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After a late breakfast consisting solely of several cups of strong black coffee I brewed myself, I made my way downtown by transit tube and a short walk to my low-rent office in a high-rise built against one side of a less-than-fashionable cavern. I collected my mail from the box by the front door, then walked up four flights of stairs idly sorting through the manila envelopes which contained overdue bills in red ink and the more garishly decorated packages which were almost certainly trying to sell me something. I never bother locking my office. It saves on the repair bills. The wood-panel door with its flimsy glass panel - adorned with the words Findo Gask - Private Investigator in peeling gold paint - would barely have delayed a determined visitor for five seconds. Most things of any value or importance are stored elsewhere, and a few items which I like to keep to hand are carefully concealed with expensive and, in some cases, black-market glamours. I like to come by the office every day or two, to give the place an airing, bin the junk mail, write the odd report and maybe meet with the occasional prospective client - if they could be bothered to turn up in person and hang around until I arrived. Not that very many clients could be so bothered. Perhaps that's why Dunsinan preferred to tail me around instead. But it seemed like I did have a visitor, one who might well become a client, if I was any judge. She looked just like the kind to engage an expensive - well, a moderately-priced - private detective to find out about her husband's lover. Sitting primly on the very edge of one of the guest chairs was a prissy housewife with what appeared to be a permanent expression of tight-lipped disapproval on her face. She wore well cared-for but unflattering and conspicuously unfashionable clothes which hung loosely on her skinny frame. She clutched an oversized purse on her lap with both hands, her knuckles whitened as if her life depended on it. Her wedding band shone out against the dark-skinned fingers. I took off my hat as I entered my office. "Good morning, Madam," I said unctuously, deploying my best talking-to-irate-clients voice, "Findo Gask, at your service." I held out my free hand in a professional fashion. She glared at it as if it were a venomous snake, then cautiously took the tips of just two fingers in her own and gave them a feeble tug. I tossed my hat on the worn dragon-hide of the desk and swung myself into the ancient and badly-lubricated swivel chair on my side of the desk. It squeaked protestingly under the strain. I opened a desk drawer to pull out pencil and notepad, then leaned forward attentively. "So, Madam, who are you and how can I help?" I pressed, licking the pencil and scribbling vigorously in an effort to appear ready for anything. "I'm Killin Burnbank," she said in a voice so sharp it could probably have been used to extend the underground tunnel system at minimal expense, "You've been recommended to me, although I'm not sure why." She looked pointedly around the dingy office: the three four-drawer filing cabinets were pushed back against the rock wall, and a coffee table and two slightly saggy easy chairs occupied much of the remaining space on the visitor’s side of the desk. I could almost see her mentally running a finger over the surfaces and inspecting them for dust - of which there would be a great deal, housework not being one of my strong points. "Mrs Burnbank," I acknowledged, "Pleased to meet you. What is it I may be able to help you with?" Burnbank is not a particularly common name in the Lower Realms. So there was almost certainly a connection with Carsie Burnbank, Dunsinan's curiously missing partner. I hate coincidences. You can never easily tell whether they really are genuine coincidences, signifying nothing, or a marker for something really important. The realisation of the truth almost always comes too late, dragging in its wake anything from mild embarrassment to a fusillade of bullets. Time to tread carefully. Killin Burnbank took a deep breath, probably coming to some decision long turned over in her mind. "Mister Gask," she demanded, "How much do you ask for your services?" "I get twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses," I said smoothly. She looked pensive for a moment, then delved into the large bag on her lap, drawing out a pocket notebook. She opened it at a marked page, studied the contents for a moment. It was too far away for me to see clearly, but the pages appeared to be covered in neat columns of figures. She closed the book and put it away, taking out a checkbook instead and laying it on the desk. "I can budget for three days, if you keep your expenses to a minimum," she announced, "I shall want a full account." "Of course I'll do my best, Madam," I replied, "But exactly what is it you want me to do in these three days?"
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Part 10