Justin Stone and the Iris of the Madonna

[joegoda]

Justin stood up and tried to brush the accumulation of dust off his clothes. He didn't have much luck.

"Sorry 'bout all the dust, Mister Stone. I don't get down here to clean very often."

The shopkeeper raised himself up onto the palms of his hands and walked on them to spot against the wall. On the floor was a metal plate, padded with a satin pillow. On either side of the metal plate, two thin poles ran from the floor to the ceiling. There was another pole, but square rather than round, positioned at the back of the plate.

Once the old man had positioned himself on the pillow, he activated a small crank with his right hand. The metal plate rose from the floor, slowly, until it was had risen high enough that the man could reach out and grasp one of the hundreds of hooks that hung from the ceiling. He reached out, took hold of one of the hooks and swung out from the wall.

This all took mere seconds, and it was apparent that it was something done enough times that it became and easy motion.

"You're pretty quick with that, old man." Jonathan came over with the lantern and examined the elevator. It was not very fancy, and the crank mechanism did nothing more than wind cord around a drum, but the elevator did its job. He looked appraisingly at the shopkeeper. "You build this yourself?"

"Hell yes," the old man grumbled, while he pulled another cigarette from his pocket and lit it. "Who else do you think would help a damn cripple in this place?"

"Yes, well..." Justin looked around at the dingy shop. "I don't suppose that we could have a bit more light in here. As much as I love talking in the shadows, I would dearly appreciate being able to see what I'm falling over."

"Sure, uh... Hold on." Like a monkey, the old man swung to a switch by the wall and turned it. Four gas lights flared into existence. "Better, Mister Stone?"

"Buddy," Jonathan commented, looking around the pawn shop, "you use gas in this firetrap?"

"Yes," Justin said, nodding. He picked a rather large spider off his arm. "Thank you."

"I mean...," Jonathan continued, "Look at all this junk! He picked up a book that had only half a cover. "What the..." He looked at the print on the inside faceplate. "Moby Dick? Good lord, man. Can't you even take care of the books?" He dropped it in disgust. "I mean, honestly!"

"Listen, short stuff," the shopkeeper began."

"Short stuff! I'll show you short stuff, you legless wonder!" Jonathan started to roll up his sleeves.

"Gentlemen!" Justin's operatic baritone reverberated inside of the small shop. "Gentlemen, please!" He turned to the shopkeeper, straightening his suit at the shoulders. "I apologize for my," he cast a glare at Jonathan, "brother's rather abrupt and rude behavior, sir."

"Brother?" The shopkeeper chuckled. "You mean that your family actually adopted the Rat?" He stared at Jonathan, who glared back. "Well, well," he chuckled again. "Good on you, kid."

"Please." Justin said calmly, raising his hand for peace. "We came here looking for some information."

"Information?" Taking a great drag from his cigarette and coughing. "What sort of information? And why did you break in here in the middle of the night? You could have just as easily come around in the morning."

"And while," Justin said, nodding and retrieving his hat from where it had fallen, "that is most certainly true, it would have let the trail grow cold."

"What trail?" The shopkeeper looked first at Justin, and then at Jonathan. "What trail? What are you talking about? Some sort of scavenger hunt? I've heard you rich types do all sorts of... odd things."

"A man was killed in front of your shop, buddy," Jonathan said abruptly. "We want to know what you know about it."

"Is that what all the blues were doing out front?" The shopkeeper looked genuinely surprised. "I don't know nuthin' about it."

Straightening his hat on his head, Justin gave Jonathan a harsh look. "Jonathan, perhaps we would get a bit further if you quit antagonizing our host." He tapped his nose and turned to look at the shopkeeper hanging a few feet from him. "I don't suppose I might have one of your cigarettes?"

Jonathan bushed his eyebrows together, looked like he was about to say something and then thought better of it. "I'm going to go check the windows and see if those toughs are still out there." He turned on his heel and huffed over to the front door, making a great show of looking around the shade.

Startled by the question, the old man snorted. "Sure, why not." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and passed it to Justin. "Need a light?" he asked.

"Not as of yet." Justin slipped the cigarette into his breast pocket. "Perhaps in a moment." Justin looked around and took his bearings. He cast his gaze at the cases on the other side of the great brass cage. "I see you have a great many rings. Do you sell many of them?"

"No," the old man said spitting on the floor. "Not a one of 'em. The folks down here can't afford 'em. When I get enough, I send them to my nephew, uptown for him to sell."

"Interesting." Jonathan mused. "And yet, earlier today, a young man came into your shop and offered to buy one of them."

The old man snorted again. "Him? He couldn't afford a pot to piss in. Said he'd have three thousand dollars once..." His owl eyes blinked open wide. "Nuthin'. I don't know nuthin' about it."

Justin pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. "I have a letter here that says otherwise." He showed the paper to the old man, who squinted at it through his great round lenses. "I have a letter that says that a man, named Ernest Hauptman, came here to pick up a certain item." Justin returned the letter to his pocket with a flourish. "I want to know what that item is, and who sent the letter."

"I don't know," the shopkeeper said. "Sure, that boy came in here, and sure he picked up somethin', but I don't know what it was." He shrugged, which was impressive since he was hanging in the air by one hand. The movement caused the metal handles to clink against each other.

"Oh, please, sir." It was Justin's turn to snort in derision. "Do you take me for a fool? You have a package in your possession, and you don't know what is in it?" He spread his arms wide, indicating the entire shop. "In this place?" He cast an appraising eye at the shopkeeper. "You mean to tell me, as I'm standing here, with the Lord as your witness, that you never once looked at the contents of the package?"

The old man tried to hold his silence under Justin's stare. A conflict of some sort was going on in his mind. After a few moments of internal strife, the shopkeeper gave a sly smile. The fox was looking at the open chicken coop.

"Sure," he admitted, giving that rattling shrug again. "Sure, I might have looked at it. But it'll cost you."

"Of course it will," Justin said, nodding. "And how much will this knowledge cost me?"

"I hear," said the old man, "that you're pretty rich. Inherited millions, maybe more, when your father died. Own that black building uptown and all. That true?"

"Possibly," Justin said. "I never stopped to count it." Actually, Justin knew exactly how much he was worth. His accountants kept him aware of it in weekly meetings.

"Well, then," the old man mused, still smiling wickedly, "let's say that this information is worth a thousand dollars to me."

"A thousand dollars!" a voice near the door exclaimed. With a severe glance from Justin, Jonathan gave a pained look and returned to looking out the windows.

"A thousand dollars is a lot of money," Justin said. "Even for me. What will a thousand dollars buy me?"

"I'll tell you what was in the bag."

"Oh, come now." Justin started to pace. There wasn't much room for him to pace in the cramped shop, but he managed to take a few steps to the left and to the right. "Surely for a thousand dollars I can get a bit more."

"Nope," the shopkeeper said stubbornly. "A thousand dollars is my price."

"Then I suppose we'll be on our way," Justin said. "Jonathan, are the streets safe?"

From the front, Jonathan shrugged. "I don't see anyone, Justin, but that doesn't mean they aren't out there."

"Well, that will have to do." Justin picked up a sword from a pile of junk lying near him. "Hm." He examined the blade. "I think this'll do." He pulled a fifty out of his wallet and dropped it on the floor. "Good day, sir." He turned and started toward the door.

"Wait!" cried the shopkeeper, swinging after Justin. "Wait," he said, a bit breathlessly. "Okay, okay. What if I described the man who dropped it off here, two days ago?"

"What?" Justin wheeled about, his blue eyes darkening. "Now you want to... haggle? I already know that he was a tall man. Pale in complexion, I'd say and walked with a limp. Older than me and younger than you, sir." He saw the surprise in the shopkeeper's face.

"Oh, come now, sir." Justin raised one slim eyebrow. "It is as obvious as the nose on your face. What I don't have is a name. For a thousand dollars, I would want to have a name."

Justin examined the shopkeeper. The man ran a boney hand over his face, thinking furiously. "I will offer you this, shopkeep," Justin said. "I will pay you three hundred for the description of the contents. I will pay you an extra one hundred if you can tell me the type of shoes the man was wearing. I will pay you one hundred dollars above that if you can describe the ring on the man's hand."

"His ring?" The hand stopped at the shopkeepers chin and scratched the stubble there. The light from the gas lamps flickered, casting odd shadows among the stacks and piles of junk along the walls.

"It wasn't nuthin' special, his ring." The owl eyes rolled upward, as the shopkeeper worked to remember. "He wore it on the middle finger, which was odd. Not the ring finger, mind you. I offered him seventy dollars for it, because of the green jewels and the white gold. It was some sort of college ring, I think. Had a lion or a tiger on the signet."

Justin reached into his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. The shopkeeper's eyes blinked furiously and focused on the single bill. "Tell me this," Justin said, "was there any lettering on the ring?"

"What?" asked the old man, not taking his eyes off of the money, "you think I can see like a young man? I wear glasses."

"Yes," Justin nodded. "Bifocals, to be precise. That would mean that you can probably see as well or better than most men, at close range. So, again. Did you see any lettering on the ring?"

The owl eyes blinked again, and the old man smiled like a fox again. "There was some, now I think about it." He looked coy, as coy as an old man hanging from a ceiling can. "It said, 'Ehrenring' across the top and 'Der Stadt Graz' across the bottom."

"Graz?" This from near the door, from Jonathan.

Justin handed over the hundred, and rather quickly, before Jonathan could say anything else, he said, "Fairly good eyes for a man who claims he can't see." He reached into his wallet and pulled out another hundred. "Type of shoes?"

"Well..." the old man hesitated. "You were right about him having a limp. I don't know how, but you were. His shoes were practically brand new. Pretty expensive, too. I don't know the manufacturer. After I lost my legs, shoes didn't really hold much interest for me. If I'd guess, he probably got 'em overseas or had 'em shipped here." He held out his hand. "Honestly, Mister Stone. When it comes to shoes, I am the last person to ask."

Handing the second hundred to the shopkeeper, Justin nodded. "Very well. I can accept that." He stopped for a moment. "How did you lose your legs, if you don't mind me asking?"

The shopkeeper was silent for a moment and tossed a mental coin. "Not for free," he said finally. Then, changing his mind, he said, "It was a harvester accident."

Justin frowned. "I see." He let a moment pass and then called to Jonathan. "Any movement?"

"There's a bit, but it's down a ways from here," Jonathan said, peering through the window. "If they're watching, it's at a distance."

Justin hefted the sword by its hilt and tested the balance. "It's been... what? Six months since I last practiced? Ah well..." He turned it over in his hand. "Not a bad piece. War between the States, I'd say."

He turned his attention back to the shopkeeper. Placing the sword on a nearby pile, he pulled three more one hundred dollar bills from his wallet. "What was in the bag? What did Ernest Hauptman pick up?"

The shopkeeper looked at the front door, where Jonathan was watching the street. He looked a bit nervous when he turned back to Justin. He dropped his voice and said, "It was a big glass sculpture, in the shape of a flower. An iris, I think."

"An iris?" Justin was silent for a moment. "How large was it?"

Still in a hushed voice, "About the size of a head of lettuce."

"Hm." Justin looked distracted. "Is there anything else you can remember about it?"

"There were letters on the base, but I couldn't read it. Maybe it was Scottish. MacVie or something like that." The old man scratched his head. "That's all I remember." And then, suddenly, "OH! When the light hit it, it sparkled like a rainbow."

"Hm," Justin said again. He passed the three hundred dollars over to the shopkeeper. "Thank you for your time, sir."

The old man stuffed the five hundred dollars in his shirt pocket. He got a crafty look on his face. "You know... I could still call the police on you." When Justin raised his eyes to fix on the owlish eyes of the shopkeeper, the man suddenly went silent.

"But you won't, will you," Justin asked pointedly. He picked up the sword he had purchased. "That would raise too many questions about those jewels you keep behind your gilded cage. Questions about where you got them. I would imagine that would be a bit... uncomfortable. And the police don't pay very well, do they?" Justin touched a finger to his hat. "Good day, sir."

Leaving the shopkeeper hanging, Justin joined his brother at the door. "All quiet?"

Jonathan nodded. "Yeah. So far." He turned his head and focused on Justin. "I got a lot of questions once we get out of here. The ring of honor from the city of Graz?"

Justin nodded. "We'll talk later, of course, brother." He rubbed a clear spot from the window.

"What about my ceiling?" The shopkeeper was still in the room.

"Send us a bill, buddy." Jonathan said as he turned the door knob. "We're good for it." Looking at Justin, he asked, "Ready?"

"Just as you are, Jonathan," Justin said grimly. "Do you still have your revolver?"

Jonathan flipped open his hand and a tiny metal tube showed itself in his palm. He grinned.
"I never leave home without it."

"Excellent." Justin nodded to the door. "Then let us be off, shall we?"