“Sorry to say, it took a few minutes to realize it, but yes, sir. Specifically, what I did not hear was the ping of your tuning fork. Henderson’s room was, as they say, as silent as the grave. I knocked first, and announced myself, just as we’re taught to do. I got no answer and the door was still locked tight, so I had to”—Charlie, ahead by a few paces, shot a glance over his shoulder at Jackaby—“to kick it in. It was a horrible sight, Detective, and the smell! He was there, still wearing those red pajamas, only the red was spreading across the floor. More than the last one, much more. The window was wide-open, and the room was so cold, you could see the heat rising off the body in thick, steamy clouds.

“I scanned the room and hurried to the window, but there was no one in sight. I heard him, though. The sound rang like horseshoes on pavement, but the rhythm was a man’s steps. He was moving fast, so fast he was blocks away before I could even pick out a direction from the echoes. I was too slow. Too slow and too late.

“I looked around for any clues, but there was nothing at all out of the ordinary—except, of course, the body bleeding on the floor. I ran for the station on Mason Street and sent a runner to alert the chief inspector. I brought a few of the night shift back with me, and then waited for Inspector Marlowe to arrive.”

We reached the third floor just as his story came to an end. A guard had been posted at either end of the hallway. As we approached the first, he narrowed his eyes, but he gave Charlie a nod of recognition and let us pass. That same strong, coppery smell spilled through the hallway, and I noticed Jackaby was feeling at the air with his hands, just as he had when we approached the first victim.

“Speaking of Marlowe,” Jackaby said, his hand still gently coasting beside him, “where is the old boy? I should think he would be keeping a tight grip on the scene this time.”

“He is.” The voice came from the doorway ahead as the chief inspector stepped into the hallway to meet us. In spite of his midnight awakening, Marlowe looked as clean-shaven and pressed as he had the day before. The handcuffs still swung from his belt as he moved, and the silver bars on his uniform caught the morning light streaming through the hallway.

“Ah, Marlowe, good morning!” said Jackaby, a little too cheerfully. “You’re looking well.”

“And you look like you’ve been dragged through hell, as usual. Enough pleasantries. I’ve had a short night and a long morning, and I’m overdue an explanation.”