Free Gilded Canary by Brad Latham

told him. “I have decided that if I had not been along, your friend Brannigan would never have turned up.” The Hook had
     shrugged, and accepted her companionship. There would be no danger at Stymie’s, so he had no compunctions.
    Reaching the store, he pulled at the dirt-encrusted handle of the door, the soot-blackened, paint-chipped portal opening uncertainly
     on its sagging hinges, a discordant sound of bells echoing throughout the shop as it opened.
    It was dark in the place, particularly after the brightness of the outside, and at first Stymie was a dim figure in the murk.
     “Yes?” came his voice, querulously.
    Then, as Stephanie and Lockwood moved farther into the cluttered, dust-ridden chamber, the tone of the voice changed. It was
     as if a great slathering of oil had been added to it. “Mr. Lockwood! What a pleasure!”
    “Hello, Stymie.”
    “So good to see you again,” the body dipped and scraped, unctuous and false. “And is this—whoever she is, Mr. Lockwood, she
     is a most attractive credit to your immaculate standards of aesthetics!” The words were bad enough, but the faint whine that
     accompanied them did the rest of the job. Lockwood felt his flesh begin to crawl.
    He took in the shop, the jumbled furniture crammed against packing cases, paintings hanging crookedly from the walls and ceiling,
     dust covering it all. His eyes came to rest in one area.
    “Ah! Ever tasteful! You appreciate Stymie’s little collection of jade!” the fence said, every sentence sounding like a question,
     as if any definite statement would commit him to joining the rest of the human race, a tribe Stymie avoided as much as he
     could, knowing instinctively that somehow he would not fit in, could never belong.
    “Very nice. What’s the price of this?” Lockwood inquired, lifting a small, dust-covered stone.
    “Ah! Not for sale, not for sale!” Stymie’s body hunched in supplication. “No offense to you, Mr. Lockwood, no offense of course.
     But these are—” his face was near now, and the foulness of his breath made the other two turn their heads. “Stymie’s little
     playthings.”
    “Actually, I’m not that interested in jade,” Hook said, taking out a pack of Camels. He offered them to Stymie and Stephanie,
     and when they each declined, took one and flicked the Dunhill under it.
    He blew out a cloud of smoke, as if to mask the decay that issued from each wheeze emanating from Stymie’s rotted mouth. “I’d
     really like some jewels.”
    Stymie’s eyes danced to and fro, in a Lindy of fear. “Jewels?”
    “Right. Diamonds. A necklace. Earrings. A bracelet.”
    “I may have something….”
    “I’m looking for something special. Very special.”
    “For the lady?” Stymie asked uncertainly, afraid of the answer.
    “No,” Lockwood said. “For my company. Transatlantic.”
    Stymie arched an eyebrow, a filthy finger fondling the thick moisture on his lips. He waited, uncertain and fearful.
    “Muffy Dearborn is insured with our company.”
    The finger froze.
    “Dearborn,” Lockwood repeated.
    “Ah yes, yes, Muffy Dearborn. I read about it,” Stymie gestured toward the back of his shop, at the stacks of yellowing paper.
     “I find the papers in the streets. All right, maybe they’re a couple of days old, but if I didn’t know about it before, it’s
     still news to me, right?” he cackled, and Lockwood and Stephanie instinctively backed away, unconsciously seeking to elude
     the odors that might pour their way.
    Stymie shuffled to the rear, then returned with a copy of the
Daily Mirror
. “I read this this morning. Both the story and Walter Winchell’s column. A pity that she pulled such a trick, just for the
     publicity.” A feigned innocence crept into the bleakness that was his eye. “But why would you be looking for them here, when
     obviously she must have secreted them someplace?”
    Lockwood traced a line over his eyebrow and then over his cheek. A sickly white broke