The Manual of Detection: A Novel - By Jedediah Berry Page 0,2

hat held in his left. “Mr. Charles Unwin,” he said again, not a question this time.

The woman in the plaid coat snatched up her umbrella and walked away. The man in the herringbone suit was still waiting.

“The coffee,” Unwin began to explain.

The man ignored him. “This way, Mr. Unwin,” he said, and gestured with his hat toward the north end of the terminal. Unwin glanced back, but the woman was already lost to the revolving doors.

What could he do but follow? This man knew his name—he might also know his secrets, know he was making unofficial trips for unofficial reasons. He escorted Unwin down a long corridor where men in iron chairs read newspapers while nimble boys shined their shoes.

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace we can talk in private.”

“I’ll be late for work.”

The man in the herringbone suit flipped open his wallet to reveal an Agency badge identifying him as Samuel Pith, Detective. “You’re on the job,” Pith said, “starting this moment. That makes you a half hour early, Mr. Unwin.”

They came to a second corridor, dimmer than the first, blocked by a row of signs warning of wet floors. Beyond, a man in gray coveralls slid a grimy-looking mop over the marble in slow, indeliberate arcs. The floor was covered with red and orange oak leaves, tracked in, probably, by a passenger who had arrived on one of the earlier trains from the country.

Detective Pith cleared his throat, and the custodian shuffled over to them, pushed one of the signs out of the way, and allowed the two to pass.

The floor was perfectly dry. Unwin glanced into the custodian’s bucket. It was empty.

“Listen carefully, now,” said Detective Pith. He emphasized the words by tapping his hat brim against Unwin’s chest. “You’re an odd little fellow. You’ve got peculiar habits. Every morning this week, same time, there’s Charles Unwin, back at Central Terminal. Not for a train, though. His apartment is just seven blocks from the office.”

“I come for the—”

“Damn it, Unwin, don’t tell me. We like our operatives to keep a few mysteries of their own. Page ninety-six of the Manual.”

“I’m no operative, sir. I’m a clerk, fourteenth floor. And I’m sorry you’ve had to waste your time. We’re both behind schedule now.”

“I told you,” Pith growled, “you’re already on the job. Forget the fourteenth floor. Report to Room 2919. You’ve been promoted.” From his coat pocket Pith drew a slim hardcover volume, green with gold lettering: The Manual of Detection. “Standard issue,” he said. “It’s saved my life more than once.”

Unwin’s hands were still full, so Pith slipped the book into his briefcase.

“This is a mistake,” Unwin said.

“For better or worse, somebody has noticed you. And there’s no way now to get yourself unnoticed.” He stared at Unwin a long moment. His substantial black eyebrows gathered downward, and his lips went stiff and frowning. But when he spoke, his voice was quieter, even kind. “I’m supposed to keep this simple, but listen. Your first case should be an easy one. Hell, mine was. But you’re in this thing a little deeper, Unwin. Maybe because you’ve been with the Agency so long. Or maybe you’ve got some friends, or some enemies. It’s none of my business, really. The point is—”

“Please,” said Unwin, checking his watch. It was seven thirty-four.

Detective Pith waved one hand, as though to clear smoke from the air. “I’ve already said more than I should have. The point is, Unwin, you’re going to need a new hat.”

The green trilby was Unwin’s only hat. He could not imagine wearing anything else on his head.

Pith donned his own fedora and tipped it forward. “If you ever see me again, you don’t know me. Got it?” He snapped a finger at the custodian and said, “See you later, Artie.” Then the herringbone suit disappeared around the corner.

The custodian had resumed his work, mopping the dry floor with his dry mop, moving piles of oak leaves from one end of the corridor to the other. In the reports Unwin received each week from Detective Sivart, he had often read of those who, without being in the employ of the Agency, were nonetheless aware of one or more aspects of a case—who were, as the detective might write, “in on it.” Could the custodian be one of those?

His name tag was stitched with red, curving letters.

“Mr. Arthur, sir?”

Arthur continued working, and Unwin had to hop backward to escape the wide sweep of his mop. The custodian’s eyes were closed, his mouth slightly