Ghostly Echoes by William Ritter

sir,” I said as the evening express to New Fiddleham chuffed to life beneath us. “We haven’t come any closer to finding our killers or finding truth and justice for Jenny. We’ve found nothing but more questions.” Glanville ambled lazily past our window, and the setting sun painted the marbled buildings outside our train car in shades of gentle reds and oranges.
    â€œQuestions are good,” Jackaby said. “Questions are to the clever mind as coal is to the stoker. I will worry more when we run out of them.”
    â€œBe that as it may, I would be happier if we had at least a few satisfying answers to go with them when we report back to Commissioner Marlowe.”
    â€œDetective work is neither a happy nor a satisfying business, Miss Rook,” said Jackaby, settling in as the amber buildings sailed past our window. “Marlowe will understand.”
    â€œI don’t understand at all.” Commissioner Marlowe kept his voice low and even as we sat across from him the following morning.
    â€œWhat I mean to say,” Jackaby explained, “is that our excursion yesterday was very instructive indeed.”
    â€œYou found your missing woman?”
    â€œNot exactly. Not remotely. No. We did manage to find a woman who was not missing.” Jackaby’s optimistic humor found little purchase on Marlowe’s granite countenance. “And then we misplaced her,” Jackaby admitted. “So now there are two missing women. Also there is a baby.”
    â€œWhat? A baby? Where did you find a baby?”
    â€œWe did not find a baby. The baby is also missing.”
    The commissioner’s eye twitched as he set both palms on the table and took a deep breath.
    â€œWe’re still looking into the matter, sir,” I cut in. “We will be certain to keep you abreast of any developments, but in the meantime, my report should detail more clearly the results of our inquiry in Glanville.” I passed the pages I had typed up that morning across the desk and Marlowe accepted them with a curt nod—high praise from the stoic commissioner.
    â€œHm,” he said as he looked over the report.
    â€œStrange and unsatisfying seem to be the tone of this case, sir, I know,” I said.
    â€œIt’s been no more satisfying on our end,” Marlowe grunted. “My boys followed the money trail for Spade’s project, like I told you. It seems his fund-raisers got a few donations from legitimate businesses, but the lion’s share came from a corporation called Buhmann’s Consolidated Interests. Turns out the exact same company bankrolled major portions of Poplin’s project a decade ago.”
    â€œBuhmann?” Jackaby shook his head. “Not the most creative façade.”
    Marlowe rolled his eyes. “I know. German for
bogeyman
. I looked it up. The group is more than just children’s stories and nursery rhymes, though. They own some legitimate real estate downtown, including an impressive-looking building in the Inkling District.”
    The bogeyman. Jackaby nodded sagely as though it were perfectly ordinary to hear that the bogeyman has been inconspicuously funding major municipal science projects. I shook my head. Every new clue just seemed to stir up the mud in the already murky waters of this case.
    â€œIt’s a start,” said Jackaby. “Chasing fresh leads has left us empty-handed. I would say it’s definitely worth our while to pursue a much older one. We’ll have to go and say hello to the mayor’s mysterious benefactors.”
    â€œGood luck with that.” Marlowe tucked my report into his desk and shut the drawer. “On paper the Buhmann building is their head of operations and the beating heart of another fine example of American industry. In reality—much less so.”
    â€œEmpty?” Jackaby said.
    Marlowe nodded. “The place is a dried-out husk. It’s like a set from a