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My one-time partner Detective Ardoch Dunsinan had managed to eat almost everything on his plate, I noticed, despite the unpleasant nature of his story. And he had certainly enjoyed the large glass of dark beer he had ordered. I had wondered if I was going to have to stand my old colleague - and my potential future client - a dinner and a pint on the back of our recent re-acquaintance. I pushed my unfinished plate to one side, followed by the empty beer tankard. David the proprietor bustled over to collect the flatware and glasses, and to make a forlorn and half-hearted attempt to interest us in anything else from the menu. I never have ordered any kind of dessert in this joint, but this didn't stop David from trying. After a while, he gave up gracefully and indicated that he would bring the check. When the bill arrived, I looked pointedly at my old colleague. He took the hint. He managed to find enough coins in the recesses of his pockets to pay for the food he had eaten, leaving me to pay for my own meal and manage the very modest tip that - I have always assumed - David expects from me. Between us, we piled up a rag-tag collection of wrinkled notes and worn coins of various denominations, which the patron swept away with stiff formality. I got the distinct impression that David had not taken to Dunsinan in the slightest. Perhaps reacting to David's distain, Dunsinan levered himself to his feet. "I'll be in touch, Gask," he rumbled, fumbling with his coat. "Sure," I said, "Don't forget the cash." He snorted, nodded, then set out into the evening. I sat for a few minutes longer at the unfamiliar window table, wondering whether Dunsinan would be attempting to follow me again. I doubted it: I intended to go home and my normal professional paranoia would demand that I pick one of several indirect routes in any case. I mused longer on what he had told me. Not a lot to go on. Just the conveniently generous old aunt, who wouldn't be telling me anything, and the remarkably genial and efficient Wallace Birnam, who probably didn't know anything. My best lead was Mister Taylor Mungall, deceased. Not many humans know about the Lower Realms, at least beyond myth and legend, and even fewer actually visit. Not that it's impossible: there's a certain amount of form-filling and hanging around when you first arrive, of course, but after that you're generally on your own. This can be a very unsettling experience for the uninitiated, which inevitably leads to a business opportunity. The more popular entrances are swarming with unofficial guides - and official, if you can tell the difference - and for a fee will show you the sights, tour you around the more salubrious parts of the caverns and generally get you back to the surface in one piece, except for a large hole in your wallet. Did Mister Mungall have a guide, I wondered? If so, what happened to him? These operators have a reputation to keep up - and they certainly don't want to attract the attentions of the cops. So, whoever it was, he might have just scarpered. Or was Mungall such an experienced visitor - or just plain stupid - that he didn't engage a guide? I needed to know more. But it would keep until tomorrow. I made my way back to my apartment without any sense that anybody was tailing me. I threw off my hat and coat, and released my feet from the lift shoes I wear whenever I visit the surface. They make my back and thighs ache, but they increase my height and lengthen my legs and, with a bit of practice, you can walk in a way which can pass for human, at least in the low light conditions that the surface people would think of as darkness. I poured myself a tot of whisky by way of a muscle relaxant, toasted myself in the mirror, swallowed it in one lump and went to bed.
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Part 9