Frank Tuttle - The Cadaver Client

The waybill.

“Any of you boys know a Marris Sellway?”

Blank looks and shakes from Argis and Florint. Stupid defiance from Wert.

“That’s very helpful, gentlemen. Very helpful indeed. So. I’m in a generous mood. I might even be willing to intercede on your behalf with Mr. Owenstall here.” I turned to face the grinning force behind Law and Order on Regency Avenue.

“What say you, sir? Shall we spare these miserable urchins their lives, or feed a few of the Brown’s less discriminating catfish?”

Owenstall shrugged. “I’ll let that be up to you, finder. As long as you mention all this to Mama.”

“Deal,” I said. “I wonder if I might ask one small favor of you?”

“Ask.”

“Let’s say you’ve got a nice, sturdy room somewhere. A room without windows. A room that muffles shouts for help, screams of agony, pleas for mercy, that sort of thing.”

Owenstall pretended to ponder this. “I might.”

“Would it be too much to ask to have these three worthies deposited therein, for, say, two full days? Just as guests, mind you. Fed once a day. Food served with tea.”

Instant protests arose from the three worthies, but Bolton showed his knife again, and they fell into a defeated silence.

“Two full days? I think we can do that. Bolton. See to it.”

And that was that. Bolton led them out, and soon Owenstall and I were alone.

“You are a source of vexation for many, finder,” offered Owenstall.

“Nature of the business.”

He nodded. “This ought to make us even, you think?”

“More than even. Way I see it, I’m in your debt now, and then some.”

That’s always the right answer, when you’re speaking to a man who can impart life or death on a word and whim.

We parted friends. I hurried out, looking for a cab. It was time I made the acquaintance of Natalie Mays.

I took a cab down to Rannit’s shiny new business district and hopped out in the middle of Arson Street. I knew it was named for a War hero, but I looked up at all the tall, new buildings and hoped nobody took the name as a suggestion rather than an homage.

I’d heard of the Stig River Runners. They’d made a name for themselves during the War, and they’d maintained it throughout the peace. I guess getting stagecoaches from Rannit to the depths of the Frontier was basically the same enterprise whether you were fending off Troll raiding parties or gangs of bandits on stolen Army horses.

I had no idea where their offices might be. I had no idea whether this Natalie Mays would be anywhere near her father’s office. I had basically no idea what I was going to say even if I found her.

Sometimes you just have to let the situation determine these trivial details. And I did have three items I could at least try to use as leverage. I hoped they were enjoying the hospitality of Owenstall’s windowless room.

All that badmouthing the outlands do about Rannit being filled with stuck-up city folk is nonsense. I found any number of passersby eager to help a stranger find Stig River’s main office.

I whistled. The building was ten stories tall. There was apparently more money to be made guarding stagecoaches than I’d ever imagined.

The doors were huge blood-oak slabs done up in carvings that featured riders and stages and the crossed whip and sword sigil of the Stig River Runners. Inside was a big marble floor and a desk the size of a small house and an honest-to-angels babbling brook that made soothing, bubbling liquid noises all through the place.

There was a woman seated behind the desk. She was tiny and blonde and smiling a practiced, professional smile. She didn’t let it dim or waver just because it was aimed at the likes of me.

I smiled back. The babbling brook made happy noises, so I spoke over them.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I know I’m coming at a bad time, but it’s important that I speak to Natalie, right away.”

The blonde’s smile vanished. My heart skipped a beat.

“Oh no. Is this about the floral arrangements? Don’t tell me they’re really out of blue fireflowers.”

I nodded gravely. “They say they may be able to get some in time, but they won’t be royal blue-more an azure. Oh, and there’s a problem with the seating too. Could you help-”

I didn’t have to finish, which is a good thing, because I’d run out of lies to spin. But it had worked-the blonde raised a finger, yanked at something, and then raised a speaking tube to her lips and spoke urgently into it.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Simmons. Natalie will be right with you.”

I smiled. It was genuine. She smiled back, and it was too.

“Thank you, Miss…” I said. I inserted a careful, questioning silence after the Miss.

“Miss Hawthorne,” she replied. “Miss April Hawthorne.”

I winked and took a leather-bound chair close to the indoor brook. I could have dipped my toes in the stream, were I inclined to part with my shoes.

There were murals on the walls. All depicted the company’s more famous exploits during the War. None were half as interesting as the way Miss Hawthorne looked at me with that impish little half-smile.

We’d done a lot of not talking, Miss Hawthorne and I, before I heard feet upon a distant stair and a polished oak door opened, and a second young woman stepped into the room.

I stood. My smile was broad and civil.

“Good afternoon, Miss Mays,” I said.

“April? Where is Mr. Simmons?”

I took the waybill from my pocket and unfolded it. Miss Mays looked from April to me and to the waybill and the blood drained out of her face.

“Mr. Simmons sends his regrets. But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say anyway. Shall we sit?”

The girl was terrified. She didn’t know my face, but she knew damned well what that waybill meant, and she knew she’d sent her three henchmen into something that had gone horribly wrong.

She knew I was trouble. But here I was, smiling and offering to sit down more or less in public. She wavered between bolting back upstairs or screaming for help, but she finally hid her look of shock and took a seat beside me.

April looked on, confused. I reassured her with a grin and a nod and folded the waybill and sat down myself, turning to face Miss Mays.

She was all of eighteen. She was brown-haired and blue-eyed and pretty. Maybe not so experienced at not talking as Miss Hawthorne, but give her credit, she was looking me in the eye and she wasn’t tearing up or biting her lip to keep it from trembling.

“You know who I am,” I said. I was whispering, barely audible above the helpful babbling brook. “Markhat. The finder. I wanted to come around myself and thank you for sending Argis and Wert and Florint around to see me.”

She swallowed, but wisely said nothing.

“Now, I have to think that your father doesn’t know you’re using his employees as unskilled labor,” I said. “And I also have to think he’s not going to be happy when they don’t show up for work again.”

She blinked at that. I kept smiling.

“So, what’s the occasion, Miss? A wedding?”

“What?”

“Miss Hawthorne there mentioned a floral arrangement. You’re wearing an engagement ring. I assume you’re getting married?”

She struggled to keep her voice level. “In just a few days. On St. Ontis Day.”

I nodded. “A fine choice. My congratulations. Now then, what is it about my waybill that led you to send you friends out to greet me?”

I let her stew a moment.

I sighed. “You’re in over your head, Miss. You sent three of Father’s best to issue a beat-down to a licensed finder. They’re among the missing. What if I file a complaint with the Watch? What if I hire a lawyer and file a suit? Be a shame to postpone the wedding, wouldn’t it? Especially for something so deliciously scandalous. Why, I’ll bet dear old Father doesn’t have a clue what you’ve been up to. Does he?”