The Stray

Crossroad

The Shadow (#ulink_1eb41fcc-2510-5dfc-9b14-d89c8ddec95c)

Adele's (#ulink_e94840f4-70bc-5459-87ad-5fe9552e340d)

Andrew Lloyd

"Good thing I'd left my gun here. The night is so quiet sometimes." he said as he entered the detective agency. The door closed behind him with a resounding slam.

The woman on the other side of the desk, typing out some incomprehensible notebook notes, jumped with a lump that had knotted in her throat without warning. The man walked towards her without lifting the brim of his hat with his index finger to hide his eyes or remove his raincoat.

"Didn't go, boss?"

"That bastard Jimmy's gone rogue. One more time." Mason Stone leaned his elbow wearily on the lamp on the desk of his assistant, April Rosenbaum, a very blonde girl from a good family who, for her age, could have been his little sister.

"He seems to do that when you look for him."

"It's not that it looks like, he does it on purpose!"

James Garfield, one of her informants, was a man who favoured easy joys and cheap vices. When he disappeared, you could be sure he had plucked someone's chickens or left a big hand uncovered in some gambling den.

"When I get my hands on him..." he promised.

"I forgot; you have visitors." April pointed with her eyes to the closed door of Mason's office. The detective turned to look too, as if he could see through the walls.

At first, he grunted, surprised, then, annoyed, asked, "Federal?"

"I don't think so..." replied April, biting her lip at that forgetfulness.

"How is he dressed, like a dandy?"

"He gave me the impression he was a Wall Street guy," she tried to make up for it.

"Even worse then," sighed Mason. He had never taken his eyes off the door.

As he entered his office, the dusty light from the window illuminated his mottled clothes. The hubbub of the door opening awakened the man at the back of the room, who was looking out over the beautiful view from the wall of the building opposite. His hands were buried in the pockets of his mouse-grey suit. He barely turned his head, as if he did not expect to see anyone enter. For his part, Stone did not say hello. He closed the door behind him, shook out his raincoat, which fell better on him, and walked over to the filing cabinet against the wall. He opened the top drawer and took out a small revolver. He checked that it was loaded, rotated the cylinder and closed it with a flick of his wrist. He put the pistol down and lit a cigarette. He did all this without so much as glancing at the man who, in the meantime, had approached and was standing three steps away from him.«Mr. Stone?»

"Bingo."

Only then did the man extend his hand. To return the gesture, Mason should have moved closer. He didn't.

"If it's for Senator Marlowe's campaign, forget it: I voted for the other candidate."

"No Mr. Stone, I'm not from the committee," the man explained, unable to stifle a nervous giggle.

"Then who is? I've had a bad night and will most likely have a worse day, help me with this transition."

"Andrew Lloyd." he hurried on.

"Good. What can I do for you, Andrew?" the suit was as FBI as he was a prom queen.

"I want you to find out who killed Elizabeth Perkins." he said all in one breath, as if a weight was being lifted from his stomach.

Mason Stone stared at him for a moment, the cigarette between his fingers wearing away uselessly. "Go on."

"Elizabeth used to work for me at Lloyd & Wagon's. She was my secretary."

Mason tucked the cigarette back between his lips and turned his back on the man, reached a hand towards the filing cabinet and picked up the small 6mm. "Yes, the name rings a bell. If I'm not mistaken, though, the department already has its suspect. All you have to do is get your hands on him."

"Exactly."

"Then why hire a private investigator for a case that only needs the word 'finish'? Is your wallet weighing you down?" he said slipping the revolver under his raincoat, behind his back.

"They're not doing enough."

"Really?" Mason turned to look at him, amazed.

"You know the police have bigger problems to deal with these days, too!" Lloyd snapped, as if Mason had just slapped him.

"The fight against smuggling is an invention of the mayor and a press affair, even the walls know it but that's no reason to take your frustration out on me. Do you remember the promise you made to me? I'm going to have a very bad day ahead of me so now you sit there and tell me why Papa Stone has to take this cat into the bag. That's a good boy." Mason patted Lloyd's cheeks a couple of times and pointed to one of the chairs opposite the desk. Now that he had rattled him, the man was ready to talk. Mason treated his clients like the scum he hunted. It served to strip them of the masks they wore. "Would you like a tonic, Andrew? I'd offer you something stronger but these are the times."

Lloyd refused with a wave of his hand. Once he had sat down Mason resumed.

"Why are you convinced that the police aren't doing everything they can in the Elizabeth Perkins murder?" the detective leaned back against the filing cabinet, his fist on his temple lifting the brim of his hat a few inches.

"First of all, I don't think the culprit is her husband, Samuel."

"Do you know him?"

"No, and Elizabeth didn't talk much about his private life but I know they were happy."

"Human nature is as treacherous as a mother-in-law, you should know that. I'd advise you not to put your hand in the fire for anyone, especially a stranger."

"I need you to do what the detectives aren't doing."

"And that would be?"

"Investigate."

"What if they're not overlooking anything? What if they're doing everything in their power to bring justice to the girl?"

Then I will accept it but I need the evidence, Mr. Stone. I need to know."

"Your bond must have been very strong for her, and not someone from Elizabeth's family, to come to me."

"From what I know she had no one but Samuel."

"That is a very sad thing but nevertheless it does not answer the question."