Post by Liz on Sept 24, 2007 23:16:17 GMT -5
This is something I wrote for my creative writing class, and I was wondering if you guys would be willing to edit my very, very rough draft. I can't think of a title for it yet, any ideas?
Crime doesn’t pay…except when it does, thought private inspector Jon Wilson, straightening his vest and shoving open the door of his carriage. He stepped out gracefully, ignoring the pouring rain that drenched his top hat and jacket, and looked up at the building in front of him. The Hotel St. Claire; the most extravagant and expensive hotel in all of Boston, founded ten years ago in1860. Usually a steady stream of luxurious people in fur coats stood around the entrance, talking loudly and smoking cigars.
But today, it was a swarm of police clustered in front of the building, smoking nothing at all and clutching shiny black umbrellas to keep the rain from soaking their black uniforms. The glorious front doors had a small wooden barrier set up in front of them, marking the hotel as a crime scene and distracting the eye from their splendor to stare at the ugly white fence blocking the entrance.
One police man glanced up as Jon approached. The man’s face looked as grim and tired as Jon felt.
“Thank God you’re here, Mr. Wilson,” the constable said from behind a thick brown mustache. The man stepped away from the others, coming over to shake Jon’s hand. “Nothing has been disturbed; it’s all yours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” Jon said, stepping towards the hotel and sliding a pair of white gloves onto his hands to prevent leaving fingerprints. The policemen parted around him to allow him to pass. He stared at the barrier for a moment before stepping around it. Now he stood in side the lobby of the hotel, where a murderer had stood only hours before.
There was the victim; the hotel’s owner, Henry St. Claire. The man sat in a chair before the fire, his eyes wide open. He could have been alive, were it not for the large bloodstain seeping across his white shirt. Jon mentally steeled himself and stepped towards the man. He knelt at the man’s side and looked hard at the injury. Gunshot, he decided after a moment. From the size of the injury, he guessed that the injury had been inflicted by a small pistol.
Jon shuddered and stood up. A quick survey of the room evidenced that there was no gun in the room; the murderer must have taken the weapon. All Jon had to do now was interview the tenants of the hotel, the staff, and the Mrs. St. Claire. He sighed; it would be a long, exhausting day. He glanced over his shoulder before going outside again. Mr. St. Claire’s eyes seemed to be on him, as though accusing him of forgetting something. Jon crossed his arms in front of him and looked back at the body. Nothing…nothing at all… There.
Under the man’s left hand, which was flat against the chair, was a piece of paper. Jon darted forward and eased it out from underneath the hand. The piece of paper was folded into quarters, and had a name written on it in glossy black ink: Jon Wilson. The note fell from his hand, and he took two steps back. Impossible…he thought, staring at the paper as though it would explode. After a moment, he regained control and stepped forward to pick up the note.
Dear Mr. Wilson,
I understand that you are generally the one called in for cases such as this, and I understand that you have an uncommon knack for discovering the persons involved. A word of advice: as you value your life, do not do the same for this case. A sensible man would go home and lock the door. For your sake, and the sake of other innocents who may be accidentally harmed, please act in a sensible manner.
The letter was unsigned. Jon’s brow furrowed; he tucked the note into his breast pocket, his dark eyes looking from side to side for a sign of an attacker. The rain-slashed window offered no view of the outside…nothing. He shuddered slightly, looking nervously at all of the closed doors leading out of the lobby. Who knew I would be here? he wondered. Who killed a man and had the foresight to leave me a message? Jon pulled off the gloves and stuffed them in his pockets. He’d examined the crime scene enough. He pushed through the doors and emerged into the rain to see Constable Jackson standing right in front of him. He jumped; his heart was still racing and his nerves were on end.
“Well?” the constable asked, folding his arms.
“I would like to see those that need interviewing. And see that someone checks the door for fingerprints.” He made to turn and go back inside, but the man threw out an arm to stop him.
“You’re a brave man, sir,” he said. “A more sensible one wouldn’t get involved.”
“Yes,” Jon said distractedly. “Now, where are those who need to be questioned?”
Mr. Wilson told him where the victim’s wife and staff could be found; the tenants were obviously in their rooms.
Jon decided to start by questioning Mrs. St. Claire, and got a man to lead him to the room where the wife was being held. He placed a hand on the door handle, but stopped when the man tugged his sleeve. The young man looked side to side for a moment, then handed Jon a pistol.
Jon found this very odd, but he put the weapon into his pocket and kept a hand on it as he stepped the rest of the way into the room.
The woman sat in the corner, her face buried in her hands. She didn’t look up when Jon sat across from her.
“Mrs. St. Claire?” he asked, keeping his voice low. She hiccoughed and looked up sharply.
“What do you want? I didn’t kill him.” Her voice was low and raspy from crying, and her eyes were bright red. Jon felt inclined to believe her, somehow. She told him that she’d been in the kitchen with the cook when she heard the shot, and had come to find him dead. Jon told her that she would have nothing to fear if her story lined up with everyone else’s, and left the room.
He returned the pistol, then found the cook and kitchen boys, who repeated Mrs. St. Claire’s story exactly. Innocent, then.
With a sinking feeling that the next few days would essentially be hell on earth, he ascended the stairs to interview the tenants. Constable Jackson followed him, claiming that Jon might need security if he were attacked. Jon did not feel inclined to argue, so he allowed the constable to wait outside while he entered the tenants’ rooms to question them.
Jon spoke to each of them until every piece of information could be wrung out of them, until at last he stood before the last door. He heard the constable whistling quietly behind him as he knocked on the door and opened it.
A young woman sitting at a window seat turned quickly to face him, tearing her eyes rather slowly from the swarm of police visible through her front-facing window. The only front-facing window, actually.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, standing up and curtsying slowly. Jon noticed that she was very lovely, with dark blonde ringlet curls and large blue eyes. He smiled at her and bowed.
“My name is Jon Wilson. I’m helping the police today.”
She nodded, understanding plain on her face.
“My name is Sarah Lanston. I’ll be glad to tell you whatever I can. Do sit down.” She sat and motioned for him to join her on the window seat. He did so with a heavy sigh.
“Will you please tell me everything that happened between the hours of one and four in the afternoon today, miss?” he asked.
“Of course.” She cleared her throat quietly and began. “At about one this afternoon I returned from dining with a friend and retired to my room. I was drawing the city from my window. I was sitting just here, and could see everyone that came into the building. It was two thirty before anyone did enter, though.”
“Who was it who entered?” he asked, looking sharply at her. Two thirty was the estimated time that Mr. St. Claire had been killed.
“It was Constable Jackson.”
“Wait a moment, Miss Lanston,” Jon said, confused. “This was after you heard the shot?”
“No,” she said, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper. Jon had to lean forward to hear her. “I heard the gunshot directly after, and then I saw Mr. Jackson come running out the front door again.”
Jon’s mouth hung open. No…that can’t be right, he thought. Not Mr. Jackson…
“You are certain, miss?”
“I never forget a face,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d swear upon my life that I am correct about the man’s identity. He came back fifteen minutes later with the rest of the force, and then you arrived at about four. I figured someone would want to know, so I kept careful track of comings and goings,” she said, pointing at the clock sitting on a dresser on the other side of the room.
“Then we…we will have to question Mr. Jackson,” Jon said, standing up. This is impossible, he thought, staggering towards the door. “Thank you for your time and observations, Miss Lanston.”
He pushed the door open to see Constable Jackson standing right outside it.
“Ah, I was…just going to look for you,” Jon said, swallowing hard.
“Your search is over,” the other man said, a distinct snarling quality to his voice that wasn’t usually there.
The constable gave Jon a hard push, sending him back into the room, then entered himself and closed the door. Jon heard the lock click. Instinctively, he went to stand in front of Miss Lanston, shielding her from whatever was to come. Mr. Jackson had clearly heard their conversation, and something in the constable’s eyes told Jon that whether he actually was the murderer or not, the man was dangerous.
“How clever of you to fall directly into my trap, Mr. Wilson,” he said, pulling a pistol out of his pocket with a gloved hand. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist staying, but I gave you a gentlemanly chance to back out. Ordinarily it would be considered noble that you did stay, but you won’t win the glory from me this time. I promise you that.”
“What?” Jon asked, moving so that Miss Lanston was completely blocked from the gun. “Glory? What do you mean, Jackson?”
“Every time someone snuffs it, brave, brave, brave Jonathan Wilson is the one to save the day and see that the killer is safely locked up. Front page of the paper every time, while my name is pushed back as far as possible. That glory.”
“I don’t understand…” Jon said, starting to panic. Why had he given that pistol back? If he ever needed a pistol, it was then.
“Well, you’ll be in the paper one last time, Mr. Wilson. Front page, I imagine. ‘Famed Inspector Jonathan Wilson Convicted Murderer, Killed by Constable Frederick Jackson.’ That’s what the headline’ll say, I bet.”
“Constable, you’re talking nonsense,” Jon said, backing a few steps away. “I never killed anyone.”
“No. I did. But everyone will think you did. And I’ll tell you why. First off, people tend to believe what constables say. If I tell them that I heard you confess that you murdered Mr. St. Claire to this young lady here, and then say I heard you shoot her, they’ll believe me. When I tell them that I rushed in and wrestled the gun from you, and that you accidentally killed yourself in the process, they’ll believe me. And when the autopsy is performed on Mr. St. Claire, they will discover that the bullet lodged within the poor idiot did in fact come from this gun. And then your fingerprints will be found on the gun; fingerprints that you so willingly gave us. Remember when that boy passed you the gun? If you tell me you weren’t resting your finger on the trigger, I’ll say you’re a liar. Your finger on the trigger, not mine. I borrowed these nice gloves from you, so I won’t leave any prints that I don’t mean to leave.”
Jon snatched at his pockets. The gloves were indeed gone, and he had been resting his finger on the trigger. Why did I ever take them off? he asked himself furiously.
“Now, if you’ll just stand aside, Mr. Wilson, I’ll shoot the lady first…”
“No!” Jon yelled. Without thinking, he dove forward and gripped the barrel of the pistol with his hand just as the constable pulled the trigger. Jon screamed as the bullet tore through his flesh, but he saw that Miss Lanston hadn’t been harmed; he’d done his job. With his good hand, he punched the constable in the face as hard as he could. His hit was good; the mustached man crumpled onto the ground, clutching his nose. The gun fell from his hand, and Jon grabbed it to point it at Constable Jackson.
“Oh God!” he heard Miss Lanston scream. “Your hand is…”
“It’s fine,” Jon said through clenched teeth. The pain was making his hands shake, but the gun stayed on the constable. “Just…get help, now.”
He felt a blast of cold air as she pushed the window open, and heard her screaming for the police to come up. A moment later, they were swarming into the room, taking the gun from him. A dull buzzing filled his ears, and Jon fell on the floor, unconscious.
He awoke some hours later in the hospital with his left hand bound up in bandages. Dimly, he wondered why for a moment, lost in the confusion between unconsciousness and reality, but it didn’t take him long to piece it all together. After a moment, he realized that he wasn’t alone; Miss Lanston was sitting in a chair next to his bed, staring at him with wide eyes. She didn’t seem to be able to speak. Jon smiled at her.
“Long day, huh?”
She let out a sort of strangled sob.
“I’m…so…sorry…” she choked out. “It’s all my fault.”
Jon struggled to sit up, and reached his good hand over to take one of her hands. “No, thanks to you, we discovered the killer.”
“He’d have killed us both if it wasn’t for you,” she said, letting out another sob.
“Well, that’s my job,” he said, smiling. “And as soon as I get out of here, Miss Lanston, I’ll go back to doing it.”
Crime doesn’t pay…except when it does, thought private inspector Jon Wilson, straightening his vest and shoving open the door of his carriage. He stepped out gracefully, ignoring the pouring rain that drenched his top hat and jacket, and looked up at the building in front of him. The Hotel St. Claire; the most extravagant and expensive hotel in all of Boston, founded ten years ago in1860. Usually a steady stream of luxurious people in fur coats stood around the entrance, talking loudly and smoking cigars.
But today, it was a swarm of police clustered in front of the building, smoking nothing at all and clutching shiny black umbrellas to keep the rain from soaking their black uniforms. The glorious front doors had a small wooden barrier set up in front of them, marking the hotel as a crime scene and distracting the eye from their splendor to stare at the ugly white fence blocking the entrance.
One police man glanced up as Jon approached. The man’s face looked as grim and tired as Jon felt.
“Thank God you’re here, Mr. Wilson,” the constable said from behind a thick brown mustache. The man stepped away from the others, coming over to shake Jon’s hand. “Nothing has been disturbed; it’s all yours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” Jon said, stepping towards the hotel and sliding a pair of white gloves onto his hands to prevent leaving fingerprints. The policemen parted around him to allow him to pass. He stared at the barrier for a moment before stepping around it. Now he stood in side the lobby of the hotel, where a murderer had stood only hours before.
There was the victim; the hotel’s owner, Henry St. Claire. The man sat in a chair before the fire, his eyes wide open. He could have been alive, were it not for the large bloodstain seeping across his white shirt. Jon mentally steeled himself and stepped towards the man. He knelt at the man’s side and looked hard at the injury. Gunshot, he decided after a moment. From the size of the injury, he guessed that the injury had been inflicted by a small pistol.
Jon shuddered and stood up. A quick survey of the room evidenced that there was no gun in the room; the murderer must have taken the weapon. All Jon had to do now was interview the tenants of the hotel, the staff, and the Mrs. St. Claire. He sighed; it would be a long, exhausting day. He glanced over his shoulder before going outside again. Mr. St. Claire’s eyes seemed to be on him, as though accusing him of forgetting something. Jon crossed his arms in front of him and looked back at the body. Nothing…nothing at all… There.
Under the man’s left hand, which was flat against the chair, was a piece of paper. Jon darted forward and eased it out from underneath the hand. The piece of paper was folded into quarters, and had a name written on it in glossy black ink: Jon Wilson. The note fell from his hand, and he took two steps back. Impossible…he thought, staring at the paper as though it would explode. After a moment, he regained control and stepped forward to pick up the note.
Dear Mr. Wilson,
I understand that you are generally the one called in for cases such as this, and I understand that you have an uncommon knack for discovering the persons involved. A word of advice: as you value your life, do not do the same for this case. A sensible man would go home and lock the door. For your sake, and the sake of other innocents who may be accidentally harmed, please act in a sensible manner.
The letter was unsigned. Jon’s brow furrowed; he tucked the note into his breast pocket, his dark eyes looking from side to side for a sign of an attacker. The rain-slashed window offered no view of the outside…nothing. He shuddered slightly, looking nervously at all of the closed doors leading out of the lobby. Who knew I would be here? he wondered. Who killed a man and had the foresight to leave me a message? Jon pulled off the gloves and stuffed them in his pockets. He’d examined the crime scene enough. He pushed through the doors and emerged into the rain to see Constable Jackson standing right in front of him. He jumped; his heart was still racing and his nerves were on end.
“Well?” the constable asked, folding his arms.
“I would like to see those that need interviewing. And see that someone checks the door for fingerprints.” He made to turn and go back inside, but the man threw out an arm to stop him.
“You’re a brave man, sir,” he said. “A more sensible one wouldn’t get involved.”
“Yes,” Jon said distractedly. “Now, where are those who need to be questioned?”
Mr. Wilson told him where the victim’s wife and staff could be found; the tenants were obviously in their rooms.
Jon decided to start by questioning Mrs. St. Claire, and got a man to lead him to the room where the wife was being held. He placed a hand on the door handle, but stopped when the man tugged his sleeve. The young man looked side to side for a moment, then handed Jon a pistol.
Jon found this very odd, but he put the weapon into his pocket and kept a hand on it as he stepped the rest of the way into the room.
The woman sat in the corner, her face buried in her hands. She didn’t look up when Jon sat across from her.
“Mrs. St. Claire?” he asked, keeping his voice low. She hiccoughed and looked up sharply.
“What do you want? I didn’t kill him.” Her voice was low and raspy from crying, and her eyes were bright red. Jon felt inclined to believe her, somehow. She told him that she’d been in the kitchen with the cook when she heard the shot, and had come to find him dead. Jon told her that she would have nothing to fear if her story lined up with everyone else’s, and left the room.
He returned the pistol, then found the cook and kitchen boys, who repeated Mrs. St. Claire’s story exactly. Innocent, then.
With a sinking feeling that the next few days would essentially be hell on earth, he ascended the stairs to interview the tenants. Constable Jackson followed him, claiming that Jon might need security if he were attacked. Jon did not feel inclined to argue, so he allowed the constable to wait outside while he entered the tenants’ rooms to question them.
Jon spoke to each of them until every piece of information could be wrung out of them, until at last he stood before the last door. He heard the constable whistling quietly behind him as he knocked on the door and opened it.
A young woman sitting at a window seat turned quickly to face him, tearing her eyes rather slowly from the swarm of police visible through her front-facing window. The only front-facing window, actually.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, standing up and curtsying slowly. Jon noticed that she was very lovely, with dark blonde ringlet curls and large blue eyes. He smiled at her and bowed.
“My name is Jon Wilson. I’m helping the police today.”
She nodded, understanding plain on her face.
“My name is Sarah Lanston. I’ll be glad to tell you whatever I can. Do sit down.” She sat and motioned for him to join her on the window seat. He did so with a heavy sigh.
“Will you please tell me everything that happened between the hours of one and four in the afternoon today, miss?” he asked.
“Of course.” She cleared her throat quietly and began. “At about one this afternoon I returned from dining with a friend and retired to my room. I was drawing the city from my window. I was sitting just here, and could see everyone that came into the building. It was two thirty before anyone did enter, though.”
“Who was it who entered?” he asked, looking sharply at her. Two thirty was the estimated time that Mr. St. Claire had been killed.
“It was Constable Jackson.”
“Wait a moment, Miss Lanston,” Jon said, confused. “This was after you heard the shot?”
“No,” she said, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper. Jon had to lean forward to hear her. “I heard the gunshot directly after, and then I saw Mr. Jackson come running out the front door again.”
Jon’s mouth hung open. No…that can’t be right, he thought. Not Mr. Jackson…
“You are certain, miss?”
“I never forget a face,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d swear upon my life that I am correct about the man’s identity. He came back fifteen minutes later with the rest of the force, and then you arrived at about four. I figured someone would want to know, so I kept careful track of comings and goings,” she said, pointing at the clock sitting on a dresser on the other side of the room.
“Then we…we will have to question Mr. Jackson,” Jon said, standing up. This is impossible, he thought, staggering towards the door. “Thank you for your time and observations, Miss Lanston.”
He pushed the door open to see Constable Jackson standing right outside it.
“Ah, I was…just going to look for you,” Jon said, swallowing hard.
“Your search is over,” the other man said, a distinct snarling quality to his voice that wasn’t usually there.
The constable gave Jon a hard push, sending him back into the room, then entered himself and closed the door. Jon heard the lock click. Instinctively, he went to stand in front of Miss Lanston, shielding her from whatever was to come. Mr. Jackson had clearly heard their conversation, and something in the constable’s eyes told Jon that whether he actually was the murderer or not, the man was dangerous.
“How clever of you to fall directly into my trap, Mr. Wilson,” he said, pulling a pistol out of his pocket with a gloved hand. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist staying, but I gave you a gentlemanly chance to back out. Ordinarily it would be considered noble that you did stay, but you won’t win the glory from me this time. I promise you that.”
“What?” Jon asked, moving so that Miss Lanston was completely blocked from the gun. “Glory? What do you mean, Jackson?”
“Every time someone snuffs it, brave, brave, brave Jonathan Wilson is the one to save the day and see that the killer is safely locked up. Front page of the paper every time, while my name is pushed back as far as possible. That glory.”
“I don’t understand…” Jon said, starting to panic. Why had he given that pistol back? If he ever needed a pistol, it was then.
“Well, you’ll be in the paper one last time, Mr. Wilson. Front page, I imagine. ‘Famed Inspector Jonathan Wilson Convicted Murderer, Killed by Constable Frederick Jackson.’ That’s what the headline’ll say, I bet.”
“Constable, you’re talking nonsense,” Jon said, backing a few steps away. “I never killed anyone.”
“No. I did. But everyone will think you did. And I’ll tell you why. First off, people tend to believe what constables say. If I tell them that I heard you confess that you murdered Mr. St. Claire to this young lady here, and then say I heard you shoot her, they’ll believe me. When I tell them that I rushed in and wrestled the gun from you, and that you accidentally killed yourself in the process, they’ll believe me. And when the autopsy is performed on Mr. St. Claire, they will discover that the bullet lodged within the poor idiot did in fact come from this gun. And then your fingerprints will be found on the gun; fingerprints that you so willingly gave us. Remember when that boy passed you the gun? If you tell me you weren’t resting your finger on the trigger, I’ll say you’re a liar. Your finger on the trigger, not mine. I borrowed these nice gloves from you, so I won’t leave any prints that I don’t mean to leave.”
Jon snatched at his pockets. The gloves were indeed gone, and he had been resting his finger on the trigger. Why did I ever take them off? he asked himself furiously.
“Now, if you’ll just stand aside, Mr. Wilson, I’ll shoot the lady first…”
“No!” Jon yelled. Without thinking, he dove forward and gripped the barrel of the pistol with his hand just as the constable pulled the trigger. Jon screamed as the bullet tore through his flesh, but he saw that Miss Lanston hadn’t been harmed; he’d done his job. With his good hand, he punched the constable in the face as hard as he could. His hit was good; the mustached man crumpled onto the ground, clutching his nose. The gun fell from his hand, and Jon grabbed it to point it at Constable Jackson.
“Oh God!” he heard Miss Lanston scream. “Your hand is…”
“It’s fine,” Jon said through clenched teeth. The pain was making his hands shake, but the gun stayed on the constable. “Just…get help, now.”
He felt a blast of cold air as she pushed the window open, and heard her screaming for the police to come up. A moment later, they were swarming into the room, taking the gun from him. A dull buzzing filled his ears, and Jon fell on the floor, unconscious.
He awoke some hours later in the hospital with his left hand bound up in bandages. Dimly, he wondered why for a moment, lost in the confusion between unconsciousness and reality, but it didn’t take him long to piece it all together. After a moment, he realized that he wasn’t alone; Miss Lanston was sitting in a chair next to his bed, staring at him with wide eyes. She didn’t seem to be able to speak. Jon smiled at her.
“Long day, huh?”
She let out a sort of strangled sob.
“I’m…so…sorry…” she choked out. “It’s all my fault.”
Jon struggled to sit up, and reached his good hand over to take one of her hands. “No, thanks to you, we discovered the killer.”
“He’d have killed us both if it wasn’t for you,” she said, letting out another sob.
“Well, that’s my job,” he said, smiling. “And as soon as I get out of here, Miss Lanston, I’ll go back to doing it.”
;D
