His eyes caught mine and lingered; then he turned his gaze to Marlowe. “Didn’t I tell you to leave that one locked up until this was over?” he growled through a forced smile.

“Yes, sir.” Marlowe gave me an annoyed glance, as if my existence were a regrettable irritation. “There have been some substantial developments in the case.”

Jackaby had made his way to the center of the square when I spotted him, at last. He was not carrying any metal that I could see, lead or otherwise, but seemed to have collected a few small, broken branches. Amid such a gathering of stoic, uniformed officers, he looked especially ridiculous as he grasped one of the horse’s marble hind legs and scrabbled to climb atop the statue’s base. At one point he hung nearly upside down, with his coat dangling beneath him.

Swift, of course, took notice. “Who the hell is that idiot?”

Before Marlowe could answer, Jackaby addressed the crowd.

“Excuse me! May I have your attention, please!” he called out, completely unnecessarily. Every eye was already on the mad detective, who was hunching slightly under the rearing hooves of the marble horse. “Yes, hello, everyone. Many of you know me, but if you have never had occasion to work with me—or to arrest me—my name is R. F. Jackaby. I would like to thank all of you for coming out tonight. I’d have liked a slightly larger showing, but I suppose you will have to do. And thank you, Inspector Marlowe, for pulling this together on my behalf.”

Swift’s head turned very, very slowly to Marlowe. “This is your informant?”

Marlowe, in turn, deflected the attention to me. “What is that lunatic doing?”

“I’m afraid I really can’t tell you, sir,” I said.

Jackaby continued from atop the pedestal. “Now then, I would like to assure you all that we will have our man tonight if we all work together. We shall need to prepare a few things first, so pay attention. First of all, it would be helpful if one of you toward the front could get a small fire going. It needn’t be overly large, no bonfire, just a little campfire should do. Yes, you, there, with the turquoise aura and the cigarette tucked up in your ear—have you got a matchbox? Yes? Splendid. I’ve already collected up a bit of kindling that isn’t entirely damp—here you are.”

A soft ripple of subdued laughter and hushed voices was sneaking through the crowd, and the man Jackaby indicated was pushed forward. Jackaby reached down and dropped the branches into his hands.

Commissioner Swift’s face was reddening to nearly the same tone as his hat. “Marlowe . . .”