The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [11]
This is it, thought Beckett. The captain took a swing at the old coroner, a right cross aimed straight for Beckett’s invisible nose. Though age and illness had sapped much of the strength and mobility from the body of Beckett’s youth, there were still a few things he knew how to do.
One of those things was what boxers call a slip. He shifted to the side, bending from the waist, and moving his face just barely out of the way of the oncoming blow. Then, without missing a beat, twisted with his hips and threw a left hook right into the captain’s mouth. At the same moment, he reached out to grab a hold of the man’s revolver. The whole thing from rightcross to left-hook took less than a second, and suddenly Captain Whoever of the local gendarmerie found the inside of his mouth shredded by his own teeth, and the pain erupting from his lips sending him to the verge of unconsciousness.
The gendarme staggered to the side, crashing against the bronze fence, blood pouring from his mouth. There was a stunned look on his face. He clutched uselessly at his belt, trying to draw his gun, only to find that Beckett had it now. The other gendarmes rushed forward to come to their captain’s aid, but were forestalled.
Valentine had drawn his pistols. The gendarmes found themselves staring down the barrels of two gleaming silver-plated revolvers. “Don’t,” the young coroner told them, with the wry, malicious grin that said he’d probably really enjoy it if they did.
“Clean him up,” Beckett told the men. “Then set up my cordon. I’m keeping this,” he added, and stuffed the revolver into his pocket.
With what was unquestionably a great reverence for Beckett’s authority, the captain spat a wad of blood out onto the snow. One of his men helped him to his feet, and the captain began shouting orders.
As the gendarmes began to set up their cordon, a young boy approached Beckett and his companions, carrying a letter. He looked at Beckett wide-eyed, then thrust his arm out, offering his missive. Beckett took it, and tossed a copper to the boy, who snatched it greedily from the air, and promptly sprinted off down the street.
“Who’s it from?” Valentine asked, as he held Skinner’s cane while she climbed out of the cab.
Beckett opened the yellow envelope, marked with his name in neat, block print. “Letter shows up for me at the precise moment I get here? It’s from Stitch.”
“Mr. Stitch? Is…is he here?” Valentine’s eyes widened.
Skinner shook her head. “He was. Looked around inside for a little while, then left me here, told me not to let anyone in.”
Valentine tried to glance over at the letter, as he passed Skinner her cane. “What’s it say?”
Offering the letter to his companion, Beckett told him. “It says ‘Not Sharpsies.’”
“That’s it?”
Beckett looked back at the letter. “It says ‘Not Sharpsies.’ Space, dash, ‘Stitch.’” Beckett shuffled around the cab and started across the bridge. Skinner followed directly behind him, her cane waving precisely back and forth in front of her.
“Well,” Valentine came last. “Well, what the hell does that mean?”
The parlor of 612 Bynam Lane was comfortably small, clean and neat. The walls and floor were dark wood, there was a dark red rug with a complex pattern on it, and a small mat by the door on which travelers could wipe their feet. The hall was lit by old-fashioned candles that gave the place a yellow glow. The candles had melted nearly down to the nubs.
“Who lit the candles?” Beckett asked as he and his companions entered.
“Unless it was Stitch, it must have been the family.”
Beckett nodded. “Valentine, put them out. Don’t knock any of them over.”
It was not uncommon for Valentine to receive orders whose purpose he didn’t quite understand. Was it easier to examine a crime scene in the dark, for instance? Would smoke from the candles corrupt . . . something, somehow? Maybe the light hurt Beckett’s eyes. Valentine found a little brass candle snuffer and immediately began snuffing the candles in the parlor.
“Where are we looking, Skinner?” Beckett asked the Knocker.
She shrugged. “I haven