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Once the breakfast plates had been cleared away by David's highly efficient waiting staff, we sat nursing our coffees - at least, I did; Campsie had swallowed hers in a few gulps as if she had an asbestos throat. "So I've got a case just started," I said, by way of re-opening the conversation, "As of last night, as it happens. Got a cheque here and everything." I pulled it out of my wallet and smoothed in on the table between us. "Woo-hoo! Five hundred bucks," she breathed, "That's quite an advance. Although I can see you don't invest much in office furniture." I snorted derisively. "Steady on, sister. This is pretty unusual, so don't get your hopes up. In any case, I'll have to account for it all eventually." I slid the cheque back in my wallet before it got worn out with being stared at. While I was in there, I pulled out a few dollars to cover the cost of breakfast, for both of us. Don't let anybody tell you that chivalry is quite dead yet. I counted out enough money to cover the amount on the bill, plus my usual modest tip, and ended up with a single bill in my hand. A thought struck me. "Campsie, you got a notebook about your person?" "Of course," she said promptly, pulling the specific item out of her bag together with a pen. "Write as I say: 'I, Campsie Burnside, acknowledge the receipt of one dollar as a retainer in the case of Persons Unknown, in the employ of Roman Broxden, proprietor of the Stalactite Saloon.' Then sign and date it." She scribbled away industriously, then tore out the sheet and handed it to me. I inspected it briefly, then slipped it away in my pocket. "I'll try and persuade Broxden to retain you properly," I assured her, "Assuming you can demonstrate some value. But this will allow me to tell you about this case. Understand?" She nodded enthusiastically. Sipping my cooling coffee, I gave her a brief summary of the events at the Stalactite Saloon while writing notes in a professional fashion. I never bother with notes, myself; I have an excellent memory. The only part I deliberately left out was the bit where I had pocketed the bug from the dressing room. Nobody in the world, quite possibly including Broxden himself, knew that not all of the little cameras scattered over the club's backstage areas had been taken by whoever broke open that desk drawer. As I swallowed the last of my coffee, Campsie asked a good question. "Okay, Gask, what's our next move?" "Well, you understand you'll be learning on the job?" "Yes, of course," she replied, looking faintly annoyed. "So, first, we'll go by the bank and deposit this cheque," I went on, as she nodded, "And then we're going to the surface." To my secret delight, Campsie's face was a picture: her mouth was a round 'O' of surprise with just a tinge of terror.
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Part 10