Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(42)
A great crag rising from the sea, clinging with sea flora and fauna, tinted in sea-green, touched with gold.
This went some way toward capturing the wayward spirit that hallmarked the interior.
Jack rode to the tenth floor in an elevator of polished brass, copper and jade. Decorating the walls in the corridor up there were etchings of sea snails, skate, crabs, turtles, carp, scallops, seaweed, sea horses, mermaids and other marine paraphernalia. They made him feel like he was stuck in an aquarium built by Frida Kahlo.
He knocked on a door that had a panel of frosted glass, with the simple words ‘G.A. Stellar, Chief Reporter’ neatly arranged across it, sans marine life.
“Yeah?” he heard. Jack took this as a summons to enter.
The room beyond the neat door was its obverse — all disarray, stacks of paper and books, unclosed filing cabinets, and a broken set of Venetian blinds. A big pin board hung crookedly, crammed with various pictures and newspaper clippings.
In the middle of the room, beneath a rotating ceiling fan, was a wooden desk suffering under the weight of a huge metal typewriter that rode roughshod. There were unfinished cups of what once possibly resembled coffee, and they surrounded a black candlestick phone that had the number 214782 sticky-taped to its trunk.
The place looked devoid of intelligent life, until Jack spotted a patch of hair bobbing about on the other side of the desk, too low to see a face from the door.
This person was obviously preoccupied, so he cleared his throat. A pair of eyes instantly swept over the desk.
“Well, that’s subtle.”
“Miss Stellar?”
“That’s the moniker — overwork it and I’ll throttle you.”
“Do you have a minute?”
The reporter breathed out in loud fashion and slowly stood. At first Jack caught her aquiline nose, but then she turned to face him and it disappeared.
“So who are you, and what do you want?”
“We’ve met before.”
“We have?” Her eyes conducted a once-over of his blue pinstripe. “Nice-looking suit you have there. Tailored. Quality material. You’ve got a budget. Banking?
“No. I work with the Equalizers.”
Stellar’s previously pert mouth formed a round circle. “That so?”
“I’m Southern Cross.”
“You know, you’re not supposed to go round telling people that.”
“I know. We met briefly outside Harvey’s Gems.”
“The heist? I remember. It’s not often we have a Cape making a house call — next time phone ahead, and I’ll pretend to tidy up.”
“Funny.”
“Hilarious.”
They stared at one another for several seconds, until Jack broke the silence.
“I have a favour to ask.”
“Strange thing to bounce off someone you met only once — and on that occasion she called you a kewpie doll.”
“You’re forgetting the daggers you steered my way.”
“Oh, I steer those at everyone. So — what are you asking?”
“You’re a reporter.”
“That’s what I claim. Others maintain I’m a hack.”
Jack noticed a calendar on the cluttered wall, positioned behind the desk. This was opened at September and had a picture — another of those monochrome sketches that dominated everything in Heropa — of Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Jack knew this because the name of the place was printed beneath the picture.
“Go on,” the woman urged, with an impatient edge.
“I’m looking into the death of a Blando.”
“Really?” The reporter leaned forward. “Now you interest me. Why?”
“Long story.”
“I have time. It’s also my job to listen.”
“It may be nothing.”
“Allow me to judge.”
“You know, you do like pushing people.”
“Usually after lobbing those daggers.”
“Well, okay. I’m after two things, actually — also information relating to the death of the Aerialist.”
Stellar sat back, annoyed. “And I thought you were interesting.”
“Well, that’s where number two comes in — another death, this time of the Blando.” Jack sat on the few centimetres of clean desk, over in the corner nearest him. “I’m guessing nobody bothers to keep any records of Blando fatalities.”
“Not true — we do. To a point.”
“What point would that be, Miss Stellar?”
“Gypsie-Ann.”
“Okay. Call me Jack.”
The reporter raised her eyebrows. “You do like breaking your rules.”
“And the point you were talking up?”
She nodded. “The Patroit compiles the names of the people killed in Heropa, but often these lists are too big to publish in the obituaries section, and some people are never identified.”