“Either you are a young woman under that suit pretending to be a young man…or I am learning something surprising about myself. Or both.” He tilted his head to the side. “Both. Most certainly both. And quite frankly, it’s not that surprising.”
I slapped myself across the face.
“What on earth was that for?” he demanded.
“Someone had to do it,” I said. “All right, I need to get you out of here.”
“The fiend tied me up too well,” he said. “You’ll have to cut the knots.”
“Do you still have that knife strapped to your ankle?” I asked.
Traumatized by the carnage of the First World War, the Duke of Chicago famously didn’t carry a gun. However, he always kept a knife on his ankle in the event of a kidnapping. For a fictional detective, being kidnapped and/or held hostage was a daily concern.
“I do, yes,” he said, his tone suspicious. “But how did you know—”
“Um…I mean, who doesn’t keep a kidnapping knife in their socks these days? I left mine in my other socks so I’ll use yours if you don’t mind—”
I bent down to get his knife, but at the last moment, he danced his leg away.
“I never let anyone touch my socks until I know their name. Strict rule of mine. Never steered me wrong.”
“I can’t tell you,” I said. “Sorry.”
“That’s unfortunate. As I need to get out of here, I’ll simply have to give you a name. I’ll call you…darling.”
“That works,” I said. “And you’re the Duke. Now if we could get back to the knife—”
“Just call me Duke, darling,” he said, relaxing his leg for me. “And your friend?”
“Koshka,” I said. “He thinks he’s Russian.”
“Koshka? Your four-legged Bolshevik is sitting in my hat.”
I lifted Duke’s pant leg. Sure enough, he had a slim knife hidden inside his right sock. “Sorry about the cat in the hat,” I said.
“Don’t apologize. It looks better on him than on me. Greetings, comrade,” he said. “???????????.”
“You know Russian?” I asked as I went to work, sawing through the thick ropes. The blade was sharp but small.
“Only enough to get me thrown in the gulag.”
“The guy who grabbed you…what did he look like?”
“Pure essence of knob, if you ask me,” Duke said.
“Can you be more specific?”
“Caucasian male, approximately forty years old, five feet, eight inches, average build, brown eyes, sallow complexion, Roman nose, short brown hair, widow’s peak, birthmark on his right hand—”
“Did he smell like smoke?” I said before I got his weight and the name of his third grade teacher too.
“Yes, and he looked like his mother never once kissed him good night. Know him?”
“Unfortunately.” It sounded like X, an old archenemy of mine. A Burner. We’d tussled more than once in the past.
“Why did he leave you here?” I asked. “Did he say?”
“He said nothing to me at all,” Duke said. “My turn to ask the questions now.”
