Storytelling With Confidence

A Captive Audience, Episode 3.4

A few more days passed, and I was starting to grow concerned about my situation, not to mention my friend. By this point, Madigan surely would have visited the Nightingale. And surely they would have told him that I was under arrest, under the suspicious impression that he was missing under suspicious circumstances. I didn't understand why I was still detained, and I was ready for this ordeal to be over.

But since Madigan hadn't shown up yet, I had to consider the possibility that he truly had been kidnapped, or fallen into a well or something. And while I couldn't fault the authorities for considering me their prime suspect, I was probably also the most qualified person to find a missing Madigan. I knew where he lived, I knew how he made a living. But I couldn't conduct my own investigation from inside this cell, and I couldn't easily aid the official investigation without incriminating Madigan of several infractions of the law. If I told the inspector everything I knew, he would probably let me out of this cell just to make room for Madigan. Unless he was feeling spiteful, in which case he might let me share his cell as Madigan's accomplice.

There was another factor inhibiting me from divulging all of Madigan's secrets: the guy currently inhabiting the cell next to me had been erroneously convicted of the crime Madigan had actually committed. Silversteel had already lost his temper when he first saw me, but was starting to warm to my companionship (penally enforced, as it was). I had a strong feeling that our blossoming friendship would abruptly wither if I told the true story of how Madigan robbed his own family and I framed Silversteel for the crime.

All this meant that I had to carefully watch my tongue when Inspector Stagger returned to the cell block to continue my interrogation. I watched him, apprehensively, as he repeated his routine: shuffling his wide frame sideways through the doorway, waddling on his short legs down the stairs, scanning the empty prison from side to side with his characteristic glower, and finally spinning the chair around in front of him until he sat down with his arms crossed in front of him, on the back rest. He unfolded his notebook and drew his pencil from his breast pocket, and knit his eyebrows together as he settled his gaze on me.
"Well now, Mr. Raconteur," he began, after consulting his notebook. "When was the last time you saw Mr. Madigan Price?"

I cocked my head and stared at the ceiling as I recollected my memories. When was our last conversation? It must have been a few weeks ago, at least...

***** ***** *****

Madigan was rolling out the barrel for a large crowd at the Nightingale. "Rolling out the barrel," in this context, is a euphemism for hosting a boisterous party where everyone was drinking copiously. I was unsure of the reason for celebrating, but I never really needed a well-defined excuse to drink. My friend seemed happy and carefree tonight, and that's all I needed to be happy and carefree.

I had just delivered, on Madigan's special request, a rousing rendition of "The Three Buffoons," my most recent story inspired by my naturally comedic life experiences. Many of the patrons in the tavern were at least aware, if not actually present, during some of the scenes depicted in my tale, but that did not stop them from roaring raucously with laughter during my performance. Even better, they showered my hat with coins afterward.

I made my rounds of the tavern, chatting amiably with various acquaintances who frequented the Nightingale. Because I recognized pretty much everyone in the tavern, I was mildly piqued when I noticed a young lady join the party, who, in my recollection, had never before entered this establishment. That, and she was strikingly attractive. From an objective perspective, of course. I wasn't the only gentleman in the party to take notice, either - all around me I saw heads swivelling on their necks to appraise this newcomer. She wore a conservative blue dress which complimented her rich, unadorned auburn hair. But it was her eyes that caught me, and belied a wary intelligence that contradicted her innocent attire. I doubt I can say the same for my associates in the tavern, but nothing captures my attention more than an enigma. Of course, attractive enigmas are even more interesting.

I watched, surreptitiously, as she politely but pointedly turned away a handful of admirers who tried to impress her with an uninterrupted stream of inelegant introductions. Occasionally, I thought to attempt to rescue her dignity (or dignity of these men) from this embarrassing onslaught of pick-up lines, but I couldn't think of anything I could say that wouldn't sound like a weak flirtatious attempt of my own.

Madigan soon saved the situation, in typical suave, confident Madigan fashion. It appeared that Madigan and this girl were already acquainted, as Madigan gently took her hand and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. Most of the guests were noticing the girl's familiarity with Madigan and watching with slight jealousy, but I couldn't help but notice how Madigan's lips whispered a short message into the girl's ear, and the way she moved her hand to her pocket after Madigan released it. Intriguing.

Madigan caught my eye and came over to approach me. "I see you noticed my friend, Lindsay - what do you think of her? Quite the catch, isn't she?" He flashed his characteristic grin at me.

"Meh," I responded. In accordance with my personal style, I feigned disinterest with a non-committal response, and made no mention of the transaction I had just witnessed between them. "If so, you better not let her escape!" I nodded back in her direction, where the other men, emboldened by Madigan's brief recess, were once again moving in to attempt their futile introductions.

Madigan spun around with mock indignation. "Frailty, thy name is woman!" he shouted, with just the right touch of self-deprecation. He galloped back to her, grabbed her by the hand and spun her around in a festive twirl, to which she and all the onlookers erupted with laughter. I loudly started up with a well-known folk song to encourage the dancing, and the rest of the tavern quickly joined in.

***** ***** *****

"I guess it's been about two weeks. I last saw him at a party," I answered the inspector.

As a storyteller, I make my living by remaining ever witty and talkative. However, his next words left me dumbstruck. "The Price family has reported him missing for the past 6 months," Inspector Stagger informed me.

The scruffy, blond-haired bozo in the cell next to me made up for my silence, though. "Ha!" exclaimed Silversteel, "So your 'friend' never mentioned that he was a runaway?"

Inspector Stagger tore his attention away from me to look at Silversteel. "Are you still down here?" he asked. Of course he was, and of course the inspector was aware of it - he had surveyed the cell block when he first came down the steps. What kind of game was Inspector Stagger up to? He glanced at me and then rendered me dumbfounded yet again. "The charges against you were dropped, Silversteel. Apparently the stolen property was anonymously returned to the Price family. Nothing is missing. There's no crime that we can hold you for."

Silversteel's raucous laughter echoed in the jail and in my ears as guards unlocked his cell and led him out. Wheezing, coughing, and pointing at me during his hysterics, I'll never forget the gloating look on his face as he achieved his freedom. But my dumb demeanor reached its peak after Silversteel had left, and Inspector Stagger calmly unlocked my cell and swung the door wide open.

"You too, Sparrow," he said to me. "The Price family has posted your bail."

Silently and stupidly, I exited my cell. I had never before felt so dumb in all my life.