|
|
The remaining interviews turned up nothing of interest. Even a discussion with the Head of Security - really, the chief bouncer - was unenlightening. The Goblin was one of those who allowed his size and his muscles do the thinking for him so, while he might be up to the task of ejecting the occasional out-of-control reveller from the bar, any attempt to engage him in a discussion on the finer points of (em>real security was a non-starter. I thanked the administrative matrons for their help, then set off to wander the back corridors of the Saloon. They were distinctly maze-like, with unexpected twists and turns cunningly executed in institutional green-painted brickwork. And there were doors everywhere. As I walked, I could tell that the corridors were getting more crowded, more busy, with doors bursting open on every side as performers and supporting crew made themselves ready for tonight's performances. Still, for all the busy-ness, there was a lot of space down here - rather more than I really thought would be necessary. I wondered what was behind all the doors. But it wasn't really possible to see much - just a few glimpses into dressing rooms and storage spaces as people went to and fro - and there were far too many eyes around to attempt to force any of the locks. I needed to get in here when it was quieter. Feeling somewhat frustrated, I made my way to the stage door and thence back to the office. I entered the rather run-down building which houses my room, along with a couple of dozen other low-rent enterprises in various states of solvency. I paused at the mailbox, pulling out a wad of those envelopes which seem to accumulate relentlessly despite my best efforts. I leafed through the usual collection of junk mail and overdue bills as I trudged up the stairs and into my office, then applied my regular standards of sorting which falls just short of dumping the whole lot into the waste paper bin in one go. Fortunately, I was able to bring myself to separate the bills from the advertisements, charitable appeals and outright scams which form the bulk of my correspondence. I did need to pay some of my debts fairly soon - after all, I had Broxden's money sitting in my account - so I set the bills aside on the desk for when the urge to write cheques became too much for me. Not anytime soon, though. Right now, paying a few bills was the least of my worries. Arditty Pickston was our only real lead at the Stalactite Saloon. First and second impressions aligned on a view that we was a smart and dangerous criminal who, for some reason, had ended up in a management role behind the scenes. But he was highly suspicious of everything and everybody, and had the resources - mental and physical - to seriously hurt anyone who got in his way. While I doubted he was directly responsible for Pow Drumfin's demise, I could imagine him issuing some whispered elliptical instructions to a hired killer to make sure that an embarrassment never again got in his way. I needed to find out more about what Pickston was up to; somebody had to get closer to him, and quickly, and I wasn't at all sure that I wanted Campsie to be the one doing it. I also found myself wondering how to explain to Broxden what was going on. I was probably in his best interests to be kept in the dark just at the moment - a degree of deniability in case the cops did come calling suddenly - but Campsie and I were burning though his money fairly quickly just now and he would certainly want to see value for his cash. And then there was Agent Duncrub and - I imagined - others in that mysterious organisation looking into events at the Stalactite Saloon. What was his angle on all this, and just what was his interest in Machany Fordun?
|
Part 42