The Midnight Murders

. 1 .

"One Americano, please, two sugars."

George Knight was stood at a coffee stand in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, leaning against a bench, with his bowler hat pulled low over his eyes.

He adjusted his collar, pulling it up against the harsh breeze that was blowing through the streets.

A newspaper in a nearby rack, fluttered in the wind, the title in large black letters creasing as it blew.

"Was that 2 sugars?" Asked the man behind the counter.

"Yes, just the two, please." George replied, pulling his long coat tight around him.

"There you go, that'll be 2 dollars." The food cart man handed a coffee over the counter.

"Thank you very much," George replied, sliding the money forward and taking his coffee.

Deciding he'd rather stay warm, George flagged a cab down as he reached the pavement, and ducked into the back seat, closing the door behind him.

"Wall Street docks, please" he said, sipping on his coffee. "And could you drive fast, I really am in a hurry."

The city flew by as they drove through it's heart, the bustling mid-morning 1920s life going on around them.

Most things were just starting to open, colourful flags and awnings stretching out into the street, fighting for attention.

The cab rounded a corner, bumping on the kerb, and shot off down front street, skidding round another onto Wall Street.

"This will do," George called, leaning forward.

The taxi came to an abrupt halt, engine chugging, and George was almost thrown forward into the front of the car.

"Thank you," George said, handing the driver a handfull of coins. "Here, keep the change, thank you again," and he hurried out the car, coffee still in hand, bowler hat low against the ever persistent wind, and onto the pavement.

As the taxi shot off, and he was left standing alone, he looked up and down the street twice, and headed off toward a tall building on the other side of the road.

Sliding past a parked motor car, he knelt down beside the clean brickwork of the tall building and began scouring on the ground.

"Come on, come on!" He exclaimed, pulling a beaten leather notebook out of his pocket.

"Last known location... " he muttered, running his finger down a page.

"Was here."

He span around, scanning the street eagerly.

"You must have left some trace, surely!" He whispered under his breath, adjusting the tails of his coat.

He stood up, and eyed the side door to the building. With a careful look left and right, he kicked it open, and stole inside.

A light flickered on as he flicked a switch on the wall, revealing that he was stood in some kind of maintenance room, brooms and buckets meant against all 4 walls, and towering shelves stood in regiments before him.

Keeping low, he moved quietly but swiftly amongst the clutter lining the edges of the room, stopping every once in a while to stoop and examine a mug or rub some dust off the cover of a book.

Reaching the door on the other side of the room, he opened it a crack, and poked his head through.

It lead out into an empty hallway, and he was about to squeeze through the gap, making as little noise as possible, when he heard a loud clang from behind him.

"Hello?" he called softly, spinning on the spot.

Cautiously, he closed the door and stepped back into the supply room, casting wary glances around him.

Head jerking at every slight sound or movement, he made his way down the rows of shelves, in an apprehensive half-crouch. He noticed a small, sharp letter opener gleaming on one of the shelves and reached to pick it up, fearing he may need it.

He was just rounding the corner of one of the shelves when there came another noise from across the room. Shuffling feet.

"Hello?" George called, a little louder this time. "Who's there?"

No response.

"Look, I really must insist that you make yourself known, or I shall have to-"

But they never found out what George would have to do, because at that moment there was a loud thud, echoing off the walls.

And then the lights went out.