Commins' Case: Bloody Burlesque ✅

Chapter 4

I do another circuit of the building, pulling at the bars until I find one that comes loose. It's covered with rust and groans when I tug; this bar will not come easy. I blow into my palms and rub them feverishly together, then take hold of the loose bar and brace my boot against the wall. I bare my teeth, and the veins in my neck stand out. The bar first bends, then comes free with a loud twang.

I fly backwards, stopping myself with my foot before my body smacks into the building next door. I wait a moment in the ensuing silence to ensure no one heard. Now I have an opening, and the bar will make a decent weapon.

I break away any remaining shards of glass that I could cut myself on and drop the bar inside before hoisting myself through the window. Legs first, I slip through to the other side into an empty room with high ceilings and a cold fireplace. The hardwood floor is covered in a thick layer of undisturbed dust. Cobwebs festoon the corners. I wipe the dust off of my coat and have a look around.

A ghostly apparition hovers in a dark corner.

-

I leap back and raise my rusty sword in defence as if that would do any good against a non-corporeal being. For a moment, my heart pumps blood in my ears. Then I realise this is not a ghost at all, but a grandfather clock covered with a white sheet.

A laugh works its way up from my chest. I shake my head and shake my head as I swing the bar up to rest on my shoulder. I breathe a sigh of relief and, from the corner of my eye, see a shadow detach itself from the deeper gloom. Something crashes into the back of my skull before I have time to react, and the lights snuff out.

-

When I finally swim up from unconsciousness, I discover that an army of angry bees have taken up residence in my head whilst I slept. They buzz and sting, and life is miserable. Waking up was a mistake. I want so much to go back into the soft black of oblivion, but a tiny warning bell chimes at the back of my mind.

There is a light on, the glow penetrating the membranes of my closed eyelids. Water drips, and chains clink. The air is cool. I remember infiltrating the young man's headquarters and having the back of my skull bashed in as a result; The pain at the back of my head flares in response. It takes some effort, but with grunts and grumbles, I peel open one eye.

I'm in a basement, and I've been trussed like a Christmas Day turkey. My legs are tied together and suspended above me, and my hands dangle an inch off the stone floor. The light is coming from a naked bulb hanging from the inverted ceiling. It seems as though the decorator went for a look that suggests gothic castle meets fetish club; he succeeded. Chains, whips, knives and other unpleasant instruments adorn the walls. Dark red splashes stain the floor and walls and somehow managed to get on the ceiling. At least none of it is my blood; not yet, that is. I will have to think fast if I want to get out of here.

-

Before I have the opportunity to form a plan, the door swings open. The young man walks in with a leather paddle in his hand and asks, "Who are you?"

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past," I tell him in a ghostly tone. "You've been naughty."

He laughs, gives the leather paddle a few practice swings, making whooshing sounds as he slices the air. "You're a funny man. But if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm going to hurt you. A lot."

One glance around the makeshift dungeon is enough to convince me that this man is serious. He holds the paddle closer for my inspection; it's a well-made piece of equipment, most likely handmade. He slaps it into his hand with a loud thwack.

"I'm a detective. Claude."

He nods. "Jessie; pleasure. And why were you following me, detective?"

I snort as though that should be perfectly obvious, but he only awaits my answer. "Because you tried to kill Marie," I say.

-

He looks at me as though I am the demented psychopath in the room. "You think I brought down that scaffolding? I have every intention of killing Miss Marie ala Mode," he says, "but not until I bring here to have my fun with her."

A horrible weight settles in my stomach as I realise he is no sorcerer, just an ordinary, unimpressive serial killer. He isn't the one who killed Georgette or Angelique. Meaning, whoever attempted to drop that lighting fixture on Marie's head is still out there.

He reads the expression on my face and laughs, "Someone else is trying to kill her? Well, that's the least of your worries. I doubt there would be too many people who would miss a lowly private eye. I can take my time with you." He takes a curved blade from the wall and tests the edge with his thumb. "I don't normally go for blokes."

"What a shame," I tell him.

He kneels and places the edge of the blade against my left cheek. "Let's see how funny you are without your face."

I screw my eyes shut and prepare myself for the searing pain of the blade dragging across my skin, opening up my face like a zipper on a child's schoolbag. A fine mess I've found myself into this time. He is a killer, but not the killer. My client is out there, totally exposed, with no protection, whilst I'm in here, about to be peeled like a bloody potato.

-

Before Jessie can begin slicing, there is a knock at the door upstairs. His head jerks up towards the basement ceiling, almost as though he can see right through the floor.

"I can come back later if you have company."

He pulls the blade away from my face and goes to the basement door. "Hang around," he tells me.

I fake a laugh to indicate that I understood the joke. The sound of his feet recedes up the stairs. It's too much to hope that the police are on the front step, but perhaps the driver called for them? Doubtful. With my luck, it's probably a Jehova's Witness. Whoever it is, they've given me enough time to come up with a plan.

-

I swing myself towards the wall and manage to grab hold of a shelf containing a collection of scalpels, knocking several to the floor in the process, creating a musical jingle on the concrete. I grab the only scalpel that remains on the shelf just before I lose my grip and swing back.

Words are exchanged overhead, then shouts. There is a struggle. Something heavy lands on the floor, shaking duct loose from the ceiling. A dozen scenarios race through my mind. The worst being Marie or Blanche, either could have foolishly followed me. I don't have the time to think about that right now. I shove the hopefully properly sanitised scalpel between my teeth before hoisting myself upwards to grab hold of the rope I am suspended by. I tear the scalpel from my mouth and rub the blade feverishly against the rope, then crashing down on the cold, disgusting stone floor. Just in time as well, it seems.

-

Footsteps sound on the stairs. Jessie is on his way back and is dragging something heavy along with him, its weight thud-thudding on each step.

I push myself up on my feet, looking at my now dirty hands with dismay. I groan, and a wall of ornate weaponry catches my eye.

I select a Saif from the wall. It's curved, dangerous and very sharp. I let out a huff of content and position myself to the left of the door, ready for when he walks in.

The basement door swings in as Jessie fills the frame. He's dragging the limp body of my driver by the collar and still has the knife in hand. The driver is wearing a nasty gash on his forehead; it's difficult to tell if he's dead or just unconscious.

-

Before Jessie can react to the empty hook, I step around the door frame and swing for the rafters. The blade passes through his neck with a wet thwack and a crunch as it separates from his spinal column. His head, with a surprised expression frozen on his face, pops into the air, hits the floor and rolls. A splash of blood erupts from the clean wound, spraying me directly in the face. His headless body topples.

The driver groans, sits upright, and shakes his head. His eyes open, and he looks first at the headless body, then at me with a bloody Arabian sword in hand.