There was a bar across the street, not a popular one; just a few regulars occupying their usual spots on the too-tightly-packed barstools and getting off their faces. I drew up a couple of stools at the only open spot at the bar, separated from the drunks only by an unoccupied stool and several inches of expensive air-gap.

"What'll it be?" the bartender growled, wiping his plate-sized hands on an already grubby cloth. He looked like he didn't often get unfamiliar faces in the joint, or at least mostly sober ones.

"Scotch on the rocks," Clathy breathed, "Make it a double."

"Same for me," I added in response to the barkeep's glance. I put my hat on the bar and dragged my cigarette packet from it home in my coat pocket. She shook her head when I waved the pack in her direction.

The drinks arrived in record time and I paid for them - those gentlemanly urges again. The bartender disappeared to the far end of the bar to shoot the breeze with one of the more articulate regulars. Clathy reached for her glass and put down about half of the scotch in a lump, wincing only slightly as the almost undiluted liquor hit the back of her throat. I sipped at my drink, wincing for a different reason - I try and avoid cheap scotch as a rule.

I stared at Clathy, saying nothing. She took another gulp from her glass, slammed it down so hard I'd thought she'd have broken it, then rested her head in the arms on the edge of the bar.

"I'm in such a mess," she wailed, "I should never have gone to work at that bloody club in the first place, and now I'll never get away. And, yes," she added, glancing up at me, "My grandmother did warn me about it."

She sobbed for a moment, attracting exactly no attention from anyone else in the bar. She made a visible effort to pull herself together, sitting up and wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. Tear-streaked and reddened, they were still very nice eyes.

"Anyway, what's your angle?" she asked, sniffing, "Why are you interested in Monzie?"

"Client confidentially," I replied, "Can't tell you a thing. Besides, it's not really Hosh I'm interested in."

"So who are you interested in? Clunie?"

"I do have an interest there. What do you know about her?"

"New to the club. Only been there a few months," she replied, "Popular with the regulars - too popular with some of them, if you know what I mean. Keeps herself to herself, don't gossip with the girls much. I hardly know her."

"How long have you worked at the Club?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm an old lag. Eight years. Seems like a lifetime."

I sipped my own drink.

"Why does Hosh hit you?"

"He's only done it twice. Once when I refused to," she paused, again drinking deeply from her glass, "I refused to go home with a customer, when Monzie wanted to impress."

"And the other time?"

She hesitated. "I refused to sleep with Monzie," she said finally, "I think he tries it on with all the girls. Most of them say yes, I think. He only asks once."

"You should have left."

"I didn't have any choice. I needed the money anyway, and then Monzie's boys visited Granny."

I stared at her in silence. The low rumble of chatter from the bar swirled around us, as tangible as the cigarette smoke and aroma of stale beer.

"Okay, Clathy, I'll buy it," I said. "Monzie Hosh has got you on a string. I can see that. You bounce and dangle at his whim. Maybe I can't help you there, maybe I can. And maybe you can help me help you. Maybe Hosh sometimes lets things slip, things that would get the cops interested. Or get me interested."

I fished in my coat pocket.

"Take one of these" - I handed her a business card, one printed on plain card without the lunar visibility magic - "Now, you do whatever you want, but this is what I think you should do. Go back to Hosh, tell him the truth. Say you tried to follow me, but I spotted you, grabbed you. Say you sweet-talked yourself out of the situation. Go back to your life. If you want to talk, call me."

She nodded wordlessly at this, swirling the dregs of her drink around in the glass.

"Okay, I'm going home. I've had enough for tonight. Now beat it."

"Thanks," she breathed, "You're a gent."

She drained the last of her scotch, then leaned forward suddenly to give me a peck on the cheek. Then she slid down of her bar stool and slipped out of the bar, not looking back. I sat quietly for a while, lighting and smoking another cigarette, toying with my own drink and letting the ice cubes slowly melt, thinking over what Clathy had said.

Despite what I told the waitress, I went on back to my office rather than heading home. I had a hunch niggling at me and it took me ten minutes to confirm it. There was still some movement behind me, some shifting of the shadows. Now I had a proper tail, someone who really knew how to work within the glamour's limitations, one who knew how to stay out of the line of sight and away from reflective surfaces, one who knew how to walk softly and make only noises which blended with the sounds of the night.

I guessed that was Hosh's real purpose in sending Clathy, to give me a easy-to-spot tail while the real one lurked out of sight. This one would be harder to catch, and difficult to shake off - or, at least, be sure that I'd shaken him off. By the time I stepped out of the travel tube in the downtown cavern, I wasn't sure. Maybe I lost him in the crush of the tubes, maybe not. Whoever it was, they were pretty good. I'd have to try a few of my old tricks later on.

I reached my office on the seamier side of the cavern, collected the mail from the box, walked up the stairs and let myself in. Again, Merton Vale was waiting for me, slumped in the visitors chair on the public side of the desk. The difference was, this time, he wasn't breathing. A tumbler stood on the worn green hide, nearly empty. A bottle of a very decent scotch stood uncapped next to it. It looked like my office bottle, the one I keep in the deep drawer of my desk for emergencies and the less unwanted of my visitors. I left bottle and glass well alone.

I stepped over lightly, trying to avoid even pressing deeply into the pile of the carpet, and felt for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. He'd been dead for an hour, more or less. Maybe if I hadn't dallied with Clathy, I might have been able to do something about it. Or maybe not. I was hard to tell. There wasn't a mark on the body that I could see. I went though his pockets quickly - a dirty job, but someone's got to do it - but found nothing I would not have expected. He still had the envelopes with the photographs and the notes in his pocket. Time to call the cops. Oh well, so much for the early night I had promised myself.

Part 9

Part 11