Murder at the Kinnen Hotel (3 page)

Adamat was ready for her skepticism. “Powder residue in the bath. Reports of a shot fired at six this morning from the roof of a tenement east of the Kinnen Hotel—and, by the way, tracks in the snow on the rooftop. The window was open two inches and a straight line can be drawn from the victim’s head to the window, and to the distant rooftop.”

Hewi’s annoyance seemed to ebb. She let out a whistle. “This has all been documented?”

“The precinct artist is giving me a likeness of each location, including the footprints on the roof.”

“All right, detective constable. What about the shot from the room? Powder fired from a pistol makes a different sound than powder burned in the bottom of a bathtub. How do you account for that?”

“I understand that powder mages can warp the blast of the powder with their minds. Replicating the sound would take practice, but it’s entirely possible.”

Hewi reached across her desk for a jar of tobacco then packed a pipe before lighting it with a match. She puffed it to life then pointed the stem at Adamat. “You know, you have a hard time getting along with the other constables because you always have the answers.”

“They’re just theories, ma’am,” Adamat said. He understood that it had been meant as a compliment, but frankly it annoyed him that other constables couldn’t see what he saw. Investigative police work was not common practice in any force that he’d heard of. It was considered right and proper to take everything at face value.

“They’re damn good ones,” Hewi replied. “And it’s why I brought you with me from the Twelfth.” She let out a sigh. “It’s damn good police work, but it may be for nothing.”

Adamat blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

“Commissioner Aleksandre came by about an hour ago. He heard about your powder mage theory, and the fact that you let Ricard Tumblar go home. He ordered that we arrest Tumblar and charge him immediately.”

“That’s preposterous!” Adamat sat up straight.

“I’m aware,” Hewi said, her tone level.

“You said yourself that it was damn good police work. And the pistol was clean. It couldn’t have been Ricard.”

Hewi gave a slow nod. “I told the commissioner that you had a good reason not to suspect Ricard. Do you know what he said?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t give a damn. He wanted Ricard arrested, and he wanted Lieutenant Dorry given the lead on the case. The commissioner said, and I quote, ‘I want Ricard facing the guillotine within two weeks.’” Hewi snorted.

Adamat set his jaw. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I smell something foul in the air, captain.”

“So do I, but I had no choice. We’ve already arrested Mr. Tumblar. You should head home and get some sleep. No doubt the commissioner will be around within the next few days about Dorry’s complaint.”

Adamat got to his feet, feeling deflated. He’d finished the first leg of the investigation with confidence. He knew he was right about the powder mage, just as he knew that someone other than the cook had possibly killed Viscount Brezé. And he’d had his investigation taken right out from under him. He went to the door and stopped there, staring at his hat.

“Adamat,” Hewi said, “you said that was only the first part of your theory. What was the second?”

Adamat turned around and gave her a tight smile. “That the success of framing Ricard Tumblar depended in part on the incompetence of the police of the First Precinct.”

“I see.”

“I’m thinking now that they depend on a little more than just incompetence.”

Hewi tapped the bowl of her pipe in the palm of one hand. “Adamat.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

Adamat ducked his head. “Of course, ma’am. Would never dream of it.”

Adamat left the precinct building and made his way to his favorite cafe just off the public square. He needed someplace he could think, and oftentimes the buzz of a busy cafe gave him just the right amount of useless noise that allowed him to focus on the task at hand.

What task at hand?
he asked himself as he was seated at one of the window tables on the second floor. He
had
no task. Just a few days at his newest assignment, and he had already been kicked off one investigation by the leading officer and another by the commissioner himself. He should be focusing on how his career could recover from this whole debacle.

Adamat ordered his tea and stared out the window. He found himself wondering about Melany, Ricard’s mistress. A beautiful girl and, knowing Ricard, intelligent and witty. Who was she? Did she have friends or family in the city, or was she a foreigner, as suggested by her dark skin? In the rush of the afternoon he’d overlooked sending someone to notify her next of kin. Clumsy and inconsiderate of him. He would have to rectify that in the morning.

Adamat could see out the window and down the street where a city worker was clearing the snow off a scaffold in the center of the square. The middle of the scaffold was dominated by an immense guillotine—a tool of the Iron King that reminded both his friends and enemies who held the power of life and death in Adro.

The guillotine saw use almost every day for all manner of crimes, and Adamat recalled reading that this particular guillotine had been in service for almost nine years straight. The blade was removed and polished regularly, the mechanisms replaced to account for rust, but the main frame was the original.

He still remembered reading about the first guillotine in the newspapers when he was a boy. The Iron King claimed it would bring dignity to and remove suffering from state executions. The newspaper had called it “industrialized death.”

Thanks to the commissioner and whoever was pulling his strings, Ricard would face that blade within the next few weeks. And Melany, his mistress, would be a byline in the scandal that would ruin Ricard’s dreams of unionization.

Adamat, ever the good public servant, would be expected to bury his powder mage theory and quietly follow orders. Perhaps in a few years his obedience would be remembered and he’d receive a promotion. Granted, of course, that he not stir up trouble between now and then.

That was the system. That was how it was supposed to work for the men and women who held power. Everyone was expected to fall in line behind them.

Adamat considered himself a quiet man. Even at his age he preferred to spend his free time with his wife than late nights playing billiards at the tavern. He didn’t like attention, and he considered it the duty of the police to do their work with discretion.

There were times, he decided as he drained the last of his tea, that discretion wouldn’t get the job done.

This might be the stupidest idea he’d ever considered. This might end his career, or even get him killed. But then what was one man’s career against the life of another? Or against justice for a slain woman?

He held his hand up to attract the waiter. “A pencil and paper, please.”

“What the pit do you think you’re doing?”

Captain Hewi had intercepted Adamat as he came into the precinct building the next morning and hurried him into her office, slamming the door behind her.

“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am,” Adamat said, giving her his best blank look.

Hewi slapped his chest with a handbill and rounded her desk, where she quickly packed a pipe and began smoking up a storm. Adamat looked down at the handbill. It was a single sheet of paper, the kind that newsies handed out on the street corners once they were out of proper newspapers. They often contained advertisements for plays or local businesses.

This particular handbill belonged to the
Yellow Caller
, the publication of a disreputable and widely despised printer that specialized in sensational and misleading headlines.

“Police of the First Precinct cover up murder committed by mad powder mage,” Adamat read aloud. “Local businessman takes fall. Powder mage still at large, quite dangerous.”

“This was your doing, wasn’t it?” Hewi demanded.

Adamat held the handbill at length to examine it. Cheap quality paper. Several words misspelled. Typical of the
Yellow Caller
. “I know nothing about it.”

Hewi glared at him. “I’m certain you don’t, and you better stick to that story when the commissioner gets here. He’ll arrive any minute, and he wants your head.”

“Why my head?” Adamat asked. He tried to keep his breathing steady. He wanted attention and this was not unexpected. But he’d hoped to attract a different kind of attention first.

“Don’t patronize me,” Hewi said, pointing her pipe at the handbill. “Officers are forbidden from speaking to the newspaper about an existing case without permission from their superior.”

“They do it all the time,” Adamat said.

“Just because no one follows a rule doesn’t mean that the commissioner won’t enforce it at his leisure.”

Adamat gripped the head of his cane, not looking the captain in the eye. “Well,” he said quietly, “It’s a good thing the
Yellow Caller
isn’t a newspaper.”

Hewi seemed to consider this then shook her head. “You’re too clever by half, Adamat. The commissioner can still ruin your career.”

“Everyone knows the
Yellow Caller
is rubbish. This handbill will be forgotten by the end of the week.”

Hewi threw her arms wide. “Then why bother at all?”

Adamat opened his mouth to answer but closed it again as the door to Hewi’s office burst open. Commissioner Aleksandre strode into the small room, his face red, his chest heaving. Adamat took an involuntary step backwards and reflected on the resemblance between Aleksandre and Lieutenant Dorry.

“What,” Aleksandre said, throwing a handbill identical to the one Adamat still held down on Hewi’s desk, “is that?”

Adamat considered informing him that it was a cheap handbill, but one look at Hewi and he swallowed the quip.

“I was just discussing that with the special constable here,” Hewi said. She stared Adamat in the eye as she said it, and her face clearly said,
This is your problem. You deal with it.

“Oh?” Aleksandre whirled on Adamat. “Would you like to explain it to me, then?”

Adamat pretended to examine the handbill in his hand. “It appears that my investigation yesterday was leaked to someone at the
Yellow Caller
and they’ve printed a gross misinterpretation of my conclusions.”

“A gross … “ Aleksandre sputtered, his face growing even more red.

“I can start an internal investigation immediately if you’d like the culprit found,” Adamat continued, “but I think it’s better to ignore this entirely. After all, you’ve instructed us to disregard the powder mage theory and focus on Ricard Tumblar. It’s just the
Yellow Caller
, sir. No one will remember this within days.”

Hewi made a strangled sound in the back of her throat and began coughing pipe smoke.

Aleksandre’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m a fool? You think I don’t know you did this?” He snatched the handbill out of Adamat’s hands and tore it in two, letting the pieces flutter to the floor. “What do you hope to accomplish, aside from the complete destruction of your career?”

Adamat glanced at Hewi, who gave the slightest shake of her head.

“Sir,” Adamat said, “I swear I had nothing to do with this. I’m not even on this investigation anymore. I have no interest in the proceedings.” He prayed that Hewi had not mentioned Adamat’s previous relationship with Ricard.

“The constable has an impeccable record,” Hewi said. “That’s why I brought him with me from the Twelfth. He’s honest to a fault.”

Adamat felt the sweat beading and rolling down the small of his back. Hewi had just put her head on the block next to his, and now all he could do was hope that Aleksandre chose to ignore the entire debacle until it went away. Based on the quality of police work at this precinct, it wasn’t out of the question.

Aleksandre slowly let his smoldering gaze fall then began to pace the length of the room. He continued to do this in silence for almost a full moment before turning on Adamat once more.

“You are going to the newspaper this instant. The
Adopest Daily
. The owner is a friend of mine. You’re going to give an interview that will be on the front page first thing tomorrow morning, in which you state that your theory of a powder mage assassination was a foolish, silly proposition, and you have no idea what came over you. You’ll tell the newspaper that you’ve gladly handed the investigation off to Lieutenant Dorry, who will no doubt close the case in a matter of days.”

Adamat swallowed. This was not what he’d expected at all. The commissioner’s anger? Absolutely. An attack on his credentials and his career? Certainly. But for the commissioner to order Adamat to debase himself publically?

“Those aren’t the facts of the case, sir,” he said, ignoring Hewi’s furious hand signals to shut up.

“This is the First, constable,” Aleksandre said, “and the facts are what I say they are.”

Adamat’s hands were trembling. He was furious now, and he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but bite his tongue and head to the
Adopest Daily
where he would sully his own name and be glad to do it.

There was a knock at the door.

“Tell me,” Aleksandre said, “that you understand me perfectly.”

Adamat looked at Hewi, then at his hands. The knock came again, more insistent.

“Oh, what is it?” Aleksandre snapped.

The door opened to reveal a woman in her fifties. Of medium height, with long bony fingers and a gaunt, pockmarked face, she wore a frayed brown suit that had seen many years of use and held a matching bowler hat in her left hand. Her hair was short and gray, cut just above the ear. She was the type of person who looked like she had somewhere particular to be but you couldn’t quite put your finger on where.

“Constable White reporting for duty, sir,” the woman said to Commissioner Aleksandre. “I’m here to help Special Detective Adamat in his investigation.”

Aleksandre looked at Hewi, then back at White. “I don’t know who the bloody pit you think you are, but I’m going to give you until I finish this sentence to get out of this room.”