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Almon Methven's offices were surprisingly hard to find, although I managed to track them down eventually. The entrance was a plain door, although recently painted in glossy black, off a side-street in the theatre district, marked by a modest brass plaque and a discreet bell-push. I pushed it discreetly. Nothing happened for a few seconds, then the door unlocked itself with a click and swung open. Nobody there, of course. A simple glamour designed to save somebody's legs rushing up and down the stairs. Inside, there was just a long staircase going up, bounded by featureless walls painted in one of those nondescript yet stylish colours so beloved by interior designers. The walls were broken up by rows of black and white photo portraits of actors and actresses, all high-contrast and moody-looking, a few of which I did actually recognise. I didn't spot a snap of Strowan Westwood, though. I made it to the stairs and found myself outside a door, the top half of which was glazed with frosted glass adorned with the words "Methven and Son, Theatrical Agents" in flashy gold leaf. From within, the busy clatter of a typewriter was punctuated by the ringing of a telephone - no, more than one telephone - and the low murmur of conversation. I knocked politely on the glass, waited a few seconds and then opened the door. The busy office sounds did not abate one iota when I entered. Within, three desks were penned in by a cordon of filing cabinets, waste paper baskets and wall charts. The desks were occupied by three female Goblins, two of them young and pale and very nervous-looking. These office drudges were presided over by the third lady, a Goblin stern of face and full of figure, although that fullness was moderately effectively disguised by the sharply-cut two-piece business suit she wore. The office manager lounged back in her chair, smoking a cigarette and engaged in what was obviously a long and rambling conversation which may not have had a great deal to do with the business of the office, She struck me immediately as the kind of office tyrant who would probably give Smaug a decent run for her money. By the way, real dragons don't actually bed themselves down on piles of treasure, although they do live in vast underground lairs and have generally secretive and inscrutable ways. I took off my hat and waited politely in the doorway. I bent my face into a rictus of smiling good nature and nodded amicably to the matron on the telephone. She glared back at me, obviously irritated at having to interrupt her mid-morning gossip. After a few moments, she used one of those "I've got to go, somebody's here" phrases and rang off. I took that as my cue. "Good morning," I said in crisp civil tones, "I'd like to see Mister Methven. It is a matter of some importance." "Are you a client?" she asked, her forehead flexing at the effort of thought and threatening a fatal breakdown in the layers of makeup. "No, I'm not," I admitted ruefully, then added, "I'm a Private Investigator. I'm investigating a murder. The murder of a client of yours." The clatter of typewriters stopped suddenly as the two younger secretaries swivelled their necks around to get a closer look at yours truly. The matron waved her hand irritatedly at the youngsters, who bent themselves to their keyboards with alacrity. Then she leaned forward over the desk and beckoned me closer. Much closer. "Are you serious?" she hissed. "I'm afraid I am, Ma'am," I replied gravely. I drew a business card from one of my many inside pockets and presented it to her with a formal flourish. She took it from me, studied it for a few moments, then turned and pressed an intercom button on the desk phone. "Yes?" came a squeaky voice from the speaker. "A Mister Findo Gask to see you," she said, adding with a hint of private glee, "He's a Private Detective."
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Part 25