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My first point of call was the Stalactite Saloon stage door. The bluff old doorman had obviously been given directions by Broxden himself, and seemed to be anxious to make up for any seeming rudeness on his part during my previous visit. Best to make sure he thought of me as his new best friend, at least for a while. As I anticipated, the old doorman had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the comings and goings of those who worked or visited within. He recognised Drumfin's name immediately, of course, and confirmed that he had been an employee - a stage hand, apparently - for a couple of years. But Drumfin wasn't at work today; he hadn't been seen at all today, apparently. "It's important I speak to Mister Drumfin urgently," I said, keeping my voice at a low whisper, "Mister Broxden is keep that I complete my investigation as quickly and discreetly as possible." "Of course, sir," the doorman agreed, "I'm sure I can find a home address for him." He strode to a little window opening into a sort of a hutch built into the corridor just inside the door. There, he scribbled something on a piece of paper, then send one of his runners scurrying away with it. The runner returned within minutes, giving me just enough time to offer a cigarette to the doorman and share a companionable smoke in what passes for the open air down here. Clutching the slip of paper, I thanked the doorman for his invaluable assistance, promising to mention his helpfulness to Broxden when I next saw him. Once I was out of sight, I checked the address I’d been given; it was the same as on the list that Broxden had provided. No need to advertise the fact that I had home addresses for everybody who worked at the Saloon. I hopped a few more transit tubes and made my way to a distinctly low-rent cavern. I'm cautious at all times and rarely make my way directly towards any objective, preferring to take a roundabout route which keeps me in the shadows and everybody else in the dark. But there was something about this particular part of town which made me extra cautious. Just a hunch, I guess, but I always pay attention to hunches. I approached the apartment block which housed the address I had been given, not using the main street out front, but zig-zagging through the back streets. This particular alleyway was piled high with garbage bags wedged behind a row of dustbins. A suspiciously large pile of garbage; some of the bags had already slid down to ground level and split on the grubby concrete. A boot was sticking out next to one of them. I pulled him out, checked for a pulse - nothing. Not that I really expected any: he had been stabbed once, through the heart, the kind of blow which is hard to get right if you are an amateur - inconvenient ribs keep getting in the way - but here it had clearly been performed by an expert. It was Drumfin. I recognised him, even after all these years. He was still a weedy little specimen, with a narrow face and what had probably have been a nervous disposition. This time, he was wearing a check shirt and baggy overalls, the kind of thing a scene-shifter and general handyman might be expected to wear behind the scenes at a nightclub. In the absence of anybody else around, I went through his pockets. His wallet was missing, presumed stolen, and there was nothing else I could find. With one exception, which I might have missed. In one trouser pocket, I found a torn piece of paper, the corner of a print of a picture taken with one of those hidden cameras. I might not have thought anything of it - just a scrap of paper as big as a thumbnail - if I hadn't seen the entire picture before. It was the one with Fordun in a state of undress, slipping into her stage costume. I stuffed the scrap of paper into my pocket and walked away quickly. Time to make one of those anonymous calls to the cops.
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Part 27