OCR is Not the Only Font

The Card

Challenge #3: Write a story that incorporates elements from detective fiction and speculative fiction, and where the protagonist is a Byronic Hero.

“The assassin is through here.”

Alfonso followed the husband through to the drawing room, squeezing through the door close to the frame to avoid disturbing what was slumped behind it. Gruesome though it was, the sight of the body did not disgust him. It did, however, leave him somewhat disappointed. As the most famous private eye in London Superior, his cases were usually extraordinary. There had been the tailor found locked in his workshop, killed by a single needle through the heart. Then there was the priceless Foucard, burned to ashes in the space of time it took the gallery curator to turn around. Crime for Alfonso was not just a job: it was a passion. He was a connoisseur, and the wreck that lay on the carpet before him was peasant’s fare.

Naturally, he could see why he had been hired. The first reason—as always—was that the family was exceedingly wealthy. They chose an investigator with much the same care as they chose a chaise longue, and the shabby blue suit of a police detective was bound to clash with the decor. Alfonso, however, had style. The second reason, more practical but less important, was that the police lacked the…unorthodox connections necessary to identify this particular corpse. They knew little of the secret languages of the city’s gangs and cartels and would be unable to interpret the myriad of little clues that to Alfonso were as clear as the expensive print on the house’s wallpaper. Their piles and piles of criminal records may actually have given them a better chance than Alfonso when it came to matching a name to the face, but that blast from the pneumatic blunderbuss had evened the odds completely. Looking at the toes of the “assassin’s” boots, Alfonso could already guess how the events of the evening had played out. Nevertheless, he began his interview.

“Mrs. Rugworth, could you tell me exactly what happened here.”

“I thought I’d explained all that over the voicewire,” Mr. Rugworth snapped.

“You told me your wife had encountered the assassin in the kitchen. You then refused to let me speak to her.”

“Well? You can imagine how distressing that would be just now.”

“Oh, Ernest!” she cried. “I’d feel far better if I only knew that something was being done about this.” She turned to Alfonso. “I went into the kitchen to pour a drink and he was there, waiting. It was all I could do to fetch the gun.”

“Have you any idea how he got in?”

“No! The door was bolted all evening.”

“He couldn’t have climbed in a window?”

“We’re on the fiftieth floor!” Mr. Rugworth butted in.

“Of course,” said Alfonso, eyeing the emergency ladder through the drawing room window. “How silly of me.”

It was becoming apparent to Alfonso that his clients didn’t know anything. It was apparent in this particular case and, indeed, in general.

“I’d like a few minutes to inspect the body,” he said, kneeling down before the mangled face. “You may wish to leave.”

Mrs. Rugworth took the hint, but her husband remained, arms steadfastly crossed. “I’d very much like to supervise your work,” he said.

“Very well.” Alfonso took his favourite tool from his bag. It was a big one: a motorised saw blade mounted beside a large filing wheel. Pulling the cord to start the miniature kerosene engine, he engaged the gears and began to lower it towards the cavity in the face. Before it had a chance to connect, he checked behind him. Mr. Rugworth was gone and the door was closed. He waited a moment before switching off the engine and setting the tool down to cool. It had originally been intended for fitting horseshoes, but seemed better suited to situations such as these. Unbuttoning the body’s jacket, he began his real work.

The toes of its boots, he had already noted, were well-worn. Not only that, but they were worn in a manner consistent with incessant contact with ladder rungs: this man had come through the window, and he had been through other windows before. He smoked opium—the smell alone made that abundantly clear—and he was a gambler. A gambler and a cheat, said the bundle of aces and kings stuffed in his pocket, all from different packs. When Alfonso found the empty wallet in the breast pocket, he saw his chance to grab some free money.

“Mr. and Mrs. Rugworth,” he called through the door. “I believe I have the solution to your mystery.”

Like the tailor and his dodgy electromagnetic sewing machine, and like Jaque “le clown” Foucard’s self-destructing painting, the solution was unbelievably simple. Taking advantage of the upper classes’ false sense of security, tucked away in their sky-scraping towers, this no-name thief climbed through windows to fund his habits.

“I say,” Mr. Rugworth stared at the body. “It doesn’t look like you’ve done anything here!”

Alfonso rolled his eyes dramatically. “A good inspector,” he explained, “always leaves the scene as he found it. However…” he retrieved one of the cards from the man’s pocket: the Ace of Spades. “Do you know the significance of this?”

“A spade?” Mr. Rugworth took a step back. “Isn’t that…the calling card of the Gravediggers’ Gang?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Good Lord!”

“You are right to be concerned: these people will try to strike again. However, there is some good news: they’re only in this for the money. I simply have to find out who hired them.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Rugworth. “Oh, please do! I shan’t be able to feel safe until then.”

“Don’t fret, my lady.” Alfonso smiled and clasped her hand. “You need fear nothing while I am in your employ. Now…” he turned to Mr. Rugworth. “There is the small matter of payment?”Alfonso began his long walk down the stairs, the bag of coins satisfyingly heavy in his coat pocket.

It was a curious fact that often the least interesting cases were the most rewarding.