Framed by a mysterious glass sphere in a locked study, a disgraced WWII investigator must outsmart his military mentor.
Arthur moved through the city’s underbelly, keeping to the alleys and unlit side streets. The cold wind bit at his exposed skin through the torn sleeve of his coat. He felt utterly alone, isolated. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat.
He stopped under the weak glow of a streetlamp, pulling his coat tighter around himself. His fingers brushed against something stiff in an outer pocket.
A small paper matchbook. Not his own.
He pulled it out. Blue Room Lounge, the cover read, with a stylized martini glass. He didn’t frequent the Blue Room. He hadn’t been in a lounge, or any bar, in fourteen months.
He remembered the chaos at the Krol estate. The detective’s voice, the uniformed officers, the hurried escape. Someone must have slipped it into his pocket then.
He flipped open the cover. Inside, tucked beneath the matches, was a handwritten note. Small, cramped script.
“Garrick’s office, 3rd floor filing cabinet, ask for Silas.”
A jolt went through him. Silas Wright. Garrick’s civilian archivist clerk. A mousy man, always pale, always with a stack of papers clutched to his chest. He had seen Silas during his last visit to Garrick’s War Assets Audit office, just a month ago.
“Silas,” Arthur repeated softly. The name felt like a lifeline in the deepening darkness.
Why would Silas contact him? Why now? He knew Silas to be meticulous, almost obsessive, about following rules. He was hardly the type to aid a man on the run, especially one accused of murder.
Unless Silas had something to hide, or something to reveal. Something Garrick didn’t want him to find.
Arthur remembered Silas’s nervous glances during their last encounter. His hand had trembled slightly when he handed Arthur a routine form. Garrick had been in the room, his presence a heavy weight.
The message implied a deeper knowledge, an insider’s understanding of Garrick’s operations. “3rd floor filing cabinet.” It was precise. Silas was giving him a map.
He looked at the matchbook again, turning it over in his hand. A small act of rebellion. A flicker of hope in a night that had offered only despair.
But if Garrick’s own clerk was willing to betray him, the colonel’s reach might not be as absolute as it seemed. There were cracks in the façade. Arthur just had to find them.
He tucked the matchbook away, the paper feeling oddly warm against his skin. He needed to find Garrick’s office. He needed to find Silas.
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