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The dude in the doorway was dressed in a style from a previous century. Which was fine, since the guy himself seemed to pre-date the garments by another century or so. He wore a starched white shirt and an unadorned grey tie, overlaid with a pin-striped waistcoat, a black jacket with long tails and highly-polished patent-leather shoes. Despite his evident age, he stood stiffly upright as if a broomstick had been inserted down his spine. As I watched in the mirror, the over-dressed newcomer took off his gloves methodically, easing out one finger at a time, before folding them carefully and putting them into a pocket of his coat. His eyes - still shrewdly sharp and baby-blue despite his age - scanned the room. He didn't seem to be looking in my direction at all. I knew this trick; I was pretty certain it was me he was seeking. Time to find out what he wanted. I put my cocktail glass down on the bar and turned around slowly, sliding off the bar stool and standing up straight. He didn't look the type to suddenly pull a gun on me, but I kept my arms loose and allowed my coat to flap open just in case. The piercing eyes turned in my direction at last, as if spotting me for the first time. He smiled thinly, walked over to the bar, stopped at a respectful distance and performed a shallow bow. It was little more than a nod of the head, but it was so very incongruous, so old-fashioned. "Good evening, sir," he said politely, formally, "I believe you are Findo Gask, the detective." "Who wants to know?" I growled in response. People who inexplicably know who and where I am always make me just a bit edgy. "My name is Tibbermore, sir," he answered gravely. "Okay," I said cautiously, "And what do you want with me?" "My employer wishes to engage your services, sir." "That's just fine," I replied, "Just get them to phone for an appointment. Or drop by the office - during office hours, of course." Tibbermore looked faintly saddened at my flippancy. Or maybe it was his standard reaction to any statement. "I'm afraid my employer doesn't leave the house these days, sir. She's not a well woman." "So who exactly is your boss?" I asked suspiciously. "Lady Strowan Westwood," he said calmly. It was a name I recognised, as well as being one I had not heard for a long time. Frankly, I would have thought she was dead by now. "She would very much prefer it if you would attend her this evening," Tibbermore went on, "At her house. You are invited to dinner, of course." They say there's no such thing as a free lunch. The same could probably be said for dinner, too. But I hadn't had anything to eat today, and the cocktail was beginning to make me feel hungry. All I had to look forward to otherwise this evening was the blue-plate special in a cheap diner, another drink or two to wash it down, and an early night. "Okay, lead on," I said, reaching around for my glass and draining the contents in one swallow, "I guess I'm coming to dinner."
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Part 2