Smoking Can Be Deadly
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Rhianon Jameson
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Smoking Can Be Deadly
by Rhianon Jameson
October 2008
The messenger pounded on my door early in the morning.
I was still abed, and
hastily threw on a robe over my night clothes as I stumbled to the doorway and threw
open the door....
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Smoking Can Be Deadly
by Rhianon Jameson
October 2008
The messenger pounded on my door early in the morning.
I was still abed, and
hastily threw on a robe over my night clothes as I stumbled to the doorway and threw
open the door.
“For goodness’ sake, boy, quit that racket!” It had been a long night for
me – all in the name of chasing down a story, mind you – and I was feeling a little fragile.
“Sorry, miss, but I gots a tellergram fer you,” the boy replied.
He was a sootyfaced urchin in hand-me-down clothing.
I felt a little ashamed of myself, as he was
earning his living, and surely was as uninterested in being up at this hour as I was.
“The
guv’ner said there was an extra ten Lindens in it fer me if I got this to yer by haff-pass
six.
”
I took the note.
“As indeed you have.
Thank you very much.
” I pressed some
coins in the boy’s hand.
He tipped his hat and was off.
Sinking into a stuffed chair, I
ripped open the envelope.
Something up your alley.
Come at once.
613 1/2 Border St.
(Signed), Armstrong.
Bob Armstrong was a captain in the Caledonian police, something
closer than an acquaintance and something less than a friend.
I had helped him out
recently, and given him the credit (although I got an exclusive on the story, and sold it for
a handsome sum).
It was hard for me to imagine what police business might be for which
Captain Armstrong could use my presence, much less ask for it.
Border Street was a
walled street along which the train tracks ran, separating the slums of Victoria City,
sarcastically named The Manors, from the nicer area; the wall, it was said, kept the riffraff penned in.
It wasn’t hard to imagine crime on Border Street.
I dealt with my morning ablutions as quickly as possible, threw on an old frock,
and grabbed fountain pen and paper on my way out the door, ignoring the pounding in
my head as well as my empty stomach.
Traffic was light, almost non-existent at that hour,
so I made good time to Border Street, moving through a gap in the wall into The Manors,
then crossing the tracks.
I found No.
613 with no difficulty, as the tenement had several
police vehicles in front of it, but it took me some time to find the “one-half.
” This turned
out to be in an alley behind No.
613, and was a seedy two-story building that likely began
life as an out-building for the much larger 613 in front, but was now occupied by a halfdozen or more families.
The alley continued for a number of feet behind the smaller
building, eventually connecting with Fulton Street, which ran parallel to Border Street.
Standing in the alley was Captain Armstrong, surrounded by several uniformed
officers.
The Captain was a short but burly man, and his men all had similar builds, as
though their superior was uncertain that tall, thin officers were up to the job.
The police
contingent watched as a medical team crouched low.
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