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We stopped over in David's Diner for the promised coffee, which was - as always - excellent. The food and - especially - the coffee at David's place had restored my mental and physical condition on more than one occasion. I ran through the incident with the pickpocket for Campsie's benefit. I told her of my suspicion - a hunch, really - that the thief was seeking something specific. "You mean the camera?" she asked. "Yes, exactly. I didn't tell anyone that I'd hung on to that. Hells, I didn't even tell you," I answered, "And I'm willing to bet that Broxden didn't notice that it wasn't back in his desk drawer. So somebody out there thinks I have it, and they want it back. The pickpocket was a clumsy idea; maybe next time they'll be more subtle." I nursed my coffee for a few minutes, lost in undirected speculations. Campsie guzzled hers, but left me to think uninterrupted. Smart girl. Finally, I swallowed the last of the drink and reached into my pocket for my wallet. Campsie was ahead of me, already placing a few bills - the correct amount, including the tip - on the table between us. "My turn," she said simply. Suits me. We went back to my office where we were able to strip off the worst excesses of our disguises as humans. Just then, the phone rang. It was that special ring that indicated that the caller was on the surface, a warning to be circumspect in what one said, or even the language to say it in. I pointed at the phone. "You know what that means?" I asked Campsie. She shook her head. Some things they just don't teach you at school. "It'll be from the surface," I said. "Gumshoe?" she asked. "Maybe." I picked up the receiver and grunted something unintelligible in any language. It was, in fact, Gumshoe.
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Part 18