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"Hah," Luncardy said, typically mirthlessly, "You recognise him then?" I had to agree he was hard to recognise, even from my close proximity. The self-satisfied smirk had been permanently wiped from his face by what looked like repeated blows from a heavy blunt object. Brutal, vicious blows. Blows delivered by somebody very strong or somebody very angry. "He's been really messed up," I replied, "I take it he's dead?" The Inspector pressed a long thin finger against the side of Hosh's throat, held it there for a long moment. Then she nodded. "He's dead," she agreed, "Been stiff for a little while now." I nodded. That would be consistent with Drummond's removal of Hosh's corpse from the Starfield Club. "So he was dead long before he got here," I clarified, "Someone's dumped him on me." As with so much police work, the next hour or so involved a distressing amount of hanging around while other people did their bit. In short order, the Inspector called in a forensics squad from Headquarters, and a team from the coroner's office. She also dispatched two of her own force on door-to-door enquiries in the apartment block. This was pointless, in my view, a hiding to nothing, as my neighbours were uniformly of the "didn't hear nuffin, didn't see nuffin" disposition. But at least it kept the uniforms out of the way, doing something that their Sergeant would regard as useful. Luncardy herself stood aside, leaning her long thin body against the doorframe. I slouched nearby, watching the coroner's team photographing and measuring the body, and taking samples of the bundle it arrived in. I had been careful not to touch the unexpected package that had been delivered, even though the rough cloth was unlikely to retain fingerprint impressions. I guess my reactions were themselves the subject of a close degree of scrutiny from the Inspector herself. "All right, Gask," she said at length, "I guess you're a victim here. Although exactly why I'm prepared to believe you, I can't imagine." "That'll be my trustworthy face, then," I replied, grinning insouciantly at her just to break the tension. "Huh," she snapped back, "Private dicks. Can't book 'em, can't shoot 'em." I think she was joking. At least, I hope she was. "You better be telling me everything, mind you," she continued, waving a long thin finger in my face, "If you're holding out on me, it will give the very greatest pleasure throwing the book at you, very hard." She had a point. I wasn't holding out on her, at least not much. It was all getting a bit deep. Someone was trying to make me panic in the presence of dead bodies, or perhaps to scare me off. I'm made of sterner stuff, let me reassure you, and I’m not so easily fazed by the odd corpse or two. I had already explained all the background to Luncardy, as well as what I had seen at the Starfield Club. It all sounded good, and was very nearly entirely true, too. Grudgingly, at least, she appeared to be giving me the benefit of the doubt encouraged, I'd like to think, by the fact that I had called her directly. The Inspector fished in the pockets of her mannish jacket for her packet of cigarettes and her holder. She selected one carefully, then screwed it into the holder in that vaguely threatening way that she had evidently long perfected. She did not offer me a cigarette but I still offered her a light, using the book of matches I had taken from the kitchenette drawer and not the ones I had acquired from the Starfield Club. While Luncardy smoked at me, a thought flashed through my mind: what had happened to the cheap matchbook from the club, taken when I was waylaid. But why bother? Maybe my assailant had just fancied a smoke while delivering me to the surface world branch of Cowpat Central. Or maybe I really was getting paranoid.
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Part 66