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I wasn't going to bother dragging the perp about with me, or delivering him to the cops. I'd done what I'd been asked to do - well, the first part, anyway - and he wasn't going to be pestering me now that I'd removed the last few fireball glamours from his pockets. Sure, the moaning Goblin lying on the floor might have an accomplice somewhere. But I doubted it. His modus operandi was as a lone operator, living in the shadows of society and only emerging when an opportunity presented itself. My task now was to return these documents to their rightful owner, and as quickly as possible. The newspapers would have a field day if my client could not produce them as promised. Goblin documents are not easily faked: we tend to take the rule of law seriously enough to use everyday glamours to secure important agreements and legal assurances. But the absence of documents is always a cause of suspicion, at least in the mind of newspaper reporters. I tipped my hat to the writhing wretch still decorating the concrete, slipped my automatic into its holster under my arm, tugged up the collar of my raincoat and set off for the exit. It was a ten minute walk to the nearest entrance to the public transit tube system; the cargo-only entrance which served the warehouse had been long shut down and I didn't fancy dodging the crates and pallets moving at high speed anyway. Just two changes of tube and twenty minutes of artful milling around the crowded travel interchanges - which gave me a chance to check if anybody was tailing me - and I was in the rather grand environs where my client's residence was to be found. I walked up to the front door along a wide path bordered by carvings of noble-looking Goblins in poses that variously suggested deep thought and great wisdom, extreme bravery and exceptional martial prowess, or perhaps just mild constipation. Space in the caverns of the Lower Realms is understandably always at a premium, and such an open area spoke volumes on the wealth of the occupants. I stood on the inlayed marble under the portico and pulled the polished silver knob that rang the doorbell. Chimes sounded softly somewhere within. I half-expected a long wait while some house-servant made his way from below-stairs. I was wrong. The door flew open immediately and a uniformed lackey waved me inside with unaccustomed haste. The entrance hall was as grand as I had remembered, although I didn't get the chance to inspect it closely on this occasion. I declined his offer to take my hat - I don't like to be without it or my coat - and was rapidly ushered into the library. The servant nodded politely and closed the heavy oak door behind me. The room was a masterpiece of dark wood panelling and rows of books expensively bound in embossed leather. The drapes were drawn against such light that might have entered through the windows and the room was dimly-lit even by Goblin standards. At first I thought there was nobody else present. "Come closer, Findo." The voice came from a figure slumped in a high-backed chair behind a broad desk at the far side of the room. I made the short trek across the carpet, took the folder I had retrieved from my pocket, placed it on the desk and dropped my hat on top. "Is that all of them?" the figure asked softly. "Yes, sir," I replied, "I believe so." There was a profound sigh from the other side of the desk. "Thank goodness for that. The press will be here in half an hour. Do you always cut it this fine, Findo?" "I try not to," I acknowledged wryly, "But sometimes events happen at their own pace, and there's little anybody can do to speed things up." He nodded, then reached forward to slide the package across the desk, tilting it so that my hat slid onto the polished desktop. He opened it and pulled out the contents, checking each carefully by sight and touch and even smell, it seemed, on one occasion. I stood patiently, at ease in the military manner he might have expected. Finally, he gathered all the paperwork together neatly, slid them back inside and closed the folder, positioned it in front of him and leaned his crossed arms over them protectively. "Well, Mister Findo Gask," he continued, his voice hoarse with age but not yet infirmity, "You have met my expectations, once again. Please accept my heartfelt thanks. And feel free to send in your bill for payment." I nodded once, taking his words as a polite dismissal. I collected my hat and made my way out of the room, and out of the house. I had no intention of sending in any bill. My debt of gratitude to him and his family, debts incurred a long time ago, would cover any number of find and retrieve assignments.
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Part 1