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I wasn't at all sure what I had just seen or what, if anything, to do about it. I sat heavily in the davenport which faced the chair and tossed my hat on the low table that separated myself and Mayfield. It seemed we were both keeping secrets from one another. I wasn't sure what her motives were. I wasn't even sure what my motives were. But I was going to need all my cunning if I was to work out what was really going on here. Mayfield had dragged her attention from whatever it was which was occupying her mind and focussed on me instead. "Are you okay?" she asked, suddenly overtly solicitous. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I replied flatly, "Just a bit tired." I sprang to my feet, feeling the need for another bout of pensive pacing. Mayfield looked at me suspiciously. "I need some coffee," I announced to cover my sudden burst of angst, "Want some?" She declined, politely enough, so I went into the tiny but well-organised kitchen and rummaged around for the makings. My mind wasn't really on the job: to this day I'd swear that I put out a coffee mug and put it away again three times while I waited for the percolator to do its stuff. Finally, I managed to pull myself together enough to pour enough of the poisonously strong brew into the cup and drink a little, just to kick-start the old grey cells. Moderately revived but still in a thoughtful mood, I wandered back into the main room and sat down blowing the steam off the beverage. A course of action was beginning to suggest itself but I couldn't be sure it was the right one. It was time to keep my cards very close to my chest indeed. I sat in a blue funk for a long while nursing my coffee. I was eventually roused from my reverie by the sound of a taxi pulling up at the front of the bar. This of itself was not entirely unheard of, although most of the regulars - the majority of whom were of genuine Irish descent, I'm reliably informed - lived sufficiently close that cars pulling up here was unusual enough. I glanced over at Mayfield, who was giving every impression of being lost in an interior world of her own, then refocused my ears on the faint sounds of movement from outside, audible though the buzz of conversation from the bar itself. I heard doors opening and slamming closed, followed by the mutter of voices. Two people, humans, were arriving and I had a strong suspicion I knew who both of them were. A few minutes later, the hidden door swung open - Gumshoe had long ago mastered those simple kinds of glamour - to annouce the arrival of the detective himself and a second human who, after a few dazed moments, I belatedly recognised as Glen Morrison. Now, in general, us Goblins are not particularly good at recognising individual humans; it is often said that you all look alike to us. But I have had a lifetime of experience in mingling with the people in the surface world and, coupled with my detective instincts and training, I am usually confident that I would rapidly recognise anybody I had encountered before. But in this case, I was astonished by the changes in Glen's appearance. The last time I had seen Glen, he had been very informally dressed in clothes which revealed, even emphasised, his considerable musculature and his diminutive height. Now, he wore a soberly-cut dark business suit and polished leather shoes which - if I was not mistaken - added a inch or so to his actual height and a couple more to his commanding presence. All-in-all, he was very much the man of the world, the man in control, the man with his finger on the pulse.
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Part 62