The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [70]
“Phillip Crowell…” Valentine pursed his lips. “Your name’s familiar…”
“I usually write under Philip Crowe. You might have read one of my earlier works. I’ve had stories published in a few of the papers, the Observer and the White Star and that. My most popular story was obviously ‘The Doom of Michael Lightman.’ It’s…”
“The Ice House,” Valentine interrupted. “You wrote The Ice House.”
Philip Crowell seemed suddenly, unaccountably shy about his work. “That…was also one of mine.”
“Heh. I read that one. It’s good.” Valentine turned to his partner. “You should read . . . er. I guess, I mean if you had someone read it to you…” he trailed off.
Skinner ignored him. “So. James Crowell had taken the first pages of your next book to the Close, and was murdered shortly afterwards. And you have no idea why, because he never talked about his work anyway, and it doesn’t especially bother you, because you never really liked him anyway. Is that right?”
“Yes,” the young man said. “That’s about it.”
“And you don’t think his murder had anything to do with the trip to Printer’s Close?”
Philip paused. “N-no. No. Why should it? He often went to the close for me. My lungs are weak, so travel is often….what are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting nothing, Mr. Crowell.” Skinner smiled. “Excuse me. Mr. Crowe. I just find it a strange coincidence that your father’s assailants should have such certain knowledge of where to find him.”
“Are you suggesting that I had something to do with this?” Outrage filled Crowell’s voice, but something else, as well: the sharp bite of hysteria. Skinner said nothing, perhaps in the hopes that Crowell’s uncertainty might force him to reveal something pertinent. She was disappointed. After a moment, he appeared to compose himself, and once again began to glower over narrowed eyes and grin slyly. “You don’t know anything. You have no idea who killed my father, or why. You’re fishing.” He poured himself another drink and down it immediately. “I think, my dear Mr. and Mrs. Coroner, that if you’ve nothing else to ask, perhaps you ought to leave.”
Valentine stepped up behind Crowell’s chair, and loomed over the young man. “I think that we’ll decide when we ought to leave. How about that?”
“Valentine.” Skinner got to her feet. “It’s all right. We’re done here.”
The knocker and her companion left Philip Crowell to sit in his hovel and drink. They climbed back into the coach, and Skinner had them head back to Raithower.
“That was unproductive,” Valentine said. “And a little creepy. I mean, he’s a creepy writer. He writes creepy things. But I didn’t think that he’d be creepy.”
“It wasn’t completely unproductive,” Skinner mused. “He knows something. And it’s something to do with Printers’ Close.”
“How do you . . . oh. No. Are you serious? You can hear when someone’s lying?”
“Not always. But there are clues, if you know what to listen for. Changes in pitch, in rhythm. Unfortunately, it’s not enough for me to figure out what the truth is.”
“Oh.” Valentine was silent for a moment. “Hah. That . . . that was pretty funny, when he called us Mr. and Mrs. Coroner, right?”
“What about it?”
“Well, nothing. Just. What about that, right? Hahah.”
Skinner cocked her head to the side. “You are so strange.”
They rode without speaking for a while, the only sounds the creaking and rattling of the coach, and the distant shouts and screams from Mudside. Valentine often shifted his position in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs, leaning against the window, thrusting his chin into his hand. He wanted to do something, to get up and shout that the sharpsies weren’t responsible, that they were after the real criminal already. He wanted to catch someone, to chase someone, to find someone, to do something to forestall the ominous threat to his city that was building.
“Harry!” Valentine shouted