Devil's Workshop

Day said nothing. He was afraid to speak. He didn’t know whether to take Jack literally. Did he mean that Day was free to speak? Or did he mean that he might actually cut the tongue out of his mouth?

“The tailor no longer amuses me,” Jack said. “I’ve grown bored of him. Of course, he couldn’t say anything of interest these days, even if he wanted to.”

“Tailor?”

“I believe you know him.”

“You mean Cinderhouse?”

“Clever boy, Walter Day. That is exactly who I mean.”

“You cut out his tongue?”

“I did alter him a bit. That’s a joke about tailoring. I’m sorry it’s not a better one.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I do.”

“Will you tell me?”

“What would you do with that information? You’re here, he’s there. I’m afraid it would be a useless gesture, were I to give you his location.”

“I was looking for him down here. I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t know you were here or even that you were still alive.”

“So it was the Fates that brought us together. Do you suppose those three fine ladies speak Latin? Perhaps they could translate my phrase for me.”

“How do you know him? Cinderhouse, I mean? Did he come for you? Did he help you kill those women a year ago?”

“The Fates at work again, those weird sisters. I suppose you could say the tailor works for me. Like those policemen work for you. The ones who will be coming to find you here.”

“Are they coming?”

“You said they were.”

“They don’t work for me.”

“They should. You’re smarter than they are. Take the power that is yours to take, Walter Day.”

“There’s no power. We work together. We’re the Murder Squad.”

“Oh, yet another gentlemen’s society. You people are so keen on those. Still, I don’t see them here, the other policemen. I see you here. You were the only one smart enough to find me. You, who are wholly removed from that gentleman’s club of torturers, the Karstphanomen. You, who have braved the darkness. Walter Day, you are the Murder Squad. At least, all of it that matters to me.”

“Sergeant Hammersmith will come. He will find me.”

“Hammersmith? Who is he?”

“A better policeman than I am.”

“Better than the great Walter Day? This I must see. And yet he is your sergeant. You are his superior.”

“I’m no one’s superior.”

“Someone has taught you too much humility. Who was that? Who did that to you? You must have been a child to have learnt it so deep in your bones. Your father, was he in service?”

“He’s none of your business.”

“Ah, so he was in service. A footman, perhaps? A valet?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he did you a disservice. That’s another play on words.”

“He was a good man.”

“Was? He’s dead now?”

“No. He’s alive.”

“When did you see him last?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm. Neither do I. Nor do I actually care. Let me show you something.”

Jack’s hands entered the soft field of light reflected from the tunnel outside. He was wearing brown leather gloves that looked almost orange in the dim glow. They didn’t seem to fit him well. He was holding a black bag. He unfastened the clasp and opened it, drew out a scalpel. He held the scalpel up so that Day could see it, and Day shrank back toward the wall behind him. His chains rattled and clanked.

“I’m having. .” Day said. “I mean, my wife’s having a baby.”

“That’s wonderful. But why should that matter to me?”

“Don’t kill me.”

“Oh, this. Well, first of all, if I were to kill you, your baby would still be born. Baby doesn’t care whether you’re there or not, am I right? But second of all, I’ve already told you I’m not going to kill you. You may take me at my word. Your question should be, ‘What else can Jack do with a scalpel?’”

“Don’t.”

“And the answer is. . I can point with it. Look at this.”

The sharpened tip of the scalpel moved over the outside of the bag and came to rest under a decoration stamped into the leather.

“What does this say, do you think?”

“Initials,” Day said. “Someone’s initials.”

“Exactly. But whose?”

“Is it your bag? Are they your initials? Your real name?”

“Oh, good guess, Walter Day. But no, these are not my initials. This is my bag. But yesterday it was not my bag. And I would like to know who owned this bag yesterday, you see?”

“A doctor?”

“Well, that’s a good start. A good assumption, I think. Yes, I believe, given the wonderful work he did on my own body, that he was and is a doctor. And our mystery doctor left this down here every day, which would indicate to me that this was not his primary medical bag. He must have another bag. I should be an inspector, shouldn’t I? Do you need a new associate?”

“I have-”

“Ah, yes, Sergeant Hammersmith. Perhaps if I make him go away, you and I might be even better friends.” The scalpel was withdrawn and disappeared in the shadows.

“No. Don’t. Leave him be. Um, the initials on the bag are MBB. So you’re looking for someone who is a doctor and has the initials. . Oh.”

“Yes?”

“I can’t think.”

“But you did think. I saw your face. You know whose bag this is. You know my doctor friend, don’t you? You’ve met him!”

“No. I don’t know him.”

“Shh. We’ve told each other enough lies for one day.”