The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Read online

  A Novel of the Clay Shamus

  by Michael Panush

  AIRSHIP 27 PRODUCTIONS

  The Dagger Men

  © 2016 Michael Panush

  Published by Airship 27 Productions

  www.airship27.com

  www.airship27hangar.com

  Interior and cover illustrations © 2016 Zachary Brunner

  Editor: Ron Fortier

  Associate Editor: Fred Adams Jr.

  Marketing and Promotions Manager: Michael Vance

  Production and design by Rob Davis.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  eBook Edition

  CLAY SHAMUS

  Volume One

  THE DAGGER MEN

  A Novel of the Clay Shamus

  by Michael Panush

  MODERN GOLEMS

  A Bonus Tale of the Clay Shamus

  Chapter One

  GARDEN OF EDEN

  Crisp grass crunched under Emmet Clay’s boots. He stared ahead, past the rolling meadow that served as the heart of Arcadia Park, and to the swath of ornamental trees and statues that formed the closest thing to a forest to be found in the city he had made his home. Something about the closeness of the trees, and the way the statues of forgotten Greek Gods, monsters, and heroes seemed hidden by the tangled branches and consumed by vines made the forest seem sinister instead of quaint. Beyond the trees, the skyscrapers of Sickle City reached up into a pale sky. Distant and unreachable, the rows of great buildings reminded Clay of the background for an altar in some strange temple. The occasional picnicking family or couple strolling arm in arm through Arcadia Park didn’t notice the darkness of the forest, but they still stayed away from it. Clay wasn’t afraid, though. He had a job to do.

  He stepped onto the stone path and approached the entrance to the woods, his hands in his pockets. Clay got a few odd looks—just like he got everywhere. He appeared to be a particularly bulky man—a mountain in a trench coat—with broad shoulders, a dome of a head, a slab for a nose, and uncombed, straight, mud-colored hair. He wore a brown suit and vest under his trench coat, the tie loosely knotted. His fedora shaded his face.

  Clay wasn’t on the job alone. Zipporah Sarfati, his fellow detective, stood next to Clay. She pointed at a stout figure standing on the stone road leading into the forest. “There’s our man, Clay.” Zipporah, like Clay, was a Jew—but she came from a wealthy Sephardic Family which had settled in the Levant. Her father had given her topnotch fencing lessons when she was young, and she had put them to bloody use in the Great War. Now two scimitars rested on her back, each in its own scabbard. She sported a worn, thin sweater and a long dress over stolen Turkish officer’s boots. Her dark hair, long and curly, framed her coffee-colored face.

  “He mentioned that there’s some kind of trouble in the forest.” Clay’s youngest friend, Harvey Holtz, stood on his tiptoes to peer into the woods. “What do you think it is, Mr. Clay?” Harvey was not yet a Bar Mitzvah—a boy no older than twelve. An argyle vest and scarlet tie under a checkered coat covered his thin frame. His bright blue eyes peered out at the world through round spectacles, and he had very dark hair, straight and neatly parted. Scrawny and slight, Harvey contrasted greatly with the bulk of Clay. Still, the books contained in the satchel slung on Harvey’s shoulder, made him quite valuable in Clay’s business.

  “I suppose we’ll find out,” Clay's voice came in a deep rumble. “Detective Flynn seems eager for us to get to work.”

  He walked ahead of his friends and neared their employer, a detective in the Sickle City Police Department. Like most cops, Detective Ollie Flynn was as rotten as a blackened banana. He worked for Harvey’s father, just like Clay and Zipporah did. He had a growing belly poking against his dark blue suit, and kept his derby tilted back over his pudgy face. A fringe of red hair covered his scalp, and a cheap, noxious cigar smoldered in his mouth as Clay, Zipporah, and Harvey arrived. Detective Flynn looked like he always did—consumed by a mix of impatience and fatigue.

  He removed his cigar and regarded Clay and his friends. “Mr. Clay. Good to see you. How go things in Little Jerusalem?” He used the common nickname for Haven Street—a home for the city’s Jews.

  “You should know, detective.” Zipporah could never resist a snide jab. “It’s your bailiwick.”

  “And I’m always happy to assist the good citizens of Haven Street,” Detective Flynn glanced at Harvey. “Particularly your father, lad. My compliments to the rabbi, by the way.” He was always polite when he mentioned Rabbi Herman Holtz, Harvey’s father—and the man who really controlled Haven Street.

  Harvey removed his newsboy cap and crumpled it in his hands. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to let him know.” Rabbi Holtz had raised his only son to be polite. It was one of the many reasons Clay liked Harvey. “So, what exactly can we help you with, detective?” He peered around Detective Flynn, gazing into the forest. “Is there something inside the woods causing trouble? Maybe Mr. Clay, Miss Sarfati, and I can get rid of it?”

  Detective Flynn turned and looked back at the cluttered swath of greenery. “I hope you can. You see, for a couple weeks now, there’s been reports of strange figures watching folks as they perambulate through the park. The watchers hang back amidst the branches and boughs, just sort of staring at the good folk of our fine city as they wander past. Then, one of these phantoms emerged and fell upon a visiting councilman taking an evening stroll with a lady. It apparently stole her favorite cloche hat before absconding back into the cover of the woods. The councilman didn’t want word about this little ambush to get out.”

  “Why not?” Clay asked.

  “His fellow stroller? Not his wife. Anyhow, he gave me a ring and asked if I could solve the problem. I knew immediately that this sort of situation can best be handled by some of Rabbi Holtz’s fine employees.” He pointed to Clay. “You’re the shamus to call, Clay. You can find out whoever’s lurking in those woods, and—if you have to—eliminate them.”

  Zipporah snorted. “We ain’t torpedoes, Flynn.”

  “Those big blades on your back argue otherwise, my dear,” Flynn replied.

  “Well, perhaps we won’t need a violent solution.” Harvey smiled hopefully. “Did this councilman describe his attacker?”

  “He mentioned that the fellow was green,” Detective Flynn explained.

  Clay cocked his head. “Green?”

  “It’s what he said—perhaps the assailant had a green pea coat on, or a rather emerald complexion. Or perhaps he had green skin.” He pointed to the woods. “That’s a mystery you’ll have to solve.”

  Harvey withdrew one of the volumes from his satchel. He flipped through the pages. “I’m not sure about green people. This is an accounting of various mystical animals from the Talmud. Perhaps a green fellow is included in here. Or it might be one of the magical beasts in King Solomon’s famed menagerie, which has somehow made it to Sickle City.” He pushed up his spectacles as he made his way through the dusty pages.

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” Clay patted Harvey’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk in the woods.”

  They started down the trail and entered the forest. Detective Flynn stepped aside, his hands on his hips. Harvey gave him a wave as the stone pathway curved around, blocki
ng the detective from view behind a row of intertwining trunks and branches. Green men running about in Arcadia Park? It certainly seemed strange. But Clay knew that strange things existed in this city, and everywhere in the world. He was one of them. While most people saw Clay as simply a large lump of mobile muscle, he had a different nature that he kept hidden from the world. Rabbi Holtz knew, and so did Harvey and Zipporah—but not Detective Flynn, though he probably suspected. Clay had to keep the secret, or every scientist and scholar in the world would want to examine him. Like most supernatural things, he kept to the shadows. He liked it better that way.

  The pale sun seemed to fade as Clay and the others walked further into the woods. Harvey stayed between Zipporah and Clay, his nose still in his book. He stumbled on the cobblestone pathway and Clay caught him and steadied him with a heavy hand. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Clay.” Harvey looked up from the book. “I don’t really see anything about green people in here. That does sound sort of swell, though. I wouldn’t mind seeing a green person.” He closed the volume and returned it to his satchel. “Detective Flynn seemed a little angry.”

  “Probably worried about the Officer’s Union business,” Zipporah muttered. “And the strike.”

  “A strike?” Harvey asked.

  Clay nodded. “The Sickle City cops are trying to unionize—and the city bigwigs don’t like it.” Those city bigwigs took the form of the Wigwam Club, a political machine that reliably kept votes going to candidates used to looking the other way. Edwin Eames, the Grand Sagamore of the Wigwam Club, had a particular hatred for unions. “They’re all worried about Bolsheviks, anarchists, or Marxists.” Clay shook his head. “As if they had a chance of taking over this city.” He had plenty of experience with Bolsheviks. “I read about the situation in the papers.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t heard about those kinds of things. I mostly just stick to the Katzenjammer Kids.” Harvey stared ahead, peering through the woods. “It’s sort of d-dark in here, isn’t it?” His voice faltered a little as they neared a clearing, where a gazebo rested amongst several shattered columns meant to resemble the pieces of an ancient temple.

  Zipporah moved closer to Harvey. “Don’t worry, child. You are safe with us.”

  Harvey smiled shyly at Zipporah. “Thank you, Miss Sarfati.”

  Something moved in the underbrush behind them. Clay spun around, his fists swinging at his sides. Unlike Zipporah, Clay didn’t bring any weapons. His fists would be enough. He took a step off the path, his boots settling in dirt, and stared at the mass of branches and vines. They rustled and the leaves waved on the branches—but that could only be the wind. Clay drew closer. He pushed aside a branch and looked through the shadows near the boles of the trees. Only dust and leaves greeted his gaze. Clay released a slight creak and stepped back to the trail.

  He faced his friends. “Nothing.”

  “That noise...” Zipporah had withdrawn a scimitar. “I can sense an ambush, Clay. Battling the Turks in the deserts and mountains of the Levant gave me those sorts of instincts, and ample opportunity to sharpen them. I swear we’re being watched.”

  “But by what?” Harvey squinted at the canopy. “Oh.” He released a small squeak of surprise.

  Leaves fell from the branches and floated down to the path. They came in a riot of rich brown, reds, and orange, so it seemed that fire was dancing its way down from the sky. The leaves fell on their coats and the cobblestone trail. Something else fell as well—a slim, human figure that landed neatly on its feet. Clay stared at the newcomer. At first, he thought that it was some costumed figure, one that belonged in a masquerade ball or an avant-garde theatre production. But then he noted that wrinkled, knotted bark formed the skin of the creature, marked with projecting leaves and branches, and twisted lengths of wood formed the feet and hands. A thick nest of leaves and twigs served as the creature’s hair, with two hollows acting as eyes. That seemed to pass for the botanical figure’s face. A few autumnal leaves graced the plant creature, but most of its vegetation remained bright green. It stood slowly, emitting a rushing whisper like wind through a forest.

  Harvey stared at the creature and this pale face split with a grin of recognition. “It’s an Adnei Hasadeh—a Man of the Fields!” He pointed to the Tree Man as it moved closer to them, two vines dragging from its arms and snaking across the pathway. “’Field’ just means vegetation in this instance. They’re mentioned in the Talmud as being mixtures of plants and men. I don’t think they’re Kosher, by the way.”

  “He doesn’t look Kosher.” Zipporah moved in front of Harvey. “Are they friendly?”

  “I don’t think the Holy Books say much about that. Maybe some of the sages mention it.” Harvey reached to his satchel. “I could look it up, if you’d like.”

  “I think we’re about to find out.” Clay stared at the Man of the Field and raised both his fists—a warning that even a plant would understand. Then more wooden legs clicked on the pathway. Two more Tree Men had slipped out of the underbrush and now approached them. One Tree Man had a round chest, like an oaken barrel. The other had grown thorns all over his long, thin, branching fingers. It made him look like he carried a double set of brass knuckles, edged with spikes and ready to do damage. This Tree Man wore a cloche hat. It didn’t exactly fit on the branches, and sort of hung to the side and dangled beside the Tree Man’s face.

  Zipporah faced the Tree Man in front of them. “They’re just big trees,” she muttered. “Why don’t we cut them down?” She moved closer, and reached for her second scimitar. A rare shaft of sunlight caught the blade, and it gleamed like gold. The Tree Men’s hollow, empty eyes moved to the sword. They emitted the same rustling sound—full of fear and anger—and then attacked in the same moment.

  The Tree Men moved far faster than plants. The creature with the thorny knuckles raced toward Clay, swinging up one of its hands in a rapid uppercut. Clay didn’t have time to avoid the blow. The knuckles smashed into his chest and knocked him back. The Tree Man seemed heartened by its success. It lashed at Clay again—this time aiming for the face. Its knuckles reached Clay’s cheek, the thorns gouging down. But that was where its success ended. The knuckles broke against Clay’s cheek. The thorns refused to sink in. Clay felt the thorns gouge him and the wood snap and shatter. He slugged the Tree Man next. His blow rammed into the trunk, smashing aside bark. The Tree Man fell hard to the ground. Clay kicked it, and sent it rolling away from the stone path. He faced the next foe, squaring his shoulders and ready for the melee.

  He was made of something stronger than wood. Clay was a golem, composed of hardened earth. Like some golems, he could project an illusion to hide his true nature—which the Tree Men had just discovered. Clay let his illusion drop, giving the Tree Men a quick glimpse of his true form. Compact, light brown earth formed his body, with two round river stones serving as eyes. Now that the Tree Men had seen exactly who he was, it was time for the battle to end.

  The portly Tree Man hastened in front of its fallen companion, and advanced on Clay. This Tree Man seemed slightly older, with a thick beard of moss covering the top half of its round chest. Clay swatted at the Tree Man, hoping to upset it with a quick jab. His fist crashed against the wooden skin of the Tree Man, but the plant stayed upright. Then the Tree Man rammed both of its branches into Clay’s chest. The edges of the branches unfurled and wrapped around him, the wood digging into his side and holding on. The Tree Man’s arms flexed and it pushed Clay hard. He tumbled from the trail and crashed into a decorative stone pillar. The stone broke under his weight, and fragments of ornate marble rattled to the ground next to him.

  “Mr. Clay!” Harvey scrambled to his side. “Are you all right?” He moved in front of the Tree Man, who closed in on Clay with its branches held high. The Tree Man with the thorny fingers came to its feet as well. They both seemed intent on attacking Clay while he was down. Clay hastily came to his feet and stepped
protectively in front of Harvey.

  Zipporah had problems of her own. The first Tree Man advanced on her, its vines cracking through the air like whips. Zipporah ducked under the swinging vines, and then her blades slashed down together. Her service to the British Army in the Mesopotamian Campaign had earned Zipporah a feared nickname, after a battle where she had taken on a handful of Turkish officers and won: they called her the Maid of Megiddo. Clay saw why she had been given the moniker. She parried the vines, her scimitars weaving in rapid tandem, and then attacked the Tree Man with a flurry of rapid strikes. One sword sheared off a length of fingers. Another plunged deep into the Tree Man’s chest. Sap dripped down from the wound and hit the ground.

  Clay tore his gaze away and met his attackers. Thorny fingers struck him first—the fist landing a spiked uppercut on his chin. Clay ignored it and let the Tree Man get closer. He took more punches to his chest and shoulders, letting the thorns rip his suit jacket and damage his skin. Then the vegetable attacker got close enough. Clay grabbed the circle of wood that passed for the Tree Man’s neck and held tightly. His fingers broke bark. He spun the Tree Man around and rammed its head into the jagged top of the broken stone pillar. Wood cracked and the Tree Man sank to the ground.

  A vine whipped through the air and reached Clay’s face. It encircled him, speeding around twice before knotting, tightening, and tugging him back to the cobblestone trail. Clay only caught glimpses of the world around him, as the vines enclosed his vision. He tried to grip at the vines and tear them off, but the bearded Tree Man held them tightly. Thorns jabbed out of the vine, stabbing into Clay’s skin. Clay creaked in panic and his hands flailed in the air.