Adventure of Phasmonx 1

Phasmonx and the speakeasy employee move through rain-dark streets toward Mercer Street. Behind them, the club’s enforcers remain with the fallen officer, while the witness stays at Phasmonx’s side.

Ahead, blue lamps and barricades seal the block. Uniformed patrolmen question pedestrians beneath umbrellas, and a constable waves away anyone approaching Mercer Street.

A patrolman lifts a lantern toward the approaching pair, then touches the whistle at his collar. Two officers turn, narrowing the wet street into a guarded passage.

Phasmonx steps beneath the lantern, black coat shedding rain, and fixes the patrolman with a cold, unblinking stare. His gloved hand rests near his concealed weapon.

The patrolman’s certainty falters. Phasmonx’s reputation, the witness’s frightened silence, and the promise of trouble beyond the cordon outweigh procedure. He lowers the lantern.

The officers shift aside, and Phasmonx leads the employee through the barricade toward Room 412. Behind them, the patrolman loudly dictates Phasmonx’s description into a notebook, ensuring the warning travels.

Phasmonx leads the employee through the rain toward Mercer Street, counting the numbered doors beneath the dim lamps. The witness stays close, one hand gripping his coat.

They climb the narrow stairwell without stopping. Water ticks from Phasmonx’s hat brim, while the employee keeps his head down and listens for pursuit that never comes.

The fourth-floor corridor is dark and stale, lined with peeling paint and locked office doors. Room 412 waits beneath a brass number plate, its door opening under the witness’s key.

Phasmonx ushers him across the threshold and closes the door behind them. The room contains a desk, two filing cabinets, and a single shaded lamp waiting above the documents.

Phasmonx wedges a heavy chair beneath the doorknob, then turns the deadbolt until its mechanism clicks firmly into place. The witness watches, breathing easier.

The employee crosses to the filing cabinets and wipes rain from his fingers before selecting the lower drawer. Its lock bears fresh scratches around the keyway.

He unlocks the drawer and pulls it open. Thin folders fill the cabinet, except for a clean rectangular gap where one file has been removed.

On the bare metal beneath the missing folder lies a torn strip of carbon paper, marked with a partial address and the initials M.S.

Phasmonx crosses to the window and lifts the warped sash. Beyond it, a rusted fire escape clings to the brick wall, rising toward the roof.

Phasmonx climbs through first, testing each iron platform before shifting his weight. The witness follows, gripping the sill as rain slicks the metal.

A corroded rung tears through the sole of Phasmonx’s boot and clangs against the wall. The sharp noise echoes down the alley, but he keeps climbing.

They reach the roof. Chimneys and tarred vents break the skyline, while the street below reveals patrol lamps converging toward the building.

Phasmonx leads the employee across the first roof, then jumps the narrow gap to a neighboring building. He catches the witness’s sleeve and steadies him over the slick brick.

They cross another roof and reach a wider break between buildings. Phasmonx jumps first, turns, and reaches back as the employee follows.

The employee’s foot skids on wet tar. Phasmonx catches him by the coat, but the sudden weight drags them both against the far ledge instead of onto the roof.

Phasmonx hauls the witness onto a narrow maintenance platform below the ledge. They are alive and far from Mercer Street, but the rooftop route ends beneath them.

Phasmonx crouches beside the maintenance door, shielding his tools from the rain. Behind him, the employee sits against the brickwork, clutching the recovered file while he rests.

The pick slips into the worn lock. Phasmonx feels the pins give beneath his careful pressure, each click distinct beneath the distant patrol whistles.

The final pin settles. The lock turns cleanly, and the maintenance door opens onto a narrow stairwell descending toward the next block.

Phasmonx keeps the door from banging shut and scans the steps. Dust lies undisturbed except for a single fresh heel mark pointing downward.

Phasmonx guides the employee down the narrow stairwell, one hand keeping him close while the other tests each shadowed landing. They emerge behind the print shops into a deserted service lane.

They cross to the sedan. Phasmonx shields the lock from the rain, works his pick through the cylinder, and feels it turn. The door opens without an alarm.

The ignition refuses him. Its wiring has been cut cleanly beneath the dash, and the steering column bears fresh pry marks. This car was disabled before they reached it.

Phasmonx searches the cabin and finds a folded delivery manifest beneath the seat. Its final address is a freight garage beyond the eastern toll road, with a company van listed beside it.

Phasmonx leaves deserted service lane behind the print shops behind and arrives at freight garage beyond the eastern toll road.

The freight garage crouches beyond the eastern toll road beneath a blinking yard lamp. Corrugated doors stand shut, and a company van waits beside the office, beaded with rain.

Phasmonx crosses the yard and enters the cramped office. A ring of tagged keys hangs beside the ledger, while muddy footprints lead toward a rear exit.

He takes the van keys and checks the ledger before leaving. The hidden notation names a rural records depot, giving the missing folder a destination beyond the city.

The van starts on the first turn. Phasmonx settles the employee inside, drives through the toll gate, and carries both witness and evidence onto the dark eastern road.

Confront the person who stole the folder