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I pushed the briefcase shut and snapped the clasps closed. The Judge watched me closely as I swung the case off the table. "Good luck, Mister Gask," he said calmly, "I hope you know what you're doing." "Well, actually, I don't," I replied glibly, although with more truth than I might normally have communicated. But I had a few ideas, a few tricks up my sleeves, a few surprises I might be able to work. At least, I hoped so. It was time to drop by the office. By now, Luncardy and her crew would have cleared out, but of course she wouldn't have bothered to let me know that I was free to return to my own place of business. That would have been too much to expect. Homicide cops have better things to do with their time, no doubt. The office was much as I might have expected. There were a couple of open drawers and and a few papers strewn over the desk and carpet. The scotch bottle and glasses had disappeared - retained as evidence, no doubt, and certain never to see the gloom of day again. There was a smell; a smell of dust and sweaty coppers and fingerprint powder, with just a hint of death and decay underlying it all. Welcome back, Gask. I shook my head, dropped the briefcase by the side of the desk, then tidied away the odd items of paper that littered the place. There didn't seem to be anything missing, apart from a few cigarettes from the box on the desk. The police seemed to be remarkably honest, or perhaps it was just that I didn't have anything worth stealing. The presence of the police had not prevented the postman from delivering the daily ration of junk mail and overdue bills. I thumbed through the small pile that had accumulated since I was last here, discarding the obvious advertising materials and deciding it was probably about time to pay at something towards the most long-standing of my debts. As I sorted through the post, what caught my eye was a nondescript brown envelope addressed to me in a round cursive hand, handwriting that I thought I recognised. I dumped the remaining unsorted mail on the desk and tore it open. There was no note, nothing written inside. Just a single rather blurred photograph, obviously taken hurriedly and probably from a distant hiding place. The subjects were clear enough, even so. Monzie Hosh, in what looked like an expansive mood, sat at a table at the Starfield Club, toasting a guest whose back was towards the camera. A bulky, well-dressed Goblin, returning the toast with raised glass, one who could so easily be Creagan Madderfy. I sat in my squeaky swivel chair, still wearing my hat and coat, and smoked another cigarette and stared at the wall and thought for a long long while. Clunie and, before that, Merton Vale had been pressing folding money into my hands like there was no tomorrow. I was definitely ahead financially, although I seemed to be turning up more questions than answers at the moment. Not a satisfactory response. And, it seemed that someone was keeping careful tabs on me, dictating the course of events. I was evidently being watched, at least sometimes and even though I had not been able to detect any sign of my tail. I concluded that it was time I invested in the case. I had retained a few small magics that I had not yet deployed which might very well be very helpful; certain magical items purchased, as I occasionally do, from the Small Ads columns in the back of the trade press. Items which were expensive, by my standards, and narrow in their scope and application, and which could only be used once. But it seemed to me there was a way of cracking this case, with just a little application of time and magic.
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Part 47