The Case of the Carbon Clawmark: An Inspector Lorkin Adventure
The Case of the Carbon Clawmark: An Inspector Lorkin Adventure
Inspector Lorkin clicked his beak closed around the stem of the pipe, leaning against the sturdy brick front of the Absynthe Bank and Clove Shop, 21 Flock Street, Rear Entrance, and stroking his chin. The little bells and chimes of the holiday-decorated carriages rang happily as they spun by, and he pondered and puffed lightly.
The wind rushed up the street from the dock area, and the rich scent of over-ripe manure burned his nose and tickled his eyes, the coldness of the winter gale making the wingless gryphon pull his coat closer around himself.
He took a long draw of the pipe to drown out the unpleasant smell, and twin jets of smoke cleansed his nares of the stink.
"Inspector, sir."
His assistant, a cloven-hoofed goat with a seedy-looking black goatee (of course), had a file for him.
"Another escaped prisioner, last night. Maybe it was him."
Inspector Lorkin took the file, and glanced at the cover sheet. A large, blurry, black and white, but glossy print of a surly looking Drake apparently arguing with someone slightly off frame decorated the cover.
He flipped it open with a claw, and skimmed the list of crimes. Bookmaking. Licentious Behaviour Unbecoming To A Gentleman. Breaking and Entering. Burglary.
There was nothing here which had to do with Murder. He flicked the folder closed, shaking his head, and returned the folder to Hendrickson.
"Let's have a look at the scene of the crime. You best get home to your old nag. Have a good holiday."
"Yes, sir."
His assistant breathed a sigh of relief, and went off down the street.
Inspector Lorkin turned and went into the place of business. The main part of the shop was accesssible from the front side of the building, and back here the enclosed hallway smelled of herbs and metal. The crime did not appear to have anything to do with the nature of the business.
The lakegost bobbies guarding the door at the end of the hallway against intrusion stepped aside when Inspector Lorkin showed his badge.
"Awful sight it is, sir,"
"Terrible, jolly terrible,"
"And at the season, too,"
He gave the pair of birds a nod and stepped between them into the scene of the crime.
It was a small square room papered in paisley with a chimney on one side. A desk was sitting in the center, with a chair pushed half back from it. In the chair, the sad victim of the crime, who was yet to be identified, slumped, leaning backwards, the sparrow's jaw twisted at an awkward angle as he stared up at the ceiling, an expression of apparent terror melded to his features.
A bulky looking bear in an ankle length greatcoat was examining the corpse without touching it, leaning over the body and looking down at its face as he drummed his claws on his waiststrap.
"This is very curious indeed," Inspector Hawthorne glanced up. "Lorkin. Good to see you, chap. How are the eggs."
"Very... noggy. What's happening here, Hawthorne."
"It seems that the odd bird here, we can call him Mr. Chirp, was sitting at his desk when he met his maker.
"You can see from a cursory examination of the body that the fellow must have died quite suddenly. Sparrows normally have strong hearts, so fright could not have been the cause, though there are no obvious marks on the body."
"Were there any papers found on the desk?"
"No, the entire area was clean as a peacock's tail. It's as if the poor bastard just dropped out of the sky and landed here, stone dead."
Inspector Lorkin clicked his beak a few times, twisting his head to look at the chimney, where a few black marks of soot showed where it had last been used.
"Perhaps here we shall find a clue," He took a couple of strides across the room, and bent down to look into the mantel. Sweeping his paw across it, he could feel a faint warmth.
"Clearly something was burned here quite recently."
He then brought his eagle eyes to bear against the soot marks. They were a brilliant black, and slightly curved, like the crescent of a week-old new moon.
"Hmm..." He chewed his pipe, then turned back around.
From this side, the scene of the death was even more macabre. The victim was splayed out in a gruesome tableux, with his eyes staring blankly upwards at the ceiling, beak open as if to launch into a song which would never come.
Inspector Hawthorne had retreated to the doorway.
"I'll be on my way if you don't mind, sir." He said. "This type of thing gets to my stomach, and along with the wife's cooking..."
Inspector Lorkin nodded, and gestured dismissively. "I'll let you know if I find anything of interest."
He peered down into the sparrow's dull, black eyes.
I wonder what kind of name you may have had, he thought to himself. Jim, or Jake. Jack Sparrow. He hummed to himself, clicking his beak. Then he looked down at the body again, and then his eyes widened slightly, and he looked upwards at the ceiling.
There were a few black scratch marks there, mixed in with the wallpaper, and the Inspector squinted his eyes tighter, focusing in on them.
Then he walked to the doorway, where the bobbies were still at attention.
"Who discovered the body?" he asked.
The one on the left shrugged, but the one on the right said, "I believe Inspector Hawthorne called in the crime, sir. He was first on the scene, anyway. We answered the call and arrived only a few minutes later."
Inspector Lorkin slid his claws through the feathers on his cheek, then pinched his beak and nodded, taking the pipe out of his mouth and tapping it several times. He then dipped a claw into it and left a mark on the inside of the doorframe as the bobbies watched in mystery.
"Well, I'm all done here. You fellows should stick around for a while, I'll have a relief sent for you."
"Thank you, sir," the bobbies nodded to him. "You're a fine chap, you are."
"Don't mention it." Inspector Lorkin walked back onto the street, glanced up and down, then hailed a cab.
A transom quickly pulled up at his cry and stopped. The turtle on top of it slipped down and opened the side door for the Inspector.
"Where to, sir?"
"Take me to this address." He passed a small card to the cabbie, and slipped into the cage.
The tortoise took a few moments to scramble back up to the top of the transom and start the horses off, and the crowded streets made progress difficult.
He was completely amazed when, upon arriving at the destination and opening the door for his passenger, no one exited his carriage. But inside was the full fare, wrapped in a band clipped from a newspaper.
He squinted in confusion, but took the money and went on his way.
Inspector Lorkin pressed himself tight down against the roof of the building across the street from the scene of the crime as he heard loud footsteps approaching, then a cloaked figure entered the door of 21 Flock. Then the sound of a muffled voice from inside the building across the street floated up, unintelligible at the distance.
There was some muffled sound of other voices, and then some movement as the two bobbies left. Lorkin waited on the rooftop, still as a statue, with eyes as sharp as an eagle, watching the doorway.
He listened too, ears as sharp as a hawk's, though there was nothing to be heard but the hustle and bustle
A few moments later, the relief appeared, and entered the building.
Lorkin could hear more discussion, and then the same cloaked figure left the doorway. He took this moment as a sign to appear.
"Oy there!" Inspector Lorkin called from the roof. The figure seemed to freeze for a moment, and then turned. It was an unfamiliar face that took the old bird a few moments to place. A new recruit to the force, Officer Swan Lawnsdale.
"What are you busy with up there, Lorkin?" Lawnsdale called from the street, the prettybird practically glistening in the streetlights after recognizing who it was who had hailed him.
"I was looking for something." Inspector Lorkin said, and then leapt from the rooftop, his heavy cloak flapping behind him as he dropped the two stories, landing in a perfect crouch with a light thud, then rising once more. "And I believe I've found it."
He grabbed Lawnsdale by the shoulder.
"Would you care to explain what you're doing mixed up in a murder?"
Lawnsdale gasped.
"Sir--" he coughed. "But how did you know, sir."
"Let's say I have a woman's intuition."
The gryphon clicked his beak. "And a swan, too. I think I understand what took place, here.
"Two days ago, this room was rented under an assumed name to a Monsignor Galurich. Another room was rented directly above by a -different- assumed name. Herr Hailmarie. Both obvious fakes.
"Clearly, this was being done in order to spring some nasty trap of blackmail on an unsuspecting gentleman. Or someone believed to be a gentleman."
The swan let out a small cry of fright.
"Exactly, Officer Lawnsdale. I believe when we unravel this puzzle, the fate of the recording spools with both -your- little midnight assignation and that of the true culprit will become clear.
"Now, you might ask, what could cause the death of a Sparrow, and by shock, nonetheless. Hearts so legendary in strength that the greatest of heroes in the Great War were all of that calibre. My study of pupils has been extensive, and the signs were clear. Our unknown friend, and I shall see to it that he remains unknown, died from a sudden shock to the system.
"Since we can rule out physical, we must consider psychical. What do we notice unusual about this particular bird? I'm sure you looked at the corpse, Officer Lawnsdale. I'm -quite- sure you know the corpse, and in a much more biblical sense than is in common use -these- dark days. But I'm also sure, from your actions, that you were not responsible for it."
Officer Lawnsdale started to cry. "I don't know what happened... I cared so much. And even after the blackmail began, I couldn't stop coming here to meet him," the swan shivered. "He was perfect, perfect--"
"There there," Inspector Lorkin comforted, "We've all had our minor infatuations, though in this case I see the condition was terminal." He sighed, and patted the young recruit on the back. "Come this way, and I'll show you his murderer."
He lead the recruit back up around the corner, then to a ladder that lead up to the rooftops of the streets across the way.
"Now we must keep quiet, and still." He whispered to Lawnsdale.
They sat in silence, looking at the empty street below. Time passed slowly, slower than ever as the stakeout continued.
Officer Lawnsdale blinked away his regularly falling tears, and watched the empty street below. The night was calm and silent, and there was no sign of anyone at all.
Suddenly he felt a nudge at his side. Inspector Lorkin pointed at the rooftop across the street. A thin, dark figure moved from chimney to chimney, looking in each, then finally slipping down into the one directly across, disappearing from view.
"Looks like either old 'Nick still makes deliveries even to the dead, and he's not up to date with his nice-or-naughty list... or we have our man! Now fly over there, and make sure he doesn't escape!" Lorkin hissed to Officer Lawnsdale, and leapt into the darkness over the edge of the roof.
The next day, all the newspapers were abuzz with the news. The crime had been cracked, and the culprit caught, thanks to the cleverness of Inspector Lorkin and a new policeman, Officer Lawnsdale. "Surely, this young swan has many songs waiting to be sung about his future deeds."
The crime was described as "an affair of the heart," and the newspapers described the sadness of a spurned lover, who, bent on revenge, throttled the life out of his partner. A picture of the culprit, a seedy looking ferret covered with dust and stains, and wearing a pair of climbing claws as he was dragged into the docket, appeared on the cover, though there were no pictures of the victim and he remained unidentified by the police.
Inspector Lorkin closed the paper and pushed it across his desk.
"That story will be good enough for the papers, don't you think, Officer Lawnsdale."
The swan gulped a bit. "I suppose so, sir."
"Now let's interview our prisoner, and have his story out of him before he is sent away."
It was only a short walk to the interview room, where Mister Pawsley was waiting, prisoner, for his deposition.
Inspector Lorkin held the door for Officer Lawnsdale, and the pair sat down opposite the twitchy looking mustelid.
"Now sir, if there's any good in you, I'd like you to come clean and give us your whole story." Inspector Lorkin stated simply, then waited.
There was a long pause of silence before Pawsley began to speak.
"The thing was this, sir," Mister Pawsley said, "I had wanted to make a pretty penny from the blackmail, and I knew Lord Leffrinson pretty well from when he'd been slumming in my neighborhood.
"Everyone in the neighborhood knew what he liked, from the baker's boy to me, a poor chimney sweep. And he'd had no end of partners.
"I loved him so much, I couldn't stand that there were other birds borking the fellow. So I rented a pair of rooms back of the old spice bank and got a recorder ready. I told Leffrinson about the one, and gave him my spare set of keys. Then I retired upstairs to record.
"It was working great. A few nuffs from me, and a peek at the spindle, and a hint, and soon Lord Leffrinson had hardly anyone to muff him.
"But there were a few doffs who didn't respond naughtly to the notices. So I started making meself a pretty penny with the payments." The blackmailer eyed Officer Lawnsdale suspiciously. "I think you look a wee bit familiar, mate."
"None of that, ruffian," Inspector Lorkin click clicked his beak, and gestured to the prisioner. "Continue."
The ferret frowned and tilted his head down, and seemed for a moment as if he would refuse. But then he went on, the talkative race never able to keep their tongues from wagging.
"The only thing I hadn't had a figure on was Lord Leffrinson himself. The bird was an odd bloke. Willing to do just about anything for a pod, but shy as a untamed mare if you know what I mean. I'd followed him from the bar to the bank, and slipped up to my room. Got the camera set up and everything, and I hear this squeaking gasp from below. Didn't know what had happened until I played back the reel and found a corpse.
"So I slipped out quick and dumped all the tapes with a fellow I know, sailor type, who likes that sort of thing."
Officer Lawnsdale jumped, and Inspector Lorkin had to push the swan back down into his chair.
"Oh don't worry," the prisoner nodded. "I thought I recognized you. My friend's very quiet. The spools won't get out unless I don't before he returns."
"And I'd presume..." Inspector Lorkin began.
"A two-year tour, yes," The ferret volunteered.
"That ought to be sufficient." Lorkin gave the criminal a nod. "But once your 'friend' returns, you must have the tapes to me, personally, or there'll be hell to pay."
"Quite all right." The blackmailer nodded congenially. "I just have one question for you."
Inspector Lorkin raised his brows.
"How did you catch me?"
"There's one thing you forget that a chimney carries besides sweeps." The inspector nodded. "Soot. And you left claw-marks about the room where you recovered all the evidence from about the body.
Pawsley slumped down a bit in his chair.
"It was a simple matter for me to recognize the marks as machine-made. And then deducing that a ferret sweep was somehow involved was the next step.
"The rest, as they say, is history." Inspector Lorkin gave the prisoner a nod. "Now go and serve yourself a year and a half for a crime in the moment of passion, and begone, never to mention what took place to anyone ever again."
The Inspector rose and gestured for Office Lawnsdale to follow.
As they departed the station to return home for the holiday, Inspector Lorkin nodded to the bereaved bird.
"I will make sure that Lord Leffrinson's family receive news that their son volunteered for His Majesty's Service, and tragically died in the heroic line of duty somewhere-or-other. And the rest of the matter," the Inspector said, "can remain only in our memories."
FIN (12-5-2010)
Acknowledgements to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allen Poe for this particular subgenre. Happy Holiday wishes to everyone, and especially to members of the Force! Thank you for keeping all of us safe, and have a wonderful year!