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It was remarkably easy to get to see Captain Harriett Luncardy when I finally got to the 14th precinct station, despite the earliness of the hour. As I was shown in, she was sitting at her desk, an elegant fountain pen in one hand and her trademark - and even more elegant - smoking stick in the other. She blew smoke, then used the smoking stick to point me in the direction of a seat on the other side of the desk. I took off my hat and sat down, fumbling for cigarettes and matches. I needed a smoke badly. The young copper acting as gopher was clearly well-trained, since she hung around, quiet and motionless, by the door. Luncardy made a last few, and no doubt essential, annotations on the report she was reviewing before gathering up all the papers into a manila folder and handing them to the patiently waiting officer. Then she steepled her hands, rested her chin on her long thin fingers and looked over them levelly at me. Her cool grey eyes missed nothing. "You ought to get more sleep, Gask," She said, "You really look like shit." "Yeah, well I feel like it, too. It's been a busy few days." "And I suppose you want to tell me about it?" "You guessed it. You're a good listener. You might find it interesting. And, besides, I'd like to see the look on your pretty face when you hear what I've got to say." "Huh." She pursed her lips and took an elegant puff from her smoking stick. "You know how to apply the flattery, I'll give you that. Okay, I'll bite. Spill the beans." I gave it to her both barrels. Her eyes opened wide as I spoke. She grabbed her pen and flipped open her notebook and scribbled notes like the most earnest of students in the front row of the lecture theatre, her cigarette burning unregarded on the ashtray. Notes, places, dates, times: all committed to the fine vellum in her round and elegant handwriting. I left almost nothing out. The expression on her face when I told her about the encounter with the Old One was a picture, an oil painting, an old master to be savoured and appreciated for a long time. Her expression when I told her about the sighting of Garrick was a picture of a very different kind: The Huntress, perhaps, or maybe something more feral in shades of black and red. She could be very focussed when she was on the scent. The only thing I left out of my narrative was the name of my informant in the Underworld bar - she could probably have shaken that out if she wanted to, but she understood the value of trusted informants as well as I did - and the promises made by the Old One, which I figured were entirely a private matter. In the end, she needed no further encouragement. At the end of my narrative, she sat for a few moments studying her notes, finally remembering the remnants of her cigarette. Her eyes flicked from notebook to me and back again a couple of times, her expression more calculating than suspicious. "Okay, I need to get a crew down there as soon as possible. I want you to come too," she said with grim determination and waving her cigarette holder in my direction, "It might be a long shot, but this may be our only chance to apprehend Garrick before he pulls that disappearing act again."
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Part 87