too smart to have let the police have Hubert’s formula,” Flora went on.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Alex put a folded piece of paper on the table between them.

“I couldn’t have,” he said, “even if I wanted to. That was inside the case when I found it. Hubert explains that he buried the case because he didn’t know whom he could trust. To keep himself safe, he burned his formula so that the only place it would exist was in his head.”

“You’re lying,” Flora accused, her smile twisting into a snarl.

“Read it for yourself.”

Flora crumpled the paper and threw it at Alex.

“I don’t have to read it,” she said. “That recipe was too complicated to memorize. You have it and you wrote that letter to convince me it’s gone.”

Alex shrugged.

“I’m sorry you think that,” he said, “but it doesn’t change anything.”

“This will,” Flora said, setting her handbag on the table with her left hand. When she brought it up from the seat, her right hand followed, holding a small automatic pistol. With her handbag in place, no one but Alex could see the gun.

“Is that the pistol you used to shoot Hubert?” Alex asked.

“What makes you think that I—”

“Argonaut Chemicals had people looking for your husband, but they carry big guns, not the .22 that shot Hubert. Also he mentioned in his letter that he didn’t know whom he could trust. If he trusted you, he would have told you where the briefcase was buried, in case something happened to him.”

“That’s absurd,” Flora growled. “Hubert had no reason to distrust me.”

“It was probably when you tried to get a look at that formula of his,” Alex said. “He figured out that you weren’t just a pretty face, you’re also an alchemist.”

Flora laughed at that.

“How did you figure that out?”

“The main component of most alchemy is a neutral base. It’s almost impossible to get the smell of it off your skin.”

“Now I know you kept the formula,” she said, slipping her gun into her handbag. “A man as intelligent as you would see the opportunity immediately. All you need is a talented alchemist and you could literally make your own money, as much as you wanted.”

“You’re right,” he said. “All I’d need is a talented alchemist.”

“You’ve already got one,” Flora said with a conspiratorial grin.

“You?” Alex asked. “I don’t like the way you got rid of your last partner.”

Flora scoffed.

“He was starting to have second thoughts about the morality of the plan,” she said. “Things a smart man like you wouldn’t bother with.”

Alex sighed and shook his head.

“It’s a nice idea,” he admitted. Reaching into his pocket, he took out Flora’s ring and put it on the table. “Unfortunately, I’m telling the truth about Hubert destroying the recipe. I couldn’t take you up on your offer if I wanted to.”

Flora’s expression went from shock to thoughtful, and finally to anger.

“You’re lying,” she insisted, reaching back into her handbag.

“I’ve known Alex a long time,” Danny Pak’s voice interrupted her. “He’s usually trustworthy.”

“Impeccable timing,” Alex said as Danny stood at the end of the table. In reality there was nothing random about it, Danny was supposed to watch and only approach when Alex put the ring on the table.

“Oh,” Alex said as if suddenly remembering something. “Where are my manners? Flora Tisdale, this is Police Detective Danny Pak. Danny, this is Flora Tisdale, wife of Hubert, the man who was hit in traffic two days ago. Flora is the one who shot him in the back, no doubt that’s what caused him to run into traffic. You’ll find the gun she used in her handbag. Your boys should be able to match it to the bullets Anderson pulled out of her husband.”

Flora shoved her hand into the bag but Danny was watching and grabbed her wrist, pulling it back.

“I think you’d better calm down, ma’am,” he said.

Flora cast one furious look at Alex, then she relaxed and smiled.

“You should have taken my offer,” she purred. “It would have been fun.”

Alex was certain it would have, right up to the moment when she shoved a knife in his back.

As uniformed policemen entered the diner and took custody of Flora and her handbag, Alex got up and moved to where Danny was watching the arrest.

“Any chance you can bill the department for some of my time?” he said.

“Sorry,” Danny said, and Alex knew he meant it. “This isn’t even my case, so I won’t have any pull to add you on.”

“It’s all right,” Alex lied, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “But, that being the case, I’ve got to get back to my office and scrounge up some work.”

✧ ✧ ✧

By the time Alex made it back to his office it was nearing noon. He hadn’t really done much over the past two hours, just sat in two different diners and exposed two ends of the same crime. Still, he felt weary.

“Why the long face, boss?” Leslie said when he came slouching into the office. “Did the bad guys get away?”

“No,” he said as he hung up his hat and trench coat. “Everything went just fine. I should get the key to the city for how easy I made it for the cops.”

Leslie’s face fell and she put her hands on her hips.

“So no money.”

Alex shook his head.

“Any clients call?”

“Not a one,” Leslie admitted. “I’m trying to stay optimistic, but it’s getting harder and harder.” She looked at him with earnest eyes. “What are we going to do?”

Alex took out his rune book then removed a folded piece of paper he had tucked inside, dropping it on Leslie’s desk.

“There’s always this,” he said.

Leslie didn’t speak, she just gave Alex a look that communicated her desire for him to explain.

“This is an alchemy recipe. It turns lead into a fake version of gold. The trick is that unlike alchemical pyrite, which reverts to lead after a few days, this stuff will look like gold until you try to melt it down.”

“So,” Leslie said, “someone could use it to make gold coins, then go around spending them and no one would ever know.”

“Exactly,” Alex said, picking up the formula by the corner. “If word of this got out, it would destroy the world’s economy. Paper money is only valuable because it’s based on gold.”

Leslie exchanged a look with Alex, then she picked up the metal match from the touch tip lighter and ignited it.

“Best get rid of it,” she said. “Too much temptation.”

Nodding in agreement, Alex held the paper over the match, then dropped the burning formula into the ashtray on the desk.

“Since we aren’t about to become fabulously rich,” he said, “I guess we’d better get to work. I’ll go write a few more finding runes while you check the newspaper and see if anyone’s lost a dog we can find.”

Leslie nodded, then gave him a wink and sat down behind her desk.

“Don’t worry, Alex,” she said, opening the newspaper, “things will work out.”

“Thanks, doll,” he sighed, then headed for his office with the smell of the burnt paper clinging to his clothes.

Sitting down behind his plain desk, Alex pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache he felt forming. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, then lit a cigarette, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.


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Framed