Читать книгу Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf - Terry Newman, Терри Ньюман - Страница 11

I was drowning. I was seated behind the steering wheel of my wagon, seatbelt tied, and I was drowning. There was salt water in my mouth and I was sinking fast.

The plan would probably have worked with any other race, but there is not anything you can put in a dwarf’s drink that he will not recover from after that initial splash of cold water. I grabbed a last lungful of air as the water reached the roof and the drowning-clock started running. I tried the door, but the weight of water was too much. Then a little voice from inside reminded me: I drove a convertible. The catch on the roof would not work, though, and even dwarf-muscled hands could not get the material to part.

I had one chance – if only they had left me my hand axe.

It proved easy to find. It was in the head of the young elf sitting next to me with a shooter in his hand. His lovely linen coat had not passed the evening intact after all. Truetouch had gone west in a big way. If I was not to join him I had to do something fast.

Removing my axe was not pleasant, and even my capacious dwarf lungs were beginning to scream as I went to work on the roofing. The material now tore easily; mercifully I keep my axe sharp. Wielding it was a bit harder though, but I quickly made a hole just big enough to squeeze through. I slipped the axe strap over my hand, pocketed the shooter, and struck out for the city lights that were glimmering through the water above. I barely had the power to make it to the surface, but reserve tank banging on zero, I finally broke the surface and could put some puff back in the machine.

My beautiful Dragonette had been run straight off a quayside and I was not that far from the shore. I would make it in one piece; if the various poisons that our industry pumps into the Bay did not get to me first. They had made a mistake there, whoever had sent us for this unwelcome dip. They should have just pushed the wagon off a cliff somewhere and let us both fry.

However, that maybe would not have fitted with the little picture that they were trying to paint. Instead, they tried to fit me too closely in the frame. They had tried to be too clever and when you try to be too clever … you get unlucky. That was their first mistake; the second was making me angry. I’m not exactly saying we were kindred spirits, but there was something about Truetouch that I’d liked, something other than his taste in summer outfits. The elf had come to me for help. I had not actually struck the deal and now I never would, but there was an obligation there and dwarfs take their obligations very seriously. Somebody was going to find out just how seriously. The split skull of the helpless Truetouch was now Illustration Number One in my Big Book of Nightmares and it was going to take some work before I could rip the picture out and throw it away.

It was a long walk back to the armoury. I went by the back streets, and little-known staircases, as I could not afford to be seen. It gave me plenty of time to try to think, but powders and a dunking don’t promote my best work. What did Truetouch know about Perry and the Surf Elves that could get him wraithed in such a spectacularly unpleasant manner? We had both been drinking the same wine, unless it was Truetouch who had slipped something in my glass and had subsequently been betrayed by whoever wanted me out of the way. It was possible, but was it likely? Who had been the target here and who was the innocent bystander? The questions rattled around my head but answers … there were none.

I made it to the armoury unseen; the new doorman was fast asleep on the reception coach. Dawn was just sending its first outriders around the Hill walls, announcing it was going to be another hot one. By that time a combination of intensive seething and the still warm night air had dried me off completely so I would not be leaving any telltale pools. My damp suit would never be the same, though. Exhausted and still befuddled by the liquid macing, I slowly climbed up the back stairs and finally made it to my rooms. Letting myself in quietly, I found a hastily scribbled note that had been pushed under the door. Two words only: ‘RING RALPH!’

I rang Ralph, but he was not at his desk. The desk duty officer asked if I wanted to leave a message. I hesitated; a message would get logged – did I want that? I decided it could do no harm, and so I told him that Nicely Strongoak had called and could he get back to me. I needed coffee so badly my taste buds were considering suing for abuse. I saw to the percolator and then went and stood under the shower until I felt that my pores were free from the filth of the Bay. I came round a fraction and had just slipped into a robe when there was a knock on the door that immediately spoke to me of the Citadel Guards. I opened up and there stood Sergeant-at-Arms, Ralph Fieldfull.

‘Little late for bathing, isn’t it – personal hygiene problem?’ he remarked, and came on in uninvited, followed by an impressively uniformed scout he offhandedly announced as ‘Telfine’.

Not that Ralph needed any invitation. I had known Ralph since our earliest undercover days in the Citadel Intelligence Agency. After that he went public and entered the Citadel Guards. I had tried it for a while, but then entered the private sector. Ralph made it to Sergeant-at-Arms in record time, but then got stuck. The rumour was that he could not be entirely trusted – trusted to do what the department dictated, rather than what the law required. Me, I am still working the same streets, but at least I know which side the bad guys are on – most of the time. The young scout had a razor-shaven, flat-top ‘yes-sire’ haircut and a manner that demanded a tickle with something sharp. He was obviously well on his way up the soapy staircase and keen to make an impression with the gold badges. About as benign as a nettle poultice, he knew all the right handshakes, went to the right parties and was not going to get stuck at Sergeant.

‘Maybe he’s been for a dip in the Bay?’ the scout said, not as stupid as he looked.

‘It’s been a warm night,’ I said, drying my plait and doing my best to ignore the scout and concentrate on Ralph, to attempt to gauge the wind direction, as it were. ‘Looks like he’s been warned about our visit,’ popped in the eager scout again.

‘Now who would want to do that and why?’ I wondered aloud, following them into my rooms.

Ralph threw himself on my old settle. It groaned a little, unused to the extra weight. He carefully took off his cap and put it down next to him. Married life and three children had added the inches to his waist, but he still had the rugged features of an outdoors man. I sat on a bentwood armchair I had made myself during my recovery from the knifing that had left the scar that looked like the results of a botched second-rate kidney procedure. The scout just paced. He was good at pacing. He obviously equated pacing with good detective work. He would probably pace his way to the top-of-the-tree and then drop dead two days after retiring. His tombstone would read: Citadel Guard Commander Telfine. ‘He came, he saw, he paced.’ I tried not to stare at the bathroom door and the damp suit, with Ralph’s note in the pocket, which lay behind it.

‘Understand, you’ve been trying to reach me, Nicely.’ Ralph took out his pipe and offered me his pouch, but my lungs still contained a bit too much of the Bay. I finished tying my plait.

‘Sure, I called you on the old horn a couple of times, wanted to report my wagon missing.’

‘What time would this be?’

‘Can’t say exactly. I was scouting various drinking holes last night, must have got in a shade after midwatch. I tried to sleep, tossed around for a while – hot and bothered – and then decided a shower and some coffee might help. When I got up, I glanced out of the window and noticed the wagon was missing. That’s when I first tried to reach you. I tried again after my shower and when you still weren’t there I left a message––’

‘We weren’t there,’ the scout interrupted, ‘because we were busy pulling your wagon out of the Bay!’ He seemed to think this had earned him a point or two.

‘Oh dear,’ I said, concerned. ‘Barrel-riders, I suppose, probably kids. I hope it’s not in too bad a condition.’

‘It’s in better condition than the occupant!’

Ralph smoked his pipe. He smoked with a determined air, giving it his full concentration. It must have been taking all his attention, because in the meantime he was letting the new boy give me the whole story. But Ralph just sat there, impassively, while the scout made every mistake in the book. Maybe even funny handshakes were not going to make this man’s career after all.

‘Well, it is quite a difficult wagon to drive, the Dragonette,’ I remarked, matter-of-factly. ‘Very fast.’

‘Fast, nothing!’ The scout stopped and glowered down at me. ‘This particular barrel-rider was the passenger and he did not get injured going into the Bay, not unless an axe fell onto his head from the vanity mirror! A dwarf axe, from the looks of it, rammed into an elf head.’

‘And you have the axe?’ I asked.

‘No we don’t, as you very well know, which is why you’re still sitting there and not sucking in air in the Citadel slammer!’

Yes, this one was a real charmer. I caught Ralph’s eye and lifted one brow. The scout was stomping around now like a hobgoblin on heat.

‘Do you know what happens when an elf dies on the Hill, dwarf? What happens is we get more shit coming down on our heads than you would if you lived on a dragon’s flight path. So don’t you get cute with me! We’ve got a dead elf, and he was seen earlier leaving the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go, talking with a dwarf, so you look like a pretty good fix for his murder. What happened? You two argue, so you axed him, lost control of the wagon and ended up in the Bay? I think maybe we should just take a little look round here.’ He headed for the bathroom and the incriminating suit with my wet axe on top.

‘I think that is probably enough, Scout Telfine,’ said Ralph, in the nick of time. ‘You cannot go searching the rooms of law-abiding folk without a warrant, and as for the accusation, I think you will be very lucky if Master Strongoak here does not post charges,’ Ralph added as he arose from the settle, intercepting Telfine and firmly shutting the bathroom door. ‘He is a licensed detective and an ex-member of the Citadel Guards himself. I think the best thing we can do now, scout, is offer an apology and ask Master Strongoak, politely, if he would kindly give us details of his whereabouts last night, so we can do some checking before we go around wielding accusations like irate pikemen.’

The scout, stopped in his tracks, looked at us both. ‘I get it, some kind of old boys’ act, is it? I’ve been warned about you, Fieldfull. Well, I’m telling you, I wasn’t just shat from no fellhound. I’m not going to end up stuck at Sergeant-at-arms!’ With that he charged from my rooms, slamming the door behind him.

‘Talented lad, should go far,’ I remarked.

‘Can’t be far enough.’ He sat and sucked at his pipe again. ‘It’s the quality of applicant we get these days. I blame the rolling pictures, they make the job look glamorous, instead of what it is: an exercise in hobyah herding.’

‘Was ever that way.’

‘All the same, Nicely, I am going to need that statement from you.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You check with Snatchpole, the keeper at the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go, he’ll be able to tell you it wasn’t me.’ Ralph eyed me up slowly, picking up his cap from the sofa.

‘I guess you know what you’re doing, but Telfine, my much-esteemed junior colleague, is giving it straight from the bow. There is going to be some real heat about this from the elves, so you had better stick around the Hill for a while – and I could do with that statement sometime soon – very, very soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘Now soon.’ He stood up and stretched, stifling a yawn.

‘Sure thing,’ I said. ‘Now tomorrow soon enough?’ I asked. He nodded and gave in to the yawn before getting up to leave.

‘How’s the wife and kids, Ralph?’

‘Still need clothes and three square meals a day.’

He paused at the door and turned back round. ‘Don’t spit in the eye of any dragons, Nicely. Hear me? It’s looking like it might be a bad time to be out there without a magic sword.’ And then with a last wave, and a last yawn, he was gone.

I collected my over-stewed coffee and sat slowly back down, trying yet again to get my thoughts in order. Who exactly had axed Truetouch? Could it have been the hooded stranger and his goblin chums? Was Truetouch about to dish some dirt on Highbury or did he know the whereabouts of the missing Perry Goodfellow and the Gnada Trophy? Thelen had said Highbury wanted to regain the trophy pretty badly, but neither of these reasons seemed to warrant such a permanent sanction as Truetouch had received. And what light did any of this throw on Perry’s disappearance? Plus, where is The Lost Gold of Galliposs, how deep is The Bottomless Pit of Doom and if you’re being stalked by letters of the alphabet, do the ‘i’s follow you around the room? These and other such imponderables I would have to leave until the morning.

I managed to catch a few hours’ sleep. I obviously needed them, because it was only after I rolled off the bed that I remembered the number written down for me by Truetouch. I rummaged through the damp pile of clothes – Gaspar was going to have a fit, he was very protective about his stitching – and finally I found the dead elf’s pipeleaf card. As I feared, the ink had run and the number was all but illegible. I reached for the horn and tried a few combinations of digits that might once have been inscribed on the card, but with no joy.

The card itself, though, was interesting. I made a large coffee and examined it closer. It was indeed a pipeleaf card, the kind they give away free in a packet of pipeleaf and children then trade. It had obviously been carted around for some time, and had seen better days, even before its trip to the Bay. Number 16 in a series of Famous Track Winners. It portrayed a large black horse with a distinctive white mark on its muzzle. The legend read: ‘Rosebud’. I suppose the mark could have passed for a rosebud, with a little imagination. I waved it dry and pocketed it thoughtfully. It was not much to go on, but, by Hograx the Uneven’s hairy one, it was at least a clue and that’s what us detectives love most of all. Give us a clue and we’re as happy as a pixie in a poppy field. Unless, of course, it turns out to only be a bit of waste paper lurking in an elf’s favourite coat.

My musings were rudely interrupted by a blast from the horn on the table behind my head. I picked it up: ‘Nicely Strongoak, Shield-for-Hire,’ I said, forgetting for the moment that I was not in the office.

‘I saw your race with Highbury. It was wonderful. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so much.’

Even in my sleep fug I recognised the voice at the end of the line as belonging to Thelen, the elfess from the beach. The thought of her laughing made my toes curl and the rest of me feel much better. ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘How did Golden Boy seem to take it?’

‘Livid, apoplectic. We have a very good word in elfish for it; unfortunately it does not translate.’

‘Shame, maybe you could teach me it, in case I run into him again.’

‘That’s why I was calling. Did you get the information about Perry Goodfellow that you required?’

‘Yes and no. Why?’

‘I was wondering if you would relish the opportunity for another go at Lord Highbury?’

‘Lady, I think you might have got the wrong idea about me. I’m always left foot forward when I dance.’

She laughed down the horn. ‘I meant keep him on the boil, as it were. And no, I don’t think I’ve got the wrong idea about you at all, Master Strongoak.’

‘Fine – sounds interesting then. What did you have in mind?’

‘A friend of mine has two tickets for a big Charity Ball; all the White and Wise will be there. Unfortunately my friend has been taken ill and I wondered how you would feel about accompanying me tonight. I have it on good authority that a certain other party will be there.’

‘And me without a thing to wear.’

‘I am sure you will think of something, Master Strongoak. You strike me as pretty resourceful.’ She rang off before I had a chance to ask how she had found my home number. I am not listed in the books and I do not print it on my business cards. Interesting.

I finished my coffee and went to the closet to see what outfit I could get ruined today. I chose a suit in tan buck leather, so light you wouldn’t raise a sweat at a troll’s barbecue, but suitably restrained for a visit to Citadel Central Archive.

The Citadel Central Archive entrance is on the Second Level, but the vaults themselves, dark labyrinths, delve deep into the mountainside. When I first came to the Citadel I would visit the archive if I felt homesick. Leaning on the revolving door, I entered and passed through the entrance hall into what has become known as the Widergard Gallery. This large round room is the hub from which the various tunnels that contain the Citadel records radiate. The Widergard Gallery – now only containing the information stall – still has on its walls the famous friezes. The whole history of Widergard carved in stone. Or rather the official history, with dwarfs featuring far too infrequently for my liking and the pix never getting a look-in. I do not blame the mason, though, as it is expertly hewn. You’ve got to love rock!

Unlike many of the Citadel buildings, the lighting here is excellent. Sconces line the tunnels and downlights mark the intersections. The whole effect is subdued, but studious. I am sure they must have had dwarf help. I found a tome on famous gems. I looked up the Hardwood Emerald and was surprised at the paucity of the entry. The ring was very old, that much was certain; made by men in some time lost in antiquity, when all such rings were said to be ‘magic’. The story went that it was given to the Ancestral Hardwood at the time of the Old Wars, for some forgotten act of valour. Strangely, there was not a single picture, so I went searching for the stacks concerned with the Great Citadel Families.

The entries chronicling the Hardwoods and the current Alderman Hardwood were not that much more extensive than those concerning the emerald of that name. Much was alluded to but little documented. I was surprised at his range of interests, and not just in the business world – not simply a financial wizard, it appeared. More fingers in more pies than a blind man in a bakehouse.

I carried on searching and found an interesting article in a low-circulation, once well-respected, but now defunct periodical called The Green Book. The scribe, one Renfield Crew, implied that Hardwood was the backer of more than one slightly suspect political figure, with ideas not exactly contrary to the interests of big business. No big surprise there, but these politicos were also often a few gods short of the full wolf pack. Some of their views made the Great Despot of Dangenheim look like an expert in man management.

Interestingly, The Green Book had ceased printing the month after this article was written. Coincidence, or something else?

I scribbled the scribe’s name down and kept searching.

There were no recent pictures of Mr Hardwood; he had made privacy into an art form. The one picture I could find, taken many, many years ago, showed a young man in sporting attire who obviously could not wait for middle age. From his youth Hardwood looked like he was longing for the air of wisdom and sagacity that only advancing years can give. The long Hardwood face was crying out for the first whiskers of a beard and the hairline was already waving its goodbyes. Even his knees looked uncomfortable without the comfort of a cover of good tailoring. How he had ended up with a woman as incendiary as his current wife was anybody’s guess.