In Plain Sight

“Why is this light different?” Sorsha wondered, looking at the table top. “I can’t see the milk circles anymore.”

“I call it ghostlight,” Alex said. “It reveals magical residue.”

Sorsha nodded, taking the oculus off and handing it back to Alex.

“So Mr. Beaumont sat here,” she indicated the overturned chair. “He put the jars of plague on the table and proceeded to eat dinner. At some point, he knocks one of the jars off the table.” She picked up the broken one. “This one. He has quick hands but when he tries to grab it, he knocks over the milk. The jar breaks and Beaumont runs out, trying to escape being infected.”

Alex smiled and Danny whistled.

“That’s about the way we figure it,” Danny said.

“Why would this idiot put jars of plague on his dinner table?” Rooney asked.

“They would have been completely harmless while sealed,” Iggy said. “He might have simply wanted to look at them. Many alchemical solutions have interesting color patters and some even glow.”

“So why and how did he end up at the Mission?” Callahan asked.

“I can answer that as well,” Iggy said. “Sister Jefferson told us that he was always asking Father Clementine for blessings and drinking water from their old well. He thought it had healing properties, or at least he hoped it did.”

“It still doesn’t explain what any of this has to do with Jerry Pemberton,” Callahan said.

“Or where Beaumont got the jars,” Sorsha said, setting the restored jar down on the table again.

Alex snapped his fingers, pretending he’d just remembered something.

“That’s right,” he said. “We forgot to tell them about the shipping case.”

Sorsha fixed him with a level gaze and Rooney looked like he might just spontaneously combust. Alex continued as if he hadn’t seen either.

“My associate, Detective Pak, during an exhaustive search of this apartment, found this.”

Danny held up the shipping case. “It has a receiving stamp on it from the New York Aerodrome.”

“Are you saying that Beaumont stole this from the customs warehouse?” Callahan asked. “Then who stole Van der Waller’s jewelry?”

“Beaumont,” Alex said. “My best guess is that he wanted to keep the theft of the plague a secret for as long as possible, so he grabbed a case with a similar shape and size and substituted it for the one he stole.”

“So whoever was supposed to get the plague jars got the diamonds instead? Rooney asked. “Why didn’t he report the theft?”

Sorsha smiled and raised an eyebrow.

“Would you report that your jars full of an alchemical plague had been stolen?” she asked.

“Wait,” Callahan said. “Aren’t things in the customs warehouse supposed to be inspected before they’re released? How would they explain these jars? They couldn’t let the inspector open one, after all.”

“A good question,” Sorsha added. “They would have given off a strong magical aura and customs inspectors have detectors for that.”

“There’s only one way this could have made it into the country,” Alex said. “It was part of a diplomatic pouch.”

“Anything a foreign government ships to one of their embassies in the U.S. isn’t subject to search,” Danny said.

“The question remains,” Callahan pointed out, “Whose pouch was it?”

“It arrived by airship,” Danny said. “I checked the passenger manifest and there were three German citizens on board. No other country with goods in the warehouse had citizens on the airship.” He consulted his notepad. “The passengers listed their names as Helge Rothenbaur, Greta Albrecht, and Dietrich Strand.”

“Not surprising,” Iggy said. “German alchemists are the best in the world. They could have created a disease like the one we saw.”

“So,” Alex said, “when the Germans discover they have a case full of uncut diamonds instead of their plague, they go looking for it. They beat Beaumont’s name out of Pemberton, then come here, breaking the lock on the door to get in.”

“But Beaumont isn’t here,” Sorsha said. “So they take the three unbroken jars and leave.”

“Almost,” Alex said. “They did stop long enough to pick up the broken glass pieces from this jar,” he held up the restored one. “They threw them in the wastebasket.” Alex tipped the jar up, revealing fingerprint dust stuck to a large, clear thumbprint on the bottom of the jar. “And one of them was kind enough to leave us his print.”

“That could be anyone’s,” the young Agent Warner piped up.

Alex shrugged.

“Possible,” he said. “But the angle is strange unless you’re picking up a broken piece. It’s likely this is the fingerprint of whoever murdered Mr. Pemberton.” Alex handed the jar to Lieutenant Callahan with an exaggerated gesture. “I’ll leave the rest to you, Lieutenant,” he said.

“That’s it?” Rooney asked, shaking his head. “I nearly got my head chewed off getting permission for us to stake out the customs warehouse and now you want me to tell the Chief and the Mayor some cockamamie story about Nazis trying to poison New York?”