• Published 15th Oct 2014
  • 2,407 Views, 84 Comments

All In - An Applejack Noir - Belligerent Sock



A private eye named Applejack delves into the underworld of Manehattan in search of a missing mare. Intrigue, betrayal, and hardboiled monologues ensue.

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Chapter Two

Back in the day, everything on the north side of Brookmare Lane had been just one big tenement, eating up the entire block like some sleeping dragon. Then the dragon woke up one chilly night ten years ago. One unwatched stove was all it took. The next thing anypony knew, the whole block disappeared in a blaze. Before the ashes were even cool, contractors had swooped in, laid claim to the rubble, and built new tenements. If you looked in the right places, you could see the soot on some of the bricks.

167 Brookmare had apparently gotten the short end of that deal. It was all but strangled in its little space, the surrounding buildings pressing and clawing at it. It didn’t help that it was two floors shorter than both of them. No luck for the underdog.

The front door did its best to keep me out, but stubbornness and a strong shoulder always win against stuck hinges. A lone gem lamp hung from the tin ceiling of the lobby, just bright enough to cast shadows on the peeling wallpaper. The carpets were grown into the floor like moss. I swear I could smell the fire in them, too.

Apartment 23 was right where’d you’d expect—on the second floor a little ways from the stairwell. The tarnished brass number stood on top of new paint. I reached up and made two quick knocks. There was no answer, of course, but it was the thought that counted.

I knocked on the door again, this time bending down to look at the keyhole. There wasn’t much to see inside—no movement or sound—but there was an interesting set of marks around it. They were cut into the metal roughly, shining against the worn patina like chicken scratches in fresh dirt.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

The mare clambering up the steps would’ve had an easier time going down them. She was thick—thick in the neck, thick in the legs, and thick in the face. It was a wonder her paisley dress could keep her contained. Her violet eyes were narrowed beneath her tiny spectacles.

“Ah,” I said, tipping my hat to her, “how do you do, Ma’am?”

“Fine, thank you. Who are you?”

I gave it to her straight. “Name’s Applejack. I’m a P.I.”

“Oh,” she said. Her expression would’ve killed a rat. “Is that what you are?”

I reached inside my coat and pulled out one of my business cards. “That’s the honest truth, yep. I’m guessing you’re the landlady?”

She took the card, gave it one quick look, and stuffed it down the neck of her dress. “Yes, I’m Mellow Hearth. And I’d like to know what business you have here.”

I jerked a hoof at the door. “Just trying to get in touch with Ms. Sugar Beet. Is she around?”

If she had squinted any harder, her eyes would’ve disappeared. “You’re the second pony to come snooping around here after Ms. Beet.”

“Sounds like she’s a popular girl.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t pry.”

“Well, seein’ as she’s apparently not at home, let me ask you this, Ma’am. When was the last time you talked with her?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

I sighed. “Folks in this town used to be so trustin’. Ma’am, I’m afraid it is my business. Apparently she’s gone missing.”

That got a raised eyebrow. “I think I’d notice if one of my tenants just up and disappeared.”

“Did you notice the marks on the keyhole?”

The other eyebrow went up. “What?”

“Looks like the lock was picked,” I said, pointing at the door. “Somepony wanted in, and they weren’t very skilled or patient.”

She approached the door on nervous hooves, as though it might fall on her. She’d have survived, I’m sure. She adjusted her spectacles, frowning at the keyhole.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, straightening up. “It looks no different to me.”

“With all due respect, Ma’am, I know a lockpicker’s marks when I see ‘em. Ms. Beet would have to be real careless or real drunk to miss the keyhole that badly. From what little I know of her, she doesn’t seem the type.”

She turned her frown to me. “No, she’s not.”

“Well then, I’ll ask again, Ma’am. When was the last time you saw her? Have you checked in on her recently?”

I might have seen a hint of softness cross her gaze—just a trickle, like rain from a gutter. “No, I haven’t.”

“Ma’am, I’m just trying to find out if she’s alright. Could you help a mare out? Please?”

Her hard expression washed away. “At least you’re polite. Okay. I’ll have a peek inside.”

“Much obliged, Ma’am.” I started for the door.

She struck out a hoof. “You stay put right there, Missy.”

“You got it, Ma’am.”

She drew a set of keys from somewhere and started pawing through them. It took her a minute to hold each up to the light. I just sat back and waited, wondering where she’d gotten that dress of hers. They didn’t sell them like that anymore. She must have knocked over a museum someplace.

Finally, the lock clicked. I pulled myself off the wall, just as she called out, “Ms. Beet? Are you—”

Her back left hoof trembled as she stepped back from the door. Her eyes were wide, her mouth struggling to form some whispered words. I moved quickly, rounding the doorjamb in a flash, and felt my jaw clench.

On its own, the apartment would’ve been fairly normal, if a bit small. It had everything you needed—a wide bed which ate up most of the space, a little kitchen area with its own round table, cupboards and a large dresser, and a tiny bathroom in the back, just visible through its open door. Of course, that was how it was supposed to be. Instead, the furniture was strewn about, drawers lying against the walls, cupboards flung open, the mattress flipped.

“Oh, my stars.” The landlady finally picked her voice back up. “She’s been kidnapped!”

“Call the police,” I said.

“W-what?”

“Call the police.”

Like a stone rolling down a hill, her thoughts finally gathered speed. “Y-yes. Yes. There’s a telephone down on the corner,” she reminded herself out loud. “I’ll go call the police.” She scurried away like a mother bird that had forgotten to feed her brood.

I was alone. With a deep breath, I crossed the threshold and got to work.

The wardrobe seemed a good place to start. Its skeletal frame stood naked without its drawers, which were upended on the floor in front of it. I pawed among them carefully, flipping them over in turn. They were mostly empty, save a few unmentionables. No sign of the sort of business wear one would expect from an accountant trying to make a good impression.

There was likewise no sign of the lady’s purse, but then, a burglar wouldn’t leave that. The problem, though, was the silverware strewn about in front of the pantry. It wasn’t stellar, but it was genuine, and would fetch at least fifty bits in the right place. That could mean the difference between being fed and being dead in this city.

Even more interesting was the table. It was as messy as the rest of the place, and yet more organized. Papers were piled atop it—papers and envelopes. They’d all been torn open, from the personal letters to the junk mail. Mr. Oak’s signature stood out on a few of them. I checked the dates. The newest was a week old, with more going back several weeks.

At the bottom was buried treasure, an evening paper from five days ago. A definitive date. Scrawled in one of the margins was a message: “10 AM 23 Greenwich Ave.” The writing style looked familiar—it matched the flowing grace of Ms. Beet’s letters—and the address was one I instantly recognized.

Heavy hoofsteps echoed from the hall. Out of time. I hurried over to the door, and made a show of examining the lock again.

“The police are… on their way,” said Mellow Hearth, panting heavily.

“Good. Don’t forget these,” I said, holding up the keyring.

She grabbed hold of it as though the keys were lead. “How could this happen? I never thought…”

“Nopony ever does.” I flipped open my notebook. “If it’s all right, Ma’am, I think it’s time I asked you some questions.”

“A-all right. Shouldn’t we wait for the police, though?”

“Best to get it all while it’s still fresh, Ma’am. Now, I need you to think. When did you last see her?”

“I… I’m not sure exactly. She tended to work odd hours. As far as I could tell, she only ever came back here to sleep.”

“How about rent payments? You do those in person?”

“She left last month’s rent like she always did. This month’s isn’t due for another week. Unless they miss their payments, I leave my tenants alone.”

“So, you just missed her. When you last saw her, did she seem okay? Anything seem to be troubling her?”

“I don’t think so. But… Oh, maybe I missed something.” She stamped a heavy hoof. “I must have missed something.”

“Easy, Ma’am. Don’t bring down the building over this. Has there been anypony around who shouldn’t have?”

She inhaled sharply. “That other stallion! The one with the blue suit. He was nosing around here, just the other day!” Her frown from before returned, this time with more menace. “I knew he was up to no good.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. What was he doing here?”

“I found him lurking around the door here. He said he was Ms. Beet’s boyfriend, but I didn’t believe that for a minute. If he was, he was probably the jealous type. No siree, I wasn’t about to let him hound any of my tenants like that. I all but bucked him out the door.”

“Did he give a reason for his being here?”

“Something about trying to find Ms. Beet because she’d gone…” She trailed off, looking at me as though I’d just lit a massive sign above my head.

I nodded, folding my notebook closed. “Thank you kindly, Ma’am. You’ve been a great help.” I tipped my hat to her, and started for the stairs.

“Wait,” she said, holding out a hoof. “You can’t just walk away now, can you? What about the police?”

I shrugged. “Keep my card handy, and tell ‘em Applejack was here.”

“Well, can I tell them where you’re going?”

“Yeah. I’m going out to lunch.”