No Pity for the Dead: Chapter Two

My eyes went back to the photos as I walked back into my office. I sat down and picked both up. They didn't look as if they'd been taken recently. These were photographs from the collection of Vivian Vanderhoff. I stared at the book. The leather was cracked and in some places completely gone. The pages looked to all be there, but many looked loose and jammed in with the others. All in all I thought the book looked thousands of years old.

"Yet still intact," I marveled aloud. Vivian had all but called it a family heirloom, and it looked like one. No street value to it at all.

The claw? Well, that just looked like rich person's hoakum; the kind of old relic that people who can afford it buy just so they can say they own it. And yet Vivian had acted as if she absolutely had to have both. And why would a lowlife con man like Arnie Probst become obsessed with items that could in no way make him rich? I'd delt with grifters like him. All they cared about was how much they could take people for. Some just took passers-by for a few berries at a time. Others were like Arnie; they'd pull off any con they thought they could get away with, and Arnie had gone for the biggest. He'd married his mark. He must have been a pretty smooth talker to convince someone like Vivian Vanderhoff to let him put a ring on her.

I looked back at the book. The Codex Rusembrae. I had no idea what the title meant. Sounded vaguely Latin to me. I knew about as much about Latin as I did how to make a fine Martini. Which was a shame because if I knew how to make a fine Martini, I wouldn't need to frequent gin joints so much. It was a bit easier now that we didn't need to use drums anymore.

What this book was, and why it was so important to Vivian Vanderhoff...something about it got my hackles up. When people act like Miss Vanderhoff was acting, it's usually a bad sign. Drugs, illegal rum-running, money laundering, or guns. Sometimes even people. Young girls and boys from other lands, or the country, picked up off the street and whisked away to be sold as property. I'd dealt with all that sick sort of stuff before, and this didn't feel the same, but it didn't feel right.

That was the reason I'd really taken this case. I didn't believe Vivian Vanderhoff really needed these items, nor did I feel they were even slightly as important as Betty Parkins. But Vivian really wanted this book, and the Claw. Something like this book, worthless, and belonging to a person who likely had several other heirlooms and wouldn't miss just one, usually isn't something a dame like her hires a private dick to track down.

But the truth was, even more pressing matters were still weighing on me. I still had a missing girl to find, and while doing so I had to try and keep my mind off last night's events. I straightened my tie, took my deck and Fedora off the desk, and headed out.

"I'll be back after lunch, Glenda," I said over my shoulder as I pulled my flogger off the rack. 

"I'll be holding my breath until then," she said with a sardonic twist on her pert little lips.

"That's my girl," I said, with the same twist. Quite the peach, was Glenda.

My first stop was the newsstand on Fiftieth. Sandy Bernscott knows everything that's happening in his neck of town. Every day I stop by his stand for a paper and the latest rumble.

"Hey, bo," I said, stopping and scanning his rack.

"Zeddicker, you old so and so," he said with a grin. "What brings your ugly mug down here today? New case?"

"New twist," I said. "Old case."

"Aw, don't tell me that little girl is still missin'," he said, his face falling.

"Still. And the case is getting colder, not warmer."

"That's not the usual for you at all," said Sandy, grabbing me a paper. I slipped him a Lincoln along with the fifty cents. "What went down?" he asked.

"Trail seemed to get hot last night," I said. "I'd arranged a meet with Three-Fingers, but he blew it off. Sent a chopper crew instead. They thought they'd drop me, but something grabbed 'em." I'd never used so accurate a phrase in my life. "I have a feeling that he'll have gone to ground after that, but I need to know where he's holding up."

"You think a guy like Three-Fingers is advertising where he is if he don't want to be found?" Sandy shook his head. "I'm afraid I've got nothin' for you on that score, Zed. But, hey, I think some of his boys are still hangin' around. Last I heard ol' Cicci was down at the Eat 'n Bounce last night, chattin' up waitresses and shootin' dirty looks at everybody."

Cicci was known. He wasn't one of the goons I saw taken apart the night before. It sounded like Sandy either knew nothing of what had happened, or didn't want to talk about it, and for that I was grateful, but not surprised. As far as I knew, I was the sole living witness to that display, but by now someone had to have come across the remains. I got deep enough into gangland, and someone would know about it.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Cicci is now, would you?" I asked. The old vendor shook his balding head.

"The Eat 'n Bounce was the last I heard of him for sure, but I do know he's still runnin' play. If he suddenly wasn't where he was expected, I'd know."

"Thanks for that much," I said. I meant it; most people turn their heads away the minute a known mobster walks by. Sandy was one of the few who kept his ear to the ground at least as good as I do. I now knew that while Three-Fingers was hoping four hatchet men would be enough to blip me off, one of his lieutenants was making enough of a show in the Eat 'n Bounce to make its way back to Sandy. I also had a place to start looking for him.

"It ain't much, Zed," said the old vendor. "I'm sorry. Things are gettin' quiet 'round here. People who like to talk suddenly shuttin' their yaps."

"I have a feeling something big is going down," I told him. "It's not your fault, Sandy. But keep your ears open."

"Always do, friend," he said, a sad smile on his face. I turned to go, but another thought struck me.

"Sandy," I began. "Ever hear of a fellow by the name Probst? Arnie Probst. He's a small-time fakealoo artist."

Sandy cocked his head in thought. "Arnie," he said. "I know of an Arnie. Yeah, some fellas from Racks have talked about him. Likes to bump gums and fleece the ladies and a few palookas. What you wanna know about him?"

"Any idea how to spot him?"

"You gunnin' for him? Did he have anything to do with the girl?"

"No," I said. "This is a side case. Nothing big, but he might have something that belongs to someone else."

"Might?" grinned Sandy. "What I know about him, I'd say he definitely does. He's harmless for the most part, though, if you watch your valuables and don't get taken by his graft job."

"Sandy," I said. "How do I spot him?"

Sandy paused and licked his lips. It occurred to me that Sandy might have fenced some of the stuff Arnie had conned off people in the past. I knew not everything Sandy did was above board; hell, most of the people I had watching the streets for me weren't entirely innocent. Made little difference to me; I'm not a cop, nor have I always been within the law.

"I'm not worried about anything else he might have taken," I said. "Just working a smaller case that might involve him. Whatever you know..."

"Oh, well," said Sandy, clearly more relaxed. "Like I said, he's just a con man. Not even a serious one. But if you're lookin' for him, well..." He paused again. "Go to Racks tonight. Look for a small guy with a long nose, thin mustache and a gold ring. The ring's got three tiny rubies inset. That's your man. That's Probst."

"Thanks again," I said. I slipped him another five-spot. "I'll be back tomorrow. Keep those reliable old ears open."

"Always do," he said again, more serious this time.

My first priority of the day was finding Cicci. If my guess was right, he probably had a girl with him in the Eat 'n Bounce. He wasn't the type to go out alone. If he wasn't with his boys, he'd have some doll with him. Probably some chippy he laid down a C for. I'd stop in for a cup of Joe and ask around.

The Eat 'n Bounce was a mid-sized diner on the south of town. It catered to workers and people in Cicci's line of work. It wasn't the type of place I frequented, but plenty of gangsters did, and I was sure that at almost any hour of the day I'd fine either a member of Three-Fingers' or one of his rivals' crew having a bite. If I didn't, the owner might talk if I flashed him enough folding green.

Turned out the owner wasn't there. Pouring cups was a pretty little twist who looked barely out of her teens. There were only three other patrons aside from me. Lunch rush hadn't hit. A slight man with glasses and pens in his breast pocket sat to my left. He had the look of an accountant, which meant he probably did books for one of the city's players. If he was any kind of accountant, he wouldn't be dining on the south side. On the far end of the bar was a grubby-looking man in coveralls. Worker.

On the farthest end of the room, in a booth by himself, facing away from me, was the man I decided I would be talking to before I left. He was dressed somewhat nicely. Not extravagant but he was the only one here wearing a suit. A nice pork-pie sat on the table across from him. I didn't know who he worked for, but he worked for somebody. You learn to look for signs with people. Here was a man out in the middle of the day with a fairly nice suit and hat. He could have been a lawyer or businessman, but they don't tend to dine in the industrial or poorer parts of town, where this guy was. Also their posture is better. This guy looked like he might have money, but acted like a man who didn't.

"Just a coffee," I said. "Black, please." The girl poured my cup as I watched the Suit's back. He seemed hunched in his booth, trying to seem beneath notice. Which means he was drawing my notice straight to him.

"You wouldn't have been on duty last night, would you?" I asked the waitress after she had finished pouring. I put a flirty grin. I figure she was more likely to answer honestly if she thought my interest was in her.

"Naw," she said with a grin of her own. "Shelly was. I took over for her around five."

I smiled again and took a sip of my coffee. "Not much goin' on right now," I said casually. "It usually this dead in here?"

"Oh, not really," she said. She was turning a little pink. The lines I was using could lead to a "what time are you off" question and it seemed like this girlie wouldn't have minded if I had asked her that. This worked for me, because she wouldn't be scared or suspicious of my questions, and would make her more likely to answer honestly. "This time of day, it usually is. I hear there was some excitement last night, though."

"Oh, yeah?" I smiled. We were getting somewhere now, and I'd barely started talking to her. I kept Suit in my peripheral as she talked. "What sort of action?"

"Shelly told me there was a hatchet man in here," she said. "Had a little tomato on his arm. She was this busty blonde thing and one of the other guys at the bar tried chatting her up. Next thing Shelly knew, the guy's got a muzzle in his face and the gangster tells him to blow."

"Really?" I said. This girl liked to talk. The number of local blonde ladies of the evening wasn't small, but it was a good lead. Maybe I could enhance it with whatever I could get out of Suit when I was done here. "Sorry I missed that."

"Yeah," she said. "Me too. I just get the hangovers and coffee breaks."

"Which would you say I am?" I teased.

"Well, you ain't hung over," she laughed. "So what do you do?"

"Security," I replied. Our conversation was over. "You've been a doll."

Her face fell somewhat. Dames, am I right? Anyway, I had bigger fish to fry. Suit was done his meal and digging in his breast pocket. I made ready, but he was just dealing out some loose bills for a tip. I stood and walked over to his booth, sitting down as if I knew him.

"Heya, bo," I greeted. "Nice day."

"Whaddaya want?" grunted Suit. I knew I was right about him now. A lawyer, businessman salesman would have asked something more like "who are you?" or "what can I do you for?" This guy knew I was after something, and didn't bother hiding it. Also he did have a gun under his jacket. Wallets didn't bulge like that.

"Cicci was in here last night," I began. Might as well be direct. "You know where he is now?"

The hood's eyes narrowed. "Who?" he asked.

"Don't play that game with me," I growled. "You know Cicci. Everybody knows him. He was in here with some ankle, and that means he probably went to a flophouse afterward. Any of this sounding familiar?"

"Listen, pally," muttered Suit. "I don't talk to cops. And I don't know anything about Cicci. I don't run with him."

"Yeah?" I put my hand close to his wrist. He tried anything, I could grab him before he got too far. He noticed this, and sweat broke out on his forehead. "Who do you run with?"

"I told you, I don't talk to cops," he squirmed a bit, trying to see if he could get his gun hand to his holster before I grabbed him.

"I'm no cop," I said. "Just an interested party. Listen, word is that most of you are making yourselves scarce."

"There's always a few of us around," he said, trying to bring an edge to his voice.

"Really? Well, unless I miss my guess, there's not a lot of incentive in it for you. Something happened last night, didn't it?"

The punk was really sweating now. "I don't know nothin' about that," he muttered.

"About what?" I asked. "Something did happen, didn't it?"

"Leave me alone," he growled. "I didn't have nothin' to do with that."

"Do with what?" I asked again. "Listen, boyo, I don't know or care who you are. What I do care about is where Three-Finger is holing himself, and I need someone who'll talk. This ain't about your cheap stuff. I know something happened last night and by now, it's probably the talk of gangland. It's got the big boys scared, and what scares them scares me."

"What's it to you, anyway?" he asked. "If you ain't a cop, who do you work for?"

"I work for me," I said. "And I gotta know where Frankie Three-Fingers is, or who can tell me where he is."

"Three-Fingers ain't in town no more," said Suit quickly. "He left Cicci running things but nobody seen him after last night."

"So you do run with him," I said. The punk's eyes widened.

"I ain't nobody," he said. "But what you said about something happening? Well, I don't know what happened, but the big boys all cleared out of here by midnight. Cicci acted like he weren't worried. I don't know where he is now."

"Maybe you don't," I said. "But you know where he was supposed to be. That's why you're suddenly squealing. You know something ain't right."

"Nothin's right," said the hood quickly. "Ain't been for a while now. People are disappearing. It's downright spooky. I mean, people always disappear this end of town. But there's usually a reason for it. There ain't no reason for this."

"You were supposed to meet Cicci here, weren't you?" I asked. The hood barely nodded. "And then?"

"Then we were supposed to go to the Chilton," he said. That was a hotel in the heart of gangland. "That was supposed to be where he worked from until Three-Fingers came back."

"But he wasn't here, and he wasn't there, either, was he?" Suit's nod was barely perceptible this time.

"How long's this been going on?" I asked. Suit was genuinely afraid, and not of me.

"Too damn long," he answered. "I don't know for sure. But guys..." He paused and licked his lips. "Guys been disappearin' from locked rooms, from cars that were bein' watched. I...I don't go out at night no more."

"What's your name, friend?" I asked.

"I ain't your friend, and you don't need my name," said Suit. "Just...listen, if you're involved in this, get outta town. That's where I'm gonna go. It ain't safe here no more."

"Hey," I did grab his arm now. "How does no one else know about this?"

"Let go of me," he said with a snarl in his voice.

"I will," I said. "Just tell me. How did this not get out?"

"Because it doesn't happen!" he squeaked. "It ain't...natural. How can stuff that doesn't happen...happen? What do you say about stuff like that? Who'd believe you?"

"You've seen something, haven't you?" I whispered.

"No," he replied flatly. "I never saw nothin'. Now let me go."

I let him go. He immediately rose, put his hat on, and departed. I stared after him.

Something had been going on in the underworld for some time, and this was only just now reaching me. The major players were getting scared, and this middle-man was clearly terrified. I had to find Cicci and I had to find him now.

No Pity for the Dead: Chapter One

"Christ, Zeddicker," came the gruff voice from the doorway. "Do you ever clean up in here?"

"Ah, close your head, you old sap," I drawled, taking the Fedora from off my eyes to look Louden in the face. "Nice trip up north?" I slid a Lucky from the deck, lit it, then passed the deck and match book to Louden.

"Quarry's up state right now," grinned the squat man as he sat in the chair opposite mine. Louden's a part-time bounty hunter, one of the best. When he's not on the hunt, he works as my driver and body-guard. I like to joke that I'm the brains, he's the muscle. People don't like to believe that, naturally. But don't let Louden's height fool you. He's five-foot-five of pure Irish fury, and he's taken down men twice his size without breaking a sweat. Drives good, too.

"Sounds like you had some action," I said, sitting up and taking my feet off my desk.

"A bit," admitted Louden, lighting his own Lucky. "Find the girl?"

"Ah..." I paused. Louden was a little personally involved with this case, being a father himself and all. He'd want to hear that I'd found her, and she was back safe with her family. But I wasn't about to lie to him. "There was...a dust-up." I rubbed my eyes as I tried not to think too hard about what I'd seen the night before. That just wasn't something I was ready to talk about.

A guy like me, over 40, still single, involved with the law on one side or the other all his life, dealing with lowlifes and toughs on a daily basis...well, we see things. Lots of things. More than your average Joe, let me tell you. You start to feel like you've seen it all. I now knew that I had not, and part of me didn't know how to deal with that. Laying awake last night and counting the cracks in my ceiling, I started wondering just what else I didn't see. If a group of torpedo men can be torn apart by what my eyes and brain still told me was living hands of shadow, just what else was waiting in the darkness, in the silence? When half your world is dark and quiet, and you've never really liked either one, giving yourself another reason not to trust the two of them could be a short ride to whacky-town.

"Dust-up, huh?" came Louden's voice. The man's ruddy, flat face was full of concern. "She's still out there, isn't she?"

"My friend," I began, searching for the words. "Last night was supposed to be the deal going down. I had the cash, hidden close to the river. I was ready to make the trade, or at least see if she was alive and all right. Three-Fingers didn't show. He sent four goons to rub me out. I looked for the girl after it was done, but she wasn't there."

"Damn it," he hissed. He took off his newsie cap and ran a hand through his red hair. "This is gettin' big, Zed."

"You're tellin' me," I shot back, taking a long drag on the Lucky. "This one may be bigger than both of us, Loud."

The little man stood up, smoothed back his hair and put his cap back on. "You tell the father yet?"

"Tell him what? As far as we know, she's still drawing air. I'm gonna have to find a few of Frankie's thugs and lean on 'em a bit more. What happened last night wasn't planned on either side. They're likely running to ground right now. I should be able to flush out Frankie's hidey-hole, and from there, Betty Parkins."

Louden cocked an eyebrow. "What did happen last night, Zeddicker?"

I sighed. Time for some creativity. "They jumped me. Four of them, all armed. Pulled out some Chicago type-writers and were ready to pump me full of holes."

"And you got them first, am I right?" Louden knew how things usually went when people point Roscoes at me.

"They ain't poundin' pavement anymore, that's for damned sure," I said, relieved that I didn't have to lie but also didn't have to tell the whole truth.

"You couldn't have left one alive to squeeze for information?"

"Wasn't left much choice."

Louden nodded as if he understood. If only he really did.

"Listen, Zed, I got some place I gotta be. When you gonna need the old heap again?" The flivver I was driving last night is technically Louden's. He comes with the car. Out of town jobs he usually uses another, and lets me keep the Model M.

"Can you be back after lunch?" I asked. "I'll make the rounds and try and flush out Three-Fingers' boys, but after that we gotta do the hunt."

"Meet you back here," he said, tipping his lid my way. "Thanks for the snipe."

"Any time," I flipped a small salute back at him.

The life of a PI in this town is full of ups and downs. Long, boring stretches where not much happens. You mostly keep your own hours, and decide for yourself how many people to bring into the business with you. I kept Louden on retainer, but he was really his own man. If he wasn't available, I couldn't make him be. My only full time staffer was Glenda, my girl Friday. She answered the telephone, handled my account books, brought me coffee, the works. She was presently at her desk, sorting through expense reports, a Pall Mall in her other hand and the radio on, playing something with a lot of swing to it.

I stood and went to the window. Somewhere in this city, a fifteen-year-old girl was sitting in a locked room, probably at least one Bruno with a gat sitting with her. Lord alone knows what she'd been put through by now. Three-Fingers claimed she wasn't harmed, but who knew what that meant? Mentally tortured may or may not be "harming" her, same with raping her. Could Three-Fingers be that sick? Could one of his goons? I didn't like thinking about that.

I heard the intercom buzz twice before I answered it. "Zeddicker," I said.

Glenda's voice sounded tinny and buzzy like it always did when she used that contraption. "There's a lady to see you," she said.

"I don't have anybody on my docket," I answered.

"She doesn't have an appointment, but says it's urgent," Glenda replied.

She. Glenda knows I don't need a name. I'm not about to turn away a dame without at least hearing her out. "Go ahead and send her in," I sighed into the mic.

Women. They're all over the place. I've known my fair share, and I like dames just find. But they can be trouble. Most of them are, even the ones that don't look like it. This one looked like trouble. She was slim built, lithe, filled out her skirt like a second skin, honey-blonde hair playing over her shoulders in lazy half-curls. Eye-lashes longer fourteen to eighteen and probably left as many men devastated in their wake. Tiny mouth like you'd find on a China doll, but call this one "doll" and you'd probably find your next words muffled by your own feet.

"You're Zeddicker?" she asked, with faint disdain in her voice. This broad was cold. That was a voice hardened by life.

"On my best days," I answered.

Inwardly, I frowned. I could see this shaping up to be bad news. See, women like this walk through my door and I'm usually pretty sure I know how it will end; poorly, and for both of us. Not all my clients are dames, but when they are, things take a different path. A few of those dames aren't above ground anymore. Sometimes it's because I couldn't protect them, and sometimes...well, let's just say not all my clients have my well-being at heart. I've had to defend myself against women scorned, and husbands and lovers angered. Women like the skirt in front of me are both my specialty and my downfall, and I ain't proud of either end of that.

"They told me you're good at the kind of help I need," she said, the flat tone still in her voice.

"Well," I said. "That all depends on what it is you're after." I pulled a Lucky part-way out of the deck and extended it to her. She waved a hand, declining.

"I need something found," she said. "The police would be...unhelpful in this matter. Discretion and caution are needed, but must be coupled with ruthlessness when it comes to tracking this item down."

I motioned for her to sit. She had piqued my interest, in spite of myself. "And I assume," I said, taking my own chair. "That you feel the police's level of discretion and caution are, shall we say, lacking."

"To say the least," she said. "And their ruthlessness is not at all what our local mob might have you believe. At least not in the matter of finding items of uncountable worth."

This woman was clearly in a lather. Whatever it was she lost, it was beyond vital that she get it back. Clearly the item's value wasn't the issue. She probably had a few things worth as much as whatever she lost, but I could tell from the change of tone in her voice when she began talking about it that this was bigger than money to her.

"I didn't catch the name, Miss...?"

"Vanderhoff," she said. "VivianVanderhoff. So, Mr. Zeddicker? Have I come to the right man?" She had lowered her voice and put some extra breathiness to it. Oh, no, this was not going to go right for me at all.

"You've hardly told me anything yet," I said. "But so far, I hear enough to make me want to listen to the rest. Can you tell me more about this lost item?"

"It wasn't lost," she said, irritation marring her voice. "It was stolen from me. Something like this I would not allow to simply go missing. It was taken. From my home and right under my nose. The situation is intolerable, and I would see it rectified."

"Miss Vanderhoff," I said. "If you could describe the item, or..." I got no further. The small handbag at her side was suddenly in her hand, and she was pulling out a pair of rather large photographs. I took them and looked at them incredulously.

"A book?" I asked. "What could thieves possibly want with a book?" The thing looked old, even ancient, and crumbling. The binding looked like old leather, and the pages, brittle and tattered, the ink looked faded. There might be antique value in such a thing but nothing a thief would find worth the effort of stealing.

"Mr. Zeddicker," she began. "There is not another book like this in the world. It has always been owned by my family, and is currently my prize possession. Nothing is worth more to me."

"Yes, you've made that clear," I replied. "What's this second item?" I had only just noticed that the second photo was different. It looked to be a long, oak staff, carved in a way that made little and less sense to me the more I looked at it. It ended in a splayed, golden head in the shape of a grasping talon (or a claw), holding a large sphere of what looked like pure glass. The black and white copy made it hard to see if the orb had any color to it. "You only mentioned one missing possession."

"That's the second piece to it," she replied as if that answered everything. "Without it, the book is useless. I'm certain that wherever the book is, you will find that as well."

"What exactly is it?" I asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

"Its name would mean nothing to you," she said. "Call it the Claw of Hargon if you must call it anything. It matters little that you know what it is, just that you find it."

"Claw," I repeated. "Of Hargon. And I assume this book is some kind of...foreign folklore?"

"Again, Mr. Zeddicker," she said. The coldness was back. "What this book is has nothing to do with the matter at hand. It is gone, and it must be recovered. I was told you were the man for this sort of work. I need a good man for this. Are you that good man, or are you not?"

I put the photo down on my desk and stood. I snubbed out the butt of my Lucky and went back to the window. I could feel her eyes on me from behind. I heard her rise from her chair and come to stand nearer to me. I turned back to her.

"Miss Vanderhoff," I began. "I already have one active case, and it's a pretty high priority one. In light of that case, you'll forgive me if this one seems slightly...inconsequential. You're missing a valuable. My current client is missing his child."

"I'm not made of stone," she said. Could have fooled me, sister. "I understand that I would not be your only client. But if there were someone better I would be in his office right now. Instead I'm here."

"You'll understand, then, if I do take this case, it won't, in fact can't, be my top priority?"

Her mouth tightened at my words, but she was in a bind, and I could tell. She needed my services, and she'd probably tried other avenues first. That meant the cards were in my hand, and I'm good at cards.

"As long as you understand," she began. "That this matter is time sensitive. I require the book and the claw back in my possession prior to Friday evening."

"You never said anything about that," I said, eyes narrowing. I didn't like this. It was already Tuesday. What could this broad need this stuff for? "You're putting me behind the eight ball. You understand my services don't come cheap."

"I should hope not," she sniffed. "I'm prepared to double your usual fee." This broad was serious. My standard fee is two C's per job, plus expenses. If my case load were heavier, I'd be a rich man. She bit her lower lip and waited for my reply.

"So," I said. "When did you see them last?"

"Wednesday the nineteenth," she said. "Of course, I can prove nothing, but my ex-husband has been after me for these items for the past three years. He's the only lead I can offer you, but it should be enough to start."

"Ex-husband?" I said. Inwardly, the alarm I always ignore started clanging. "How long has he been outta the picture?"

"In terms of our marriage, it ended two and a half years ago," she said. "At least, officially. But it's been almost a decade since I walked out on him. If you do meet him, you'll understand why I did. He's a rude man, a graspy man. He cares for little but himself. He made pretenses of being a man of good standing and breeding, and he may well have been at one time, but it was only after marrying him that I discovered he was little more than a small time grifter by that point. He was plainly and obviously after my money, and began spending it like a Roman, including on expensive ladies of the evening, and if he paid me any attention it was usually the wrong kind, if you understand me."

"I get you," I drawled. "Sounds like a real prince. What's he been up to lately?"

"Oh, his usual game," she said. "He runs his little cons on everyone he meets, and has had several women on the string at any given time. But when he learned of the book, he became obsessed. In the divorce settlement he tried to claim it, but I won. Since then, I hear from him at least once a month. He makes up reasons to come by, usually demanding a larger share of my estate than the settlement granted him, other times making overtures at mending fences, even rekindling the romance. But he's transparently after the book. He mentions it at some point every time. This month, I have yet to hear from him. Odd, coming this late. And then, this past Wednesday, the book and claw both vanish quite mysteriously."

"You're right," I said. "That does sound like a good place to start. Okay, Miss Vanderhoff, consider my services retained. I'll need a carrot to start, plus your ex-husband's name and where I can find him."

"Arnold Probst," she said. "Goes by Arnie. And you can generally find him in the evening at..." The note of disdain came strongly back into her voice. "Racks. It's a combination pool hall and...male entertainment facility. He's usually there, watching women whore themselves for money and running his confidence game."

Arnie Probst. Shouldn't be a hard man to find. He sounded like every other penny-ante card shark hustler I'd ever met up with. Ought to be duck soup to get the wire on a goose like that.

"As for your retainer," continued Miss Vanderhoff. "How much do you require?"

"Half," I said. "Standard."

"Half of double," she said flatly. "So your full fee, then. Very well, Mr. Zeddicker. I've made it plain how urgent a matter this is. You can expect my first check at the end of the day. When can you begin?"

"I can start this evening," I told her. "Again, I'm taking on this job in addition to the ongoing case, so I can't make any guarantees as to how long this takes."

"Understood." Her demeanor relaxed a bit and she put a bit of sway into the hips as she sauntered for the door. Gams like that, it was no wonder the con man came a-callin'. But something told me she hadn't been hurting for play since giving that crumb the gate. I gave my head a shake and went to get the door for her. "If that's all for now, Mr. Zeddicker, then I leave you to it. I will be in touch." I noted she had neglected to give me any means of contacting her. She wanted some measure of control in all this.

"That'll be aces," I said. "But there is one more thing. I know you don't want to tell me too much, Miss Vanderhoff, and I won't ask much more than this. But in my line of work, you gotta keep your ear to the ground. And that only works if you know what to listen for. So I gotta know; what's this book called?"

She looked annoyed. Her nose rose a bit and when she spoke that low, smokey tone had left her voice. "Very well," she said. "I suppose there was no avoiding it. But careful how you toss this name around. If the wrong people heard it..." She stopped and took a breath. "The Codex Rusembrae. Again, in the wrong ears..." She left her words hanging, but I got her.

"Mum's the word," I assured her. She seemed to accept that. The relaxed stance she'd adopted came back. She gave my disheveled office a once-over and tossed a last glance my way.

"I can only hope you're as good as I've been told," she murmured. She turned and sauntered through my outer office, barely acknowledging Glenda's presence.

I paused by Glenda's desk and reflected on my last twenty-four hours. Shadows of eyes and teeth made of shadow. A book with an eldritch title and ancient look. The Claw of Hargon. What on earth had I gotten myself into?

"You glom the pins on that chippy?" she snarked. Glenda and I have an understanding. I understand she herself is a fine tomato that would prefer to remain on the vine and she understands that I understand that. Glenda's a fair dish in her own right, even could take on Vivian Vanderhoff, but she and I kept our relationship above board. It was better for everyone that way.

"Her?" I replied, grinning. "Oh, you know how they are. Danger in a skirt."

"Yeah," she said. "I know how they are. And I know how you are. You like danger. And judging by the way she walked out of here, she got what she came for."

"Jealous, dollface?" I smirked.

"Wouldn't you just love that," she said, smirking just as broadly. "But you know what I mean. You took her case, didn't you?"

"You know me," I admitted. "I could never say no to a dame."