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As the stage curtains closed for the last time, I turned to Broxden, who was blinking and looking vaguely confused as if he was just awakening from a dream. I knew how he felt. Then he joined in the applause with great gusto. It was only reasonable that I clapped loud and long, too; Fordun was clearly a great stage performer. As the applause died away and the roar of alcohol-fuelled conversation returned to its previous levels, Broxden again gestured for me to follow him. We retraced our steps back to his office, where once again it was quiet enough to have a civilized chat without having to shout. "She's a great girl," I said, as I collapsed back into the same chair as before. "Don't I know it. We're going to get married very soon now." I had expected him to go on, to extoll her many virtues in some tedious detail, but his voice just faded away as he rounded the desk. I sat up, the back of my neck suddenly tingling. "What's up?" I said hoarsely. "Come over here, Gask, and take a look," Broxden said. From the tone of his voice, I could tell immediately that there was something amiss. I leapt to my feet and crossed the distance in three steps. The elegant woodwork of the desk drawer had been splintered and ripped apart, looking very much the work of a strong Goblin equipped with a decent crowbar. The remains of the drawer itself were entirely empty; whatever was in there as long gone. Only the one desk drawer had been forced, I noticed; whoever it was who did this clearly knew exactly where to look. "That's where you kept the photo of Fordun, wasn't it?" I didn't really have to ask; the look on Broxden's face told the whole story. "Yes," he said, "And the bugs that we found when we searched the place. All gone." I nodded sagely. This was beginning to look quite murky. Broxden was clearly out of his depth and he knew it. "Look, Gask, I need your help," he said, managing to keep a tone of begging out of his voice, "I'll pay you whatever you want, but just find out what's going on here, before the press and the theatrical Agents get to hear about it." The press would have a field day with this story. Peeping Toms spying on pretty young things would make dramatic headlines and numerous column-inches in any or all of the rags who sell themselves of the basis of such stuff. Especially if accompanied by only lightly censored pictures. And the theatrical Agents would put Broxden out of business in an instant: the Stalactite Saloon would be blacklisted immediately by all the reputable promoters and, without quality acts, the well-heeled clientele which was his bread-and-butter would simply melt away. "Okay, I'll take the job," I said, to Broxden's immediate relief, "I get twenty-five dollars a day, and expenses with receipts." "Done," he said without hesitation, "I'll write you a cheque." I nodded. Broxden clearly knew, as I did, that this kind of contract only works if there is a consideration. Goblin law is clear that, if I was to represent Broxden's interests to the full, I had to be paid. With his money in my pocket, I could - if strictly necessary, of course - lie, dissemble and cheat if it was in his best interests. Broxden sat at his desk immediately and pulled open an undamaged drawer. While he wrote the cheque, he gestured idly at a filled decanter set on a silver tray on a sideboard. "Help yourself, Gask," he said over the scratching of a fountain pen, "This will take a few minutes." I didn't hesitate. Nor was I surprised to discover that the contents of the decanter were the same rare Scotch has I had been served earlier.
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Part 6