|
|
"Okay, Mizz Burnside, take a seat," I said, taking the letter from her hand. I slit open the envelope easily with my thumbnail - Goblins don't really have claws and fangs, although we are rather better endowed in the tooth-and-nail department than those humans - and scanned the few pages inside. "Call me Campsie," she said demurely, adding, "It'll save time." "Okay. Just 'Gask' is fine for me." While I glanced over the paperwork, I took the time to study the young female opposite me. Quite tall, for a Goblin, although still an inch or so shorter than me. A slender build, but with a suggestion that the slenderness was the result of a hard exercise regime, rather than a starvation diet. No jewellery I could see, and no obvious makeup. Bright intelligent eyes in an alarming shade of violet were coolly appraising me in, I strongly suspected, much the same way I was assessing her. The papers in my hand were, in order: a letter of introduction, or perhaps recommendation, from the apprenticeship institution; a diploma from an investigator's college so recently conferred that it still had the crackle in it; a short CV which suggested that Mizz Campsie Burnside had had a noteworthy academic career culminating in a degree in Criminal Psychology, and finally a certificate declaring that she was a Probationary Private Investigator. "So you've got a PI badge, too?" I asked, still rustling the papers. She pulled out a neat little leather wallet and flipped it open, to display a badge so new it still had the shine. Actually, mine's still shiny, too, although it you look closely you can see the fine markings where I polish it regularly, the patina of two hundred years careful wear. "Okay," I said finally, folding up the papers and handing them back to her, "I admit you're not quite what I expected, but I'm prepared to give you a trial. You okay with that?" "Sure," Campsie replied composedly, tucking the papers into her little knapsack, "Where do I start?" "Can you follow my lead?" "Of course." "Come on, then," I said, rounding the desk and grabbing my hat, "Let's go." Ten minutes later, we were tucking into breakfast in David's Diner. The diner was a place I frequented, at least partially because it was on the corner of the block just across the road, so I didn't have to walk too far to get fed. There are other reasons too; maybe we'll come back to those. Over steaming mugs of coffee and hot breakfast plates, I felt I could ask Campsie what had caused a bright young thing like her to consider the life of a Private Eye. "No, not what it says in that CV of yours. The real reason," I added, waving a knife vaguely. To her credit, Campsie had not hesitated in tucking into her cooked breakfast with gusto. Now, she paused and put down her fork. "It's a family thing," she said finally, "My father, and his father before him, were both Private Detectives. Good ones, too. I grew up hearing tales of their adventures and I wanted to be just like them. Then my father and mother insisted that being a PI was not a job for a girl" - she wrinkled her nose in disgust - "and of course that just made me more determined to follow in their footsteps." I nodded sagely - I've had much practice at that over the years. "Okay, here's the deal," I said, "You try and not ask too many stupid questions, and I'll try not to notice you're a girl. How does that sound?" She smiled thinly. "I guess that's the best I'm gonna get," she said, picking up her fork again, "I accept."
|
Part 9