“Oh, that would be William Henderson—room 313. He is . . . odd. We thought he might have some useful information, because he says he heard wailing early this morning, like someone crying very hard. Only, when the inspector asks him how long the cries persisted, Mr. Henderson looks at him funny and says they haven’t stopped. He tells us all to listen, and says they’re clear as anything, can’t we hear them? Now, we all listen—and I have very good ears. There is no sound. Henderson insists it’s as loud as though someone were weeping in that very room, and shouldn’t we do something about it? He begins to get agitated, so the inspector excuses himself, assuring the man we would look into it. Very odd.”

“Interesting.” Jackaby started on down the hallway, glancing at room numbers as he passed. I hurried after him.

“Wait,” said Charlie, following. “I told the inspector I would take you out of the building.”

“And so you shall,” Jackaby called over his shoulder. “Expertly, I imagine, and to the letter of the instruction. However, I don’t recall Marlowe giving any specific directions about time, nor about the route we take, so let’s have a quick chat with someone odd, first, shall we? I do love odd. Ah, here we are!”

Jackaby rapped firmly on the door to room 313. After a pause, it flung itself open, and we faced a poorly shaven man with bushy, muttonchop sideburns, tired, sunken eyes, and a pair of bright red pajamas. Around his head a leather belt had been strapped, holding two decorative throw pillows tightly to his ears. Little fabric tassels on one of them swayed to a stop as he stared at us from beneath a furrowed brow.

“Well?” the man said.

Jackaby smiled and extended a hand in greeting. “Mr. Henderson, I presume?”

Chapter Six

Mr. Henderson stepped back to let us into his flat, which was a nearly perfect match for the victim’s, except that this one had a worn sofa in place of the writing desk, and a mix of colorful fruit had been arranged in a bowl on the table. Mr. Henderson made no motion to remove the cushions from his ears, and instead shouted his disapproval at the police department for not having put a stop to the noise. He slumped onto the couch and scowled.

“We are not with the police department,” said Jackaby. He pulled out a thin leather satchel and laid it on the table.

“Well,” said Charlie, “I am.”

“We are not with the police department, except for those of us who are,” Jackaby revised. “Mr. Henderson, could you describe the cries you’re hearing, please?” He untied the leather lace around his satchel and rolled it out on the table with a light clinking. From over his shoulder I could see that it contained three slim pockets, which housed metallic instruments of some sort.