“His methods are . . . unconventional.” Marlowe stared at the detective as if the strength of his glare could will Jackaby to be less, well, Jackaby. “But, strange as it sounds, his meddling has managed to push investigations to their turning point on more than one occasion.”

A voice from the ranks called out, “Come on, then! Make him a fire, Danny! He can’t cast his magic spells without a good fire!” This was quickly followed by a round of barely muffled chortling.

Jackaby straightened and called out, “I assure you, I am a consummate professional. I do not cast spells!” Which might have done a better job of quieting the crowd had he not clocked his head on the horse’s rampant hoof as he said it. That would have been enough, but he insisted on defending himself further. “And, for your information, seldom has an open flame been requisite in the successful spells I have observed, and it appears to be a negligible factor in spell casting on the whole.” He said it with such earnestness that the crowd paused for a moment, holding its collective breath before launching into another round of jeering and laughter.

Jackaby looked mildly hurt. Swift looked homicidal. “This is on your head, Marlowe. If your crackpot imbecile makes a laughingstock of my police force—a laughingstock of me right in the damned center of town, so help me . . .”

“Understood, sir.” Marlowe was still staring daggers at the detective. “If he can point us to our killer, though, even if he is making an ass of himself publicly, then there’s no harm done to the department’s reputation.”

“Gentlemen,” Jackaby said, resuming his announcement, “this will not be easy news to bear, but the villain we’re after is hiding behind a badge. I mean to say, he is here among us, even now, hidden in plain sight—a terrible creature in the guise of not just any man, but a policeman.”

As he spoke, the clouds drifted apart, washing the square with moonlight and illuminating the faces of a hundred policemen—suddenly uncertain whether to be amused, offended, or afraid. The onlookers lost their smiles, and still more faces appeared in the surrounding windows.

Swift was practically vibrating. His eye twitched, and a dark vein had popped out on his temple. “You’re through, Marlowe,” he said through gritted teeth, and then took a step toward Jackaby and pronounced loudly, “That’s enough!”

The commissioner’s booming, furious command was all but lost in the sound of everything, which had already been going all wrong, suddenly going terribly worse.

Chapter Twenty-Five