Mayfield sprang to her feet and rushed across the room, then literally wrapped herself around Glen in a fashion that was intended to leave no doubt of the strength of her feelings. The blocky man lifted the slightly-built Goblin effortlessly with one arm, while she had both arms and both legs entwined around his body. She planted a flurry of kisses on his lips to which he responded with evident enthusiasm, despite being intimately close to a set of strong and sparkling-white teeth which many humans would regard as fangs.

I could not help but observe the odd couple closely, given the way my suspicions were aroused earlier. But, try as I might, I could not detect any indications of deception or indeed signs of any emotion other than an immediate and pressing desire to tear off each other's clothes.

Gumshoe was looking wide-eyed and at maximum alert, his raincoat flapping open and his gun already loosened in his underarm holster. His attention was split, alternately glancing at the mismatched lovers in a detached and faintly suspicious way, and warily scanning the corners of the room as if expecting somebody to pop out of the shadows at any moment. He stalked around the apartment, checking the other rooms for intruders reflexively, part of some ingrained routine he picked up in training many years ago.

Once Gumshoe had satisfied himself that all was well, I decided it would be best to leave the two young beings to their private catch-up session. I caught Gumshoe's eye and jerked my head in the direction of the outer door. He nodded and took one last look around the room before following me back out into the storeroom.

Once the door sealed itself and the seams had faded into the wall, I turned to the PI.

"What's going on, Martin?" I asked urgently, using his given name - something I rarely do - to convey the seriousness of my concern.

"Nothing I can put my finger on," Gumshoe replied, his brow knotting in a frown.

"Okay," I said, "Why don't you start at the beginning?"

Gumshoe took a deep breath and sat heavily on a beer barrel.

"Tracking down this Glen Morrison guy was easy," he began, "Although getting to actually talk to him was more challenging. He's rather well-known up here, a moderately famous author with a clutch of best-sellers to his name, well-known in a number of high-powered media circles. Clearly a man of some talent and wealth. Apparently he normally lives in Europe, but he's often here in New York to talk to his publisher. This trip, he was in Los Angeles, talking to some Hollywood types about a movie. The industry gossip has it that he is on the verge of getting a major contract to film his latest novel."

I nodded. Intensive meetings with self-important scriptwriters and directors could explain why Glen wasn't willing to take Mayfield's calls. He had the air of one who wanted to succeed and enjoyed the trappings of success.

"So how did you get through to him?" I asked.

Gumshoe grinned.

"I had to pull some strings, cash in a favour. I have a contact who is a media agent. I got him to call Morrison's agent. My guy fed him a story about another interest in his work, got Morrison's agent to hand over his mobile phone number. Then I just kept trying."

"So he finally answered the phone. Then what?"

"I had to do some fast talking to persuade him that I really did know what I was on about," he went on, "My grip of your language is pretty shaky, but I finally resorted to saying a few words in the Goblin tongue."

That would have been moderately persuasive. Few humans can get the pronunciation exactly right - our language is full of complex and guttural sounds - but it seemed that both Glen and Gumshoe knew enough to hold a short conversation. It was one which would have sounded intensely alien - not to mention downright spooky - to anybody who happened to overhear. In any case, Gumshoe was being modest about his abilities; actually his accent isn't too atrocious.

"I told him that Mayfield was in danger and that we had moved her to a safe house. I encouraged him to talk to her directly and left him my number. He seemed shocked that he had missed so many calls from her. I think he must have called her immediately."

That would make sense. Mayfield had indeed got a call last night, while we were preparing for the stunt at the Court of Probate. They talked for ten minutes. She was quite distracted afterwards and I had to repeat my instructions several times until I was sure that they had sunk in.

"Morrison called back about half an hour later," Gumshoe went on, "He'd already booked a flight to New York and I agreed to meet him at the airport and bring him here."

"How did he seem, in person?"

"At the airport, he was all business. A man in control. Shook my hand, thanked me politely for my help. Canny enough to ask to see my PI badge and ask me a question in the Goblin language."

Gumshoe sat silently for a few moments, some important thought being formulated by the considerable intellect that he generally keeps hidden beneath his slightly pug-like exterior.

"There was one other thing," he said slowly.

"Go on," I replied guardedly.

"When I was escorting Morrison from the airport," he said carefully, "It seemed to me as if we were being followed."

I tended to trust Gumshoe's instincts on this kind of thing. Over the years he too has acquired a perfectly workable set of eyes in the back of his head, together with a variety of other instincts which gave him an uncanny ability to spot a tail at a distance.

"Ah," I said, "I wondered why you arrived by taxi."

"I had to abandon the Olds," he explained, "Too conspicuous. I'll go pick it up later."

"And why did you use the public entrance to the bar?"

"Witnesses," he replied shortly, "I was pretty certain that we'd managed to shake them off, but I wanted there to be people to see us arrive, just in case."

"Why is anybody interested in following Glen Morrison?" I mused aloud, talking to myself as much as Gumshoe.

There was a pause.

"I don't think it was a tail," the human detective said slowly, "I think it was a hit squad."

Part 63

Part 65