February Short Story

Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash

There have always been certain implications for certain types of weather.
Evander Stinton knew them all. Sunny days were optimistic. Fog meant mystery to be uncovered and a red moon meant a murder.
But despite all his acquired knowledge of weather lore, Evander had never been able to accurately predict mid-spring storms. He stood under the narrow grey awning over the bookshop in the corner, rain running down his collar.

He had hoped that standing under the awning might give him some meager protection from the onslaught of rain, but the wind was against him. It blew raindrops under the awning, across his chest and into his eyes.

The streets were seemingly deserted, except for the occasional cab--and rightly so.

"Seems I'm the only dimwit stuck out in this squall," he muttered, peering out from under the awning.

He took the opportunity to look down at the paper in his hands, now crinkled and watermarked.

"Grey Tatra 97. Dent on the left mirror. Could be any damn scoundrel."

A gust of wind splattered a sheet of rain across his coat front. Evander stumbled back a step, coughing.

"Hey!" he complained, shaking his fist at the empty street, "pick on some other lowlife. This dimwit's in enough trouble already."
"Not the only one, mister."

Evander turned to see a short, old man come out of the bookshop. He had a big forehead and a wrinkled, dwarven nose.

"You Mr. Stinton?"
"Evander, yes."

The old man dug into the pocket of his black jacket and pulled out a piece of folded paper.
"Telegram for you then, Mr. Evander."

Evander folded his watermarked papers and hid them away in the pocket of his trench coat.
"Telegram? You get telegrams in a bookshop?" he asked, reaching for the message.
"Just got a machine in awhile ago. Not the main focus of the shop, sure, but useful nonetheless."
"I suppose."

The old man continued to stare at him, supposedly unperturbed by a cold gust of wind that plastered his damp coat collar to his cheek.

Unwilling to read the message as the dwarf-nosed old man was watching him like a cat, he clenched it in his palm. He could only guess at what was inside. Besides, confidentiality had no room for onlookers.

"Is that all, Mr.--?"
"Spinule."
"Ah. Right. Is that all, Mr. Spinule?"
"Well, all I have to do is operate the telegraph machine and try to sell a novel every few days. But I figure you're looking for something? And I know that that there telegram's got it all to do with it."

Evander's fingers clenched tighter around the telegram in his palm. "I say!" he exclaimed, taken aback "Do you read telegrams as well as receive them?"

"No, Mr. Evander. But I've yet to see a Stinton who isn't involved in the B.D.E.I."

 Willing yourself not to blanch is as about as impossible as to will yourself to stop bleeding, or will yourself to stop falling after you've made a jump. The blood drained from Evander's cheeks and he clenched the telegram so tightly he could feel it crinkle into the crook of his knuckle.

"I don't...exactly...I don't understand,Spinule--if that's even your name."

The grey awning above them flapped spasmodically above them, showering them with raindrops.

Mr. Spinule nodded. "Is Mr. Greaves still up top?"

Evander nodded slowly, unaware now of the rivulets of rain running down his collar. He had gathered his composure. "And I don't suppose that telegraph machine was a harmless whim, either."
"Not at the time. So...how's your detection going, Mr. Stinton?"

A cab rolled by slowly, wipers swinging back and forth at the maximum.

Both men paused to watch the cab, then Evander turned to the old man. "I'm not quite sure who you are, but if you don't mind, sir, I'm going to read this telegram!"
"No need to  get hostile. But as a matter of fact, I do mind."
"What's it to you?"
"You won't find the Tatra 97 on this street."

A strange feeling spiked down Evander's spine. The type of feeling that you might get before a jump scare. Mr. Spinule's face seemed to grow sharper.
Evander took a step back, coming to the edge of the awning.

"Shouldn't I?" he asked, his voice hardly more than a cracked whisper.
Mr. Spinule advanced a little. "You should be. But you won't. I'll tell you why if you care to know."
Evander couldn't explain why his somewhat sour disposition had suddenly become ominous, or why his clenched fists had begun to tremble, or why his throat had suddenly tightened. His confident front was suddenly shattered.
What sort of things his Father could reprimand him for now. Barely in the Agency and already trembling before an old man. Reduced to a shaking, squeaking, soaking ghost because of a man with a dwarven nose.

"How...could you know?"

"It's not that that matters. What matters is that at this moment the Tatra 97 is leaving the city limits on the other side of town with all the valuables and half the people."

Mr. Spinule advanced once more, and Evander moved backward to match his paces. They had left the dry haven beneath the awning behind them. Though the rest of the world faded to a watery haze of grey and brown, Mr. Spinule stood alone as the sharp figure, standing straight-backed and with shocking clarity.
Evander stumbled back, water sloshing into his shoes.
"Only half?"
They were now standing in the middle of the road.
Mr. Spinule's eyes flashed. "The other half are in the cab and they're due any second now."
"Cab?" Evander's head spun in brief confusion before looking up in time to catch sight of a bright yellow blur far ahead.

Suddenly a fist plummeted into his gut, and he doubled over. The sound of tires streaking over a the waterlogged road rung in his ears.

"Damn," he groaned, falling to his knees, "so close."
Mr. Spinule shouted over the roar of the cab "Nah, boy! Not half there!"

 Evander didn't hear it.
<><><>
"Hurry, Spinner! Let's beat it before we're caught with the body!"
Mr. Spinule bent down, near the still clenched fist protruding from under the tire of the cab.
"What a kid. Downright stupid. Wasn't cut out for it." Mr. Spinule pried open the fingers and saw the telegraph, still crumpled in the crook between his knuckle and palm.

Investigation infiltrated STOP Make your way to the South side of the city immediately after receiving this message otherwise your safety will be compromised STOP Don't know what I'd tell your Pop if something'd happen to you your first investigation STOP Look out for Spinner 
Mr Greaves 

Mr. Spinule shook his head and stuffed the telegram back in Evander's limp fist.
"As usual. Agency's just too slow."
"C'mon, Spinner! We gotta get goin' now. Rendezvous with the boys in the Tatra is in fifteen minutes, let's move!"
Mr. Spinule stood and rubbed his knuckles. "Yeah, I'm comin. Kid was out of his league anyway."

The cab streaked away down the street, spraying water from under the tires. And the rain rained on, oblivious to the broken body wrapped in a soaking brown trench coat. Oblivious to the crumpled telegram that came too late.
Oblivious to anything but it's own business. As Mr. Spinule had been oblivious to Evander's twisted fingers closing every so slightly around the telegram they had stuffed back into his palm.