Marcel Charles sat in the flop-house; his cot was under the window, which allowed him to read the newspaper better. The room held several other men, but this was the only place that would take him in since his stay in prison, all those ten years. A sly smile spread on his face when he read the article about his release and he hoped that Thomas Brackenreid would soon see the seem.
He set the paper down and glance out the window, just in time to see Darby O'Farrell crossing the street. Again a smile curled his lips, hoping that the seedy little Irishman had made contact with the Inspector.
O'Farrell entered the room and walked over to where Charles sat. He pulled the small knife from his ragged coat pocket and dropped it on the cot next to Marcel, "He was as mad as a nest of wasps," the Irishman laughed. "Gottem right here," he poked Charles in the right shoulder to indicate where he's stabbed the Inspector.
"Excellent," Marcel said as he stood up, "Now I need to you to lay low for a while. Knowing Brackenreid he will have his men out looking for you," he noted wisely. O'Farrell nodded, "Sure. Where?"
"Not here," Charles noted. "They'll check all the boarding houses in the area. Find a barn or shed," he suggested.
"What will I eat?" O'Farrell questioned.
Charles reached down into his pocket and pulled out a few coins, "Buy a loaf of bread," he grumbled then stuffed some of the money into O'Farrell's grubby hand. "Come back at the end of the week," he stated. "I'll have another job for you by then," he smiled. "And remember to stay out of sight. Everything's taken care of," he warned.
O'Farrell nodded sharply and turned on his heels. He gasped the sight of two uniformed constables who stood in the doorway. Frantically he looked back over his shoulder as if he'd just been handed to the hungry wolves. "You said everything was taken care of!" he shook nervously.
Marcel laughed, "O'Farrell, these two constables are my friends. Our friends. This is Constable Dobbin and Constable Reese. They're on our side," Charles smiled.
"If you say so," O'Farrell sputtered as he quickly left the boarding house room, stepping fast past the two constables.
"Are you sure he can be trusted?" Dobbin questioned as he watched the Irishman bolt from the room.
"You know it, as long as you can supply the goods," Marcel smiled.
"It's good to see you again, Sir," Reese outstretched his right hand. Charles took it and shook it hard, "It's been a long time boys. It's time we took back Station House 7 and the area," he smiled.
"Indeed, Sir," Dobbin chimed in as he hooked his thumbs over his uniform belt.
"That's music to my ears," Charles laughed as he turned back to the window. "I have a plan," he then looked over his left shoulder.
"Fill us in," Reese said as he took several steps forward.
"In due time," Marcel smiled and looked back down onto the street from his second story room.
Back at Station House 4, the ruckus seemed to have come from a carnival that was being held by the waterfront. A number of the people in the lobby were either being arrested for pick-pocketing or those who have claimed to have been pick-pocketed.
Constable George Crabtree entered the Inspector's office, "Sir! Are you all right?" he asked, staring at the blood-soaked sleeve.
Brackenreid bushed off the comment with a slight wave of his hand, "No worse for wear, Crabtee. Thanks," he grunted. "Now tell me about that lot," he looked out into the lobby.
"It appears that these folks are either guilty or victims from the carnival down at the waterfront," the Constable explained.
"This is a bloody nuisance!" Brackenreid grumbled as he tried to drink the cold cup of tea. "Since when was a carnival held down there?" he asked Crabtree. The dishevelled Inspector pulled his loose cravat off and flung it to his desk.
The constable shrugged, "Well, I don't know, Sir. We started to get complaints about it this morning. It must be the good weather bring everyone out," George stated.
"Well, I hope they get the hell out of my station soon. I've had enough for one day, already," Brackenreid said as he decided that the cold tea wasn't cutting it for him, so he turned to the decanter of Scotch, on the bookshelf behind his desk. A couple of fingers would do as he splashed some of the amber liquid into the glass. With a sigh, he took a long sip and then lowered himself onto his black leather chair. It felt good. He could feel stress building from everything that was happening, and his chair was like a small piece of heaven.
Detective William Murdoch was the next one through the door. Under his arm was a package wrapped in brown paper and string, "Here you go Sir," he handed the parcel to his boss. "And here's this morning's, newspaper," Murdoch smiled.
"Good show, Murdoch! Now find that rat-fink O'Farrell, and get his butt in here," Brackenreid said as he opened the brown paper, exposing a crisp white shirt. A smile spread under the reddish moustache on the Inspector's face as he lifted the shirt up to examine it. "How much do I owe you, Murdoch?"
"Consider it a gift," the young detective smiled. "I'll talk to George and Henry about O'Farrell now," he said excusing himself to attend to the matter if the Inspector's attacker. George Crabtree followed the detective.
Feeling like things were now looking up, Brackenreid decided to finish his drink while reading the morning paper. The Inspector leaned back in his chair and scanned the newspaper, and then placed his fine rimmed spectacles on, noting an article on a case the constabulary had been working on. He appreciated the way the article was written and it painted Station House 4 in a favourable light. Brackenreid lifted his drink to his lips and began to sip when his eyes locked onto the article about former Inspector Marcel Charles. It came a such a shock that the man was just released from prison, that Brackenreid spewed out the Scotch all over the paper. "Bloody hell! No!" he said to himself. Suddenly the day took another unexpected turn for the Inspector, "Bloody hell," he repeated crumpling the paper. His eyes held fear as his mind raced back to the day in court and he could hear Marcel yelling for revenge as he was led from the room. Brackenreid stared forward.
From where Murdoch stood in his office, he witnessed his boss' reaction to something in the newspaper, "I'll be back in a few minutes," he told Crabtree and Higgins as he dismissed himself and entered the Inspector's office. "Sir?" he cocked his head looking at Brackenreid.
The Inspector slowly turned to face the detective, "Marcel Charles is out of prison," he said in a low calculated tone. The newspaper still crumpled in his hand. Brackenreid looked down at the wad of paper, then tossed it to his desk.
"Who?" Murdoch asked as he took a step forward.
"That bloody Marcel Charles!" Brackenreid was now on his feet, with his hands trust deeply into this trouser pockets. "He was the former Inspector at Station House 7. I caught him in some dubious business and blackmail. Needless to say, it ended his career when he was locked away," the Inspector huffed. "He's so crooked, I swear they will screw him into the ground," he motioned with his right hand.
"I still don't see what the issue is, I'm afraid," William said, studying his boss' face.
Brackenreid looked at the young Detective, "He swore he'd get revenge on me for having him locked away," the Inspector stated. His jowl muscles flexed in thought.
"But that was so long ago. Surely he's forgotten that by now," Murdoch tried to reason.
Brackenreid snorted, "Care to wager?" he asked picking up his unfinished glass of Scotch, belting the remainder back in one swallow. His blue eyes stared down at his desk while his mind raced with horrible thoughts. The Inspector knew that Charles was evil enough to even hurt his family.
Murdoch didn't know what to say, "I'm sure that everything will be okay," he tried to easy the tension. He wasn't certain that Brackenreid heard him. "Sir?" he spoke a little louder.
Brackenreid looked over to the Detective, "What is it Murdoch?"
"If you'd like we could find out where this Marcel Charles is staying and find out what his intentions are," Murdoch offered.
Brackenreid thought for a second and quickly pulled his right hand from his pocket, clicking his fingers at the suggestion, "That's a great idea, Murdoch! Do that, will ya?" he asked.
Murdoch smiled. "We'd be happy to do that for you," he nodded sharply before leaving the room. Now he was hoping that this Marcel Charles fellow will have long buried the hatchet.
