[MalReynolds]

Much to Pip’s dismay, the tea kept in the house of McClaren was a weak Langford, causing Pip to exhaust some of her own personal stash of Grey.

“Otherwise, I can’t think straight,” she said, moving about the kitchen.

“While she’s setting up a mess in the other room, I’ll run distraction. Mr. McClaren?”

Mr. McClaren was as Irish looking as his name would allow. He was around six and a half feet tall with a tuft of red, curly hair that looked like it was plopped onto his otherwise pale skull by a canister of whipped cream. His eyes were a bright green, in stark contrast to the sheer normalcy of Druthers’s pupils, which were a sad gray.

“Yes?”

“How do you know my client?”

“Mr. Druthers?”

“Unless you some how know my other clients, then yes, Mr. Druthers would be the one I’m referencing.”

“He’s the town planner. I had to go to him to get the zoning to have an extension put onto the back of my house. He’s a good natured fellow. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I’m not terribly keen on that expression. Yes, it means he wouldn’t harm a nuisance of a person – that’s always how I’ve interpreted it, but to compare a fly to a human would have to make the human being compared to the insect a despicable mess. One that flitters about with wings and makes a disagreeable noise. Of course, if he couldn’t be bothered to hurt an insect – another way to look at the expression, it would, in the event of his guilt, make him look even more sub human to value a life under that of an annoying flittering thing with wings.”

McClaren stood at him, his right eye open slightly more than the left. “You talk so much, Mr. Linner.”

“Please, Mr. Franklin Abigail Tendersmith Lumley was my father. Call me Sid.”

“Right, then.”

“Next question, Mr. McClaren. Did you kill Frenchie Rawles?”

“No.”

“The answer a guilty man would no doubt give.”

“Or an innocent one,” Pip said, popping her head from the kitchen. “Just keep that in mind, Sid.”

“Right. An innocent man wouldn’t exactly admit to murder, unless he was mental. You’re not mental, are you?”

“No.”

“The answer a sane man would give.”

Druthers sat and watched the exchange, which carried on in a similar manner for the next ten minutes, growing more and more frustrated with the lack of actual progress. Finally, after Sid told McClaren that his answer was, “The answer a man who is not secretly a penguin would give,” he stood.

“I think you’ve exhausted the line of questioning with McClaren, Sid. Perhaps it’s time to move on. It clearly wasn’t McClaren. I think after such excessive questioning, any man would admit guilt just to get away from you.”

“One of my many tactics,” Sid said. “But yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ll go for a walk about town. The grocers seemed like they were rife for questioning.

“One final thing, McClaren – do you think it’s possible for a parakeet to wield a hammer?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Very well. Druthers, you keep good company. We can do business.”

But before Druthers could protest that they were, in fact, already doing business, Sid had slipped out the door and into the daylight sun.

-

Sid, however, did not go to the grocers. He found the doors had been shut tight, and instead found himself wandering down a side street, in the direction of the fire house. As he passed an alleyway, he, by pure chance, turned and saw the organ grinder standing in the square, playing a sharply funny tune while his monkey danced around. A few townspeople watched and dropped coins, and Sid could not help but smile. The monkey was a cute cuss, and the grinder a squat, fat Italian man with a handlebar moustache. They played directly across the plaza from the ruined apartments.

Sid’s attention was so divided that he walked straight into Clark B. Auger, who, even if Sid had been paying attention to his current foot path, would have been stepped on, as he was unusually short, even for a short man.

“Excuse me,” Sid said. “I didn’t see you down there.”

“Excuse me?” Auger said. “Down there? Down where?”

“Near the ground, as you are quite short. I’m not looking for pennies, and as such, I didn’t see you. So I apologize.”

“Who are you?”

“Another apology. I’ve failed to introduce myself. My name is Sidney Linner, known around these parts as Sid Linner. I’m a private investigator, looking into the accidental death of Frenchie Rawles.”

“Bloke was murdered,” Auger said. “And I’ve heard of you. Caught a fella’ with a piece of string and tape, did you?”

Sid nodded. “And a small British girl. Everyone forgets that one. She’s a disagreeable cuss, though. Should have let the man keep her.”

“Awful notion.”

“Is it common knowledge that Rawles was murdered?” Sid asked.

“It’s a small town,” Auger said, turning to the town square. “Everyone lives on the square. Everyone saw the fire, everyone saw the body get wheeled out. Word travels fast. And Rawles wasn’t exactly the nicest fella’, so… Some people started counting their blessings. When they thought it was just a fire that done him in, they said it was an act of God.”

“And what when they found it was murder?”

“They said it was an act of mercy. Rawles kept pushing law suits on everyone. We don’t even have a barrister here, so the lot of good it would do, but he kept pushing them around like they was going out of season, or like they was some kind of bug about to go extinct or like they was some kind of rare gem or like they was some kind of cloud that you only see once. Threatened me with one, and I head up the police force.”

“Ah, so, you’re Clark Auger.”

“How’d you know?”

“I don’t go into these things blind. I did my research before I came. The file also said you head up the fire brigade.”

“That’s for true.”

“Can you tell me what exactly started the fire? I know it started in the kitchen, but the file didn’t get any more explicit.”

“Looked like a wonton cigarette did the trick. Which is odd, on account of Mr. Druthers don’t even smoke from what I know.”

“Odd indeed. Can you tell me, do you know who does smoke?”

“Well, I do. McClaren does. Marble Finley, the grocer, she does. Tim Shopper, Frenchie Rawles, we all carry smokes. Mr. Linner, everyone in this town smokes except Mr. Druthers. Which is all the more ironic his flat should be the one to catch fire first. Especially from a cigarette.”

“And you couldn’t match it to the smoker?”

Auger shook his head. “We only get one type of cigarette here. Parliament. They’re bloody awful, believe me, but it’s what we can get. The only kind. Parliament in the flat, but that’s what we all smoke. The only thing we know is that Druthers didn’t start the first, at least, on purpose, but that don’t mean he didn’t take a hammer to Rawles.”

“You’re being most helpful. Was anyone else in the apartment?”

“No. Two sets of foot prints. Rawles’s and Druthers’s. That’s what we got before the floor completely gave way. Pretty incriminating, don’t you think?”

Sid sighed. “I’m afraid it is, isn’t it. Does not bode well for my client. However, I’m bound and determined that he is an innocent man and will do everything in my power to prove him as such.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The guilty people typically don’t ever get around to paying me, as they’re too busy running from the law to send a courtesy check or money order.”

“Oh,” Auger said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Cigarette?”

“No thank you,” Sid declined. “I don’t smoke. Nasty habit. Starts fires, didn’t you hear?”

Auger smiled. Sid noted his missing teeth.

“One last question, Mr. Auger. Parakeets – do they have the musculature to wield hammers?”

“Ah… No. Not in the least.”

Sid nodded, and took off down the road