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We spent much of that afternoon cataloguing and grouping the information which Campsie had managed to acquire, building cross-references against the list provided by Broxden and adding any previous relationships between the individuals themselves. It was quite a formidable array of criminal talent, I thought - a fact which Campsie was able to confirm with a few follow-up telephone calls. I was even able to add a snippet or two from my own knowledge, things which occurred to me which I'd remembered, now that the context was becoming clearer. Much detective work is like this, in my experience. Sure, I’ve tailed more a few suspects in my time, and there's been a few punch-ups and gunfights in my past. But most of what I do involves talking to people - lots of people - followed by periods of calm introspection and a careful evaluation of the evidence. Sooner or later, though, you actually have to go out there and do something. A thought occurred to me now. I dug into my pockets and came up with a few coins, which I pushed over the desk to Campsie. "How about nipping out and picking up the evening newspaper?" I suggested. She looked at me sharply for a moment, then scooped up the money and set off down the stairs. Five minutes later, she returned, clutching the paper and looking slightly annoyed. "Is there some specific reason that you wanted the newspaper," she asked pointedly. "Turn to the Classified Ads section," I suggested, grinning wryly, "Under 'Situations Vacant'." The way that Campsie's face lit up as realisation dawned was a picture all by itself. "So can you sew?" I asked her, "And how are you at make-up?" "I’m pretty good," Campsie replied, grinning, "Why? Am I going in disguise?" "Nah," I drawled offhandedly, "I want you to put slap on other people." My hunch was right. From the staff list that Broxden had provided, it seems to be as if the number of dressers and similar jobs seemed to be rather too few compared with the dancers, singers and other stage performers that were on the payroll. The paper contained several adverts for dressing-room assistants; the one at the Stalactite Saloon offered rates of pay, I noted, which were very poor compared with the others. I ringed the advert with my fountain pen and stuck the paper under Campsie's nose. "Time for you to sell yourself," I suggested, pointing out the phone number. "So what should I say?" she asked, looking concerned. "You're a young lady, fresh out of school, looking for a break. Willing to do anything for the experience. Act friendly, bouncy, keen as mustard." Campsie seemed to think about this for a while. "Okay," she said finally, "What name should I use?" "Use your own identity," I suggested, "Nobody's going to know any better, and you won't be caught out by all that 'false name' nonsense." She nodded, looking increasingly enthusiastic about the prospect of a little undercover light work. "You won't be entirely on your own," I added, "I'll be around, of course, since Broxden will be expecting me to interview his people, to work out who was hiding cameras around the place. So we can catch up from time to time. Just remember that you don't know me. Be respectful to the seniors and friendly to everybody else, and keep your ears open at all times." "Yeah," Campsie said, half-talking to herself, "I can do this." I turned the telephone on the desk so that she could reach it easily.
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Part 30