Ballroom Blitz

Harrison Stewart

‘Hello handsome,’ she said as she passed.

The room was abuzz with conversation. Soft music drifted through the air mixing with the wafting of pig –which rose from the roasted swine that sat in the centre of the banquet table.

‘How pleasant.’

‘Look at the size of it!’

‘Must have taken a team to cook it!’

Cocaine craved lunatics. Fiends the lot of them. It had become increasingly obvious that this evening was a cover. The lavishness was far too extravagant. Gold laced curtains, silver plates, crystal glasses and soft music. And who could forget the pig? Its monstrous size was in itself a form of privilege. A show of wealth and prestige. All of it was intended for one thing. To hide a killer. The type of miscreant who typically fooled those of signifcantly less intellectual standing. By that description, this purveyor of deceit was yet to come into contact with me. 66 people paraded themselves around the ballroom. 66.

I recalled my notes, scribbled in my notebook on the night of the crime. The night that brought me here. 66 guests. The very reason I was here. But what brilliant psychopath could gouge out the eyes and remove the fngers of someone like Lord Pemberton and proceed to throw a party of such luxury the night after. Beneath their gowns and waistcoats, brooches, and perfumes, were monsters. I threw my gaze around the room. By the freplace stood a tall woman. Her dress was a deep scarlet, embroidered with gems that glistened in the dim light. Right-hand holds the glass. Left-hand trembles. Not her. Beside her was a blonde gentleman; his powdered makeup puffed in clouds off his face as he laughed. He clutched his watch.

Eyes nervous. Loud laugh. Steady hands. Noted.

At the feet of the great roasted pig stood one of the few guests I knew by name. Lord Peter Fowl. He was an obtuse man, always eating or drinking greedily, often both. Hardly the sort of man to take the time to murder someone. Num num num, cherries good. I played his voice in my head. Imbecile.

I moved further into the room, the music rising gradually to its crescendo. Lord Fowl had made his way to the other side of the table and picked at the swine’s skin.

Called to the House of Lords. At 6 pm. Body found in offce 66B. Recorded as found. Door locked. Force required for entry. Books are strewn about the foor Empty mugs stained with red wine coupled with shreds of torn paper sitting on the desk. The desk is Agar – a rare and pricey wood. Very rare. Dust level – high. The offce is never cleaned. Estimation - 8 months since use. The body is slumped upon the desk. Eyes gouged and fngers missing. The suit on the deceased is fresh. Room smell – salty. Window open behind the desk. Estimation of death calculating the effects of the air. 6 hours. Empty brandy bottles around the corpse. Count – 11. Scrambled in the dust. One number, one word. 66 Guests. ‘A bottomless pit is he not?’ A voice appeared beside me, and I turned – without fright- to a woman of exquisite beauty. She stopped next to me. Upon her lip rested a most impressive moustache.

‘He rarely leaves the table’s side no matter where he is…’

‘Indeed,’ I replied as a studied her, ‘I have not yet had the pleasure of your company.’

‘Marriéte Böhm, and you?’

‘Lukas Freyér.’

Her eyes fashed brilliantly and with a gloved hand she traced her moustache down to her lip.

Strong grip. Steady hands.

‘Please do not let this be the last time I see your face around here, Inspector. I sense a future between us.’

She moved away with fawless rhythm and left me in slightly stunned silence. Only now did I see her outft. Its extravagant size was one thing, its colour another: vibrant gold with silver lace. Stunned by her magnifcence I realised only now my failing. I had her name, but no true inclination as to who she was. Marriéte Böhm? Or perhaps she lied? How did I not know her?

I passed through the foyer, beneath the grand chandelier and through the arms of the staircase, toward the garden. I drew out my pipe from my pocket and stuffed it with tobacco. The warm night air brushed gently past me, and once more I set my eyes to work. Two people had spied me the moment I stepped out. One gentleman, who sported a thin boxed moustache and glisteningly wet slicked hair, diverted his gaze instantly. Garret Audore, chief secretary to the Prime Minister. Nervous. Brandy on the left, Cigar on the right. Unlit. He chatted quietly to another man. Who, having turned at the behest of Audore, faced quickly away. Who is that? I did not catch his face. Having decided to ignore them for the time being, I fnished packing my pipe, lit a match and took my frst puff, and sighted a table. I headed towards it, reached within my coat, and retrieved my notebook. Names. I need names. I fip through to the list. Garret Audore. Fraulein Hammerblot. Colonel Ubmersch. Garret Audore had seemed nervous from the moment he sighted me. with his stout friend. In his hand, he still held the cigar. Unlit. Very casually he slowly held it out and passed it to the other gentleman. I glanced away. Hoping they have yet to notice me spying.

I continued smoking my pipe and closed my eyes to study the image of the cigar in my mind. Long. Leaf wrapped. Unlit. Dark brown. Emblem CA. I playback the frst sighting back in mind. It’s stuck in my mind. Lodged, like something is wrong, Gentlemen don’t hold and pass Cigars around like sweets. They smoke them. I glanced back at Audore. The small man is missing, and mistakenly I turn quickly to catch sight of him re-enter the house. The cigar in hand, shining under the light of the foyer. It is a fake. I feel my breath quicken.

My eye focuses keenly. A convincing, polished, wooden, fake. I rise to my feet and follow. Aware now I had given myself away. Audore gave chase, although calmy so as not to draw attention. I tap my pipe on the railing, emptying it. The embers disappear into the garden below. Entering the house, I watch as the stout man ascends the stairs. Fast. His footing is sure. Hands now gloved. Footsteps close in behind me. Audore.

A well-dressed couple glided past me, and I smiled politely. The lady recognised me, and I quickly raised a fnger to my lips and winked cheekily. She laughed and moved on.The stout man is gone. I race to catch up and quickly climbed the stairs. ‘Inspector Freyér.’ Audore called in a hushed voice, and I briefy spun around to face him. ‘If you know what is good for you sir, you will not continue up those stairs.’ His eyes were set like stone, and in his hand, he held a thin blade.

Steady hands had been my clue. The gouging of Lord Pemberton’s eyes had been done tremendously carefully. The eyes scooped with such precision that the killer’s hands had to have been steady. Focused. Beneath the names, I had more scribble. Employment possibilities – Artist, surgeon, waiter, writer, musician. All required steady hands. Through the corner of my eye, I continued watching Audore. Not yet certain of his innocence. He was still engaged in quiet, seemingly hushed, conversation Time fell still. My eyes traced themselves from the blade back to Audore’s glare. One. Two. Three. The race was on. I sprint up the stairs and slide straight onto the foor, narrowly dodging as Audore swung his blade. The clink of metal against stone assured me he was close. I skate to my feet and turn to face Audore. His wet hair, now messy, stuck to his face.

Through gritted teeth he cursed me, ‘You shoulda listened to me Freyér, I gave you a chance.’

he points the blade at me, and steadied himself, prepared to strike. Like a frog’s tongue, I reacted within a second and raced towards Audore kicking him directly in the chest. He stumbled and reached out to balance himself. But failed. He screamed at the top of his lungs as he toppled over the railing. His brains splattered against the tiled foor of the foyer below. The blade scattered out of his hand. The panic such a scene caused was instantaneous. Those that had been conversing as the body fell were the frst to scream. Soon the news spread like fre through the party. The guests clamber to get a view of the body. My mind remained focused. The stout man still evaded me. Transitioning my steps from the foorboards to the carpet I made my way down the hall. On either side, identical doors led to unknown rooms. First, I had a scream. It was deep and long. Like someone being pulled or torn at. The stout man. I headed swiftly towards the noise, down the corridor and hooked a left. Following the mahogany walls, and scarlet carpet. Like a murmur on the wind, the scream faded. Almost as if it had disappeared into the walls themselves. I slow to a stop and listen. Audore had been armed tonight. He had to have expected trouble.

Carefully I listened to the silence. There it was, as slight as the creak of a door in the dead of night. A whimper. Cautiously I moved toward the noise. Heel to toe. Heel to toe. I inched my way forward slowly. Making my way to the red-painted door that marked the end of the hallway. The whimper was louder now. I placed my hand on the doorknob and twisted it gently. Unlocked. As the door swung open, the horror of the scene stood before me. The stout man sat behind a large, polished desk. He trembled and whimpered, attempting to discern if someone was in the room. For his eyes were no use. They sat in feshy lumps upon the foor, beside his fngers. The organs are neatly arranged in a circle. The killer had gotten to him frst.

Volume 49, Issue 06