Free World's Greatest Sleuth! by Steve Hockensmith Page A

insinuations— now —I’ve half a mind to sue you for … where do you think you’re going?”
    Pinkerton was pushing back his chair and tossing his napkin onto his plate.
    “I told you this would happen,” he said to Curtis.
    “Yeah.” Curtis nodded eagerly. “Perfect, isn’t it?”
    Pinkerton glowered at him a moment, then stood. “My apologies, Mr. Blackheath-Murray. This was no way to repay your hospitality.” He looked down at Curtis like the man was something unpleasant stuck to the heel of his shoe. “We’re leaving.”
    “Just when it’s getting fun?”
    “We’re leaving.”
    “Alright, fine,” Curtis sighed. “I’ve got an egg to lay anyway.” Instead of standing, though, he turned to the rest of the guests. “Before I go, let me leave you with a few choice morsels to chew on along with your snails and cheese.”
    “Snails?” I said. I don’t think anyone heard me.
    Curtis was turning his attention to Eugene Valmont.
    “You could ask the monsieur there about what the French newspapers call ‘L’Affaire des cinq cent diamants.’ Or ask Colonel Crowe why he and his”—Curtis cocked an eyebrow and coughed—“ ‘daughter’ are suddenly at liberty to open their own detective agency. Or ask young Master Brady about his birthday or Mr. Greene how it is he doesn’t seem to have one.”
    My brother tensed up beside me, no doubt sure his not-so-secret shame was to be aired out next: that he was putting on sleuthing airs when he couldn’t even read. Yet Curtis spared him, his gaze sweeping over us like the Angel of Death on its way to the pharaoh’s house.
    “The plain truth is,” he went on, “there are more mountebanks at this table than master detectives … and proving it is going to be child’s play.”
    Curtis finally stood then—a bit unsteadily—and his grin returned. It didn’t seem so much like a smile this time, though. It was more like a growling dog showing off his fangs.
    “Speaking of which, I’d urge you all to turn in early. Today was just a warm-up. Tomorrow the real sleuthing begins … for you and me.”
    “Please. Allow me,” I said to Smythe as Curtis and Pinkerton headed for the stairs.
    I cleared my throat.
    “Dooooooooooooomed.”

9
    THE CONTEST (ROUND TWO)
    Or, Curtis Flies the Coop, and We Encounter a Bad Egg
    To say that the dinner party ended awkwardly might imply that it was ever anything but awkward. Which it was not. Unless you want to count mortifying, horrifying, and deeply painful. Which it was. So merely “awkward” was an improvement, I suppose.
    Before Pinkerton and Curtis even made it down the stairs, Tousey drained his latest glass of champagne and proclaimed that he was leaving as well.
    “Come on,” he snapped at Brady as he rose to go.
    King proved surprisingly pliant, for royalty, instantly hopping up to hustle after his publisher.
    A moment later, Colonel Crowe announced that he’d lost his appetite, and he stood and hovered by his chair as a signal for Diana to lose hers, too. Gustav and I swapped puzzled frowns as she followed the colonel out. The Diana we’d known was daring and headstrong—certainly no slave to convention or decorum or even, on occasion, scruples. Yet now she was so thoroughly under Colonel Crowe’s little thumb her spirit seemed to have been squashed flat. Maybe, I had to think, it was more than the lady’s name we’d had wrong all along.
    Next to go was Eugene Valmont, who announced that his “diges-CHON” had become “unseateld.”
    “Well?” Old Red said to Smythe as the Frenchman made his escape.
    He got the answer he was obviously expecting.
    “Yes, yes … let’s go,” Smythe muttered. “I’ve never felt more hugger-mugger in all my life.”
    That left only Lucille Larson to help Blackheath-Murray and Boothby Greene with their feast. I hoped they were all hungry.
    “Well,” I said as Gustav, Smythe, and I wedged ourselves into another cab, “if that’s how the high and mighty