Текст книги "The Broken Bell"

Автор книги: Frank Tuttle

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“Liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Mary poked her head inside, asked for Darla.

“Go,” I said. “I’m off to find this missing groom. See you tonight? After work?”

“Indeed you will, Mr. Markhat.” She kissed me on my forehead. “And bring your mouth. You’ll need it to talk.”

I forced a smile. She saw right through it, but she squeezed my hands in parting and let me go my way.

Traffic was picking up. A dead wagon rattled right past me, heavy laden with the night’s pale leavings. The Regent has ordered the wagons covered now, and I was glad of it. Word was the number of bodies hauled daily to the crematoriums was on the increase. Soon there’d be grumbles about halfdead and the Truce. And then there’d be a spectacular murder or rumors of another range war out West and the halfdead and their Curfew-breaking victims would be forgotten.

Until the rumors start up again.

It’s an old tradition, in Rannit. Grumbling. And quickly forgetting.

I shook off my reverie and headed downtown. I planned to walk as far as Northridge and then hail a cab to the Hill. It was time to beard the Lethways in their opulent lair, and employ my clever ruse to trick them into revealing the whereabouts of their only son Carris.

I was hoping the walk would promote the formulation of my clever ruse. A block later, I hadn’t made any progress in that regard, which meant my entire plan of attack centered around the words “Hello, I’m Markhat, where pray tell is that son of yours?”

I was so engrossed in my machinations mental it was another block before the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rose, and it dawned on me that I was the object of a stranger’s sudden, intense attention.

I didn’t turn and look. That’s the kind of stunt that ends with bloody noses or worse. I watched glass shop-fronts until I identified my interested stranger and satisfied myself that he was working alone.

I cussed out loud and drew a sour look from a little old lady in a veiled dowager’s hat.

The kid was a Sprang.

Not even a full-grown Sprang. He might have been ten at the most. Ten, and wandering around Rannit clad in homespun burlap and mismatched shoes.

He was filthy. His hair was wild and matted. The dirt was so thick on his face I could see it plain in a dim reflection. The streaks in the dirt must have been from tears.

Hell. The kid had been out all night. After Curfew, outside, with hungry halfdead roaming the streets.

I almost repented of my plan to set the elder Sprangs free. They’d not said a word about a kid.

I didn’t want to snatch the kid there on the street. Even the most sessile Watchman would probably come out swinging at the screams of a child, in this part of town, in broad daylight.

So I circled back, hoping the kid was so lost already he wouldn’t realize I was taking him back to Cambrit. I kept a nice slow pace, making sure he didn’t lose me. If he knew he’d been spotted, he didn’t let it show.

I bought a bag of biscuits from a pushcart vendor on Rains. The kid hid behind a fence and watched me through the cracks. I paused to tie my shoe on Borom. The kid nearly got himself run over by an ogre and his cart.

By the time I’d hiked back to Cambrit, he was stumbling along, exhausted, either not realizing he was back where he started or just too tired to care.

I slowed and let him catch up. I slowed more, and he kept coming.

In the end, I just caught him up under his arms and hefted him over my shoulder. He didn’t even cry.

The Hoogas dipped their eyes in greeting as I approached. “Delivery for Mama Hog,” I said, loud enough to be heard inside.

Mama’s door rattled, and she poked her head out.

“Boy!”

“Indeed it is,” I said, passing by her and depositing the limp Sprang on her table. I patted him down for knives, found a single thin, worn blade, and handed it to Mama.

“Another Sprang, I believe. Followed me all the way downtown. Looks like he’s been out all night.”

Mama gobbled, her face reddening with the same anger I’d felt.

“Wash him. Feed him when he’s awake. If he wants to leave, fine, but remind him what happens around here at night.”

“I ain’t runnin’ no orphanage.”

“He’s not an orphan. Yet. Here are some biscuits. I’ll be back before dark.”

Gertriss opened her door, and I waved and winked then I was outside and away.

I took a cab, this time. I’d walked in a big circle and wasted a lot of time, and I still had the Lethways to face.

If there were more Sprangs lurking about, they didn’t make themselves evident. The bridge clowns capered and mocked me as the cab clattered over the Brown River Bridge. I must have looked somber because they adopted furrowed brows and pursed lips and puffed out their cheeks. I tossed them a few coppers as the cab left the bridge, and hoped some of the superstition about clowns and good luck lingered on.

I’d abandoned any pretense of cleverness. I simply didn’t know enough about the Lethways to even guess at a tack. My best option was an old favorite-keep the conversation going for as long as possible, and hope something useful is revealed along the way.

I knew I’d be lucky if I even managed to sit across from an actual Lethway. If Tamar hadn’t managed to get past the butlers, my chances were slim indeed.

The cabbie wound his ponies up the Hill. We passed House Avalante, where my friend Evis lay sleeping, deep in his dark, cool crypt.

I knocked the dust off my hat and smoothed back my hair and waved at Evis, though I knew he couldn’t see.

The Lethways have a big new house three-quarters of the way up the Hill. Their blood oaks are maybe half the age and size of those that shade Avalante, so rather than lurk in the shadows, House Lethway gleamed in the bright midday sun.

It was modest, as Hill houses go. A mere three stories tall. But it had the usual high swooping slate-tile roofs and ornate leaded glass windows. There were, however, no Old Kingdom turrets, no mock crenellations along the eaves, no pretense of garrison gates where the rather plain front door stood.

And no guardhouse, and no ogres, and no dark-suited toughs with wary eyes and broad shoulders idling about, either.

I paid the cabbie, tipped him generously, and suggested he might earn another handsome fee by swinging back this way in an hour. Then I adjusted the tilt of my hat and marched toward the front door, my face set in what I hoped was an expression of forthright determination.

I didn’t get the chance to knock. I was two full strides from the Lethway’s door when it opened and a pair of stalwart gentleman sauntered out.

They wore dark suits. Their eyes were wary. Their shoulders were broad.

They weren’t quite ogres, but they weren’t far from it, either.

“Good day, gentlemen.” I stopped, rocked back on my heels, clapped my hands together as though thrilled to be meeting such devoted youths.

The pair exchanged an exasperated glance. “Wedding business,” muttered one. His companion nodded.

Sometimes, fortune smiles.

I beamed and smiled my widest.

“Weddings are indeed my business,” I said. I put a lot of cheer into it. “Walter and Walter, florists extraordinaire. We’ve managed to secure ten dozen of the eastern white roses Miss Fields requested.” I fished in my jacket’s breast pocket and withdrew the papers, which would free the Sprangs but wouldn’t pass for a flower bill on close inspection. “If one of you gentlemen could sign for this…”

“Not going to be any wedding,” offered one worthy.

“Third one she’s sent up here this week. Crazy broad,” offered the other.

“You’ll get paid,” added the first, to me. “Take the money and forget it. There ain’t going to be a wedding, you got that?”

I adopted an expression of concern. “But, sirs, I spoke to the bride last evening-”

They turned and threw open the door. “Like I said, the House will pay your bill,” said one, beckoning me inside. “But just this once. You show up here again and it won’t go so good for you. You understand?”

I slipped my papers back in jacket and nodded, deciding that the floral agents of Walter and Walter probably had little experience in trading tough talk with House soldiers.

The pair of toughs led me across a marble-tiled foyer and into a sitting room that could have used at least one window. I spent a few moments idling there, listening to the House, unable to do more than catch a few muffled footsteps and hear a snatch of conversation I couldn’t begin to follow.

An older gentleman ushered me wordlessly from the tiny sitting room, down a hall with oak-paneled walls, and into a larger sitting room that had not one window but two. Portraits kept me company, three to a wall, scowling at me from beneath the powdered white wigs and ruffled collars popular in the years before the War. None looked happy. A loud clock ticked on a mantel.

By the time I reached my third sitting room and a middling comfortable couch with dragons worked into the wood frame and claw feet, I was fighting off yawns and hoping the grumbles from my stomach weren’t audible all the way outside. I’d spent more than an hour just ambling from room to room, and I was no closer to a Lethway than I had been at home in my bed.

I wondered if I’d been forgotten, then decided the servants were merely playing a game of let the money-grubbing tradesman waste his day. I wondered how many of the caterers and reception planners that Tamar sent to Lethway just gave up and left before collecting their fees.

I listened. If anyone was moving around nearby, they were doing so in sock feet, and I doubted that.

I rose, made sure my Avalante pin was plainly visible, and sauntered out of my sitting room and into the perilous bowels of Lethway itself.

The House was quiet. If bustling was being done, it was being done elsewhere. I picked a hallway at random, ambled down it, found a flight of stairs leading up, took to them. I met an older gentleman clad in a butler’s black tails halfway up the first flight. I saw his eyes cut to my Avalante pin and then cut away.

I picked halls at random, left closed doors shut, ventured into a couple of open ones. The second floor was surprisingly empty, aside from servant’s quarters and a couple of unfinished guest rooms. I did find a family portrait-Mom and Dad Lethway, he much older than she, flanking a ten-year-old kid who must have been Carris.

No dirt on his face. No straw hat on his head. My, what a difference a few dozen copper mines make.

I ran out of things to explore, so I gathered my nerves and took to the final flight of stairs leading up.

At the top, voices and footfalls sounded. A woman laughed. Glassware tinkled. Knife and fork clattered on a plate.

Lunchtime. I headed away from the sounds and the smells, preferring to lurk a few more moments.

I wish I could claim I followed the pattern of wear on the floors or discovered Carris’s room by recognizing the patina on his doorknob as only a man his height would make. But the truth is I was guessing, and I opened every door that wasn’t locked, and his was the third one I tried.

Tamar’s picture, painted by someone with talent, hung on his wall. There was a pile of fabrics and fake silk flowers heaped on his dresser. Beside the pile was a notepad, just like the ones I use, and on it were scribbled notes.

Red fireflowers for grooms, read one entry. Yellow for rest.

Below that was Meet bev. supplier tomorrow noon.

I flipped through the pad, found more of the same.

“You missed that meeting, didn’t you?” I said. “I wonder why.”

I poked through the rest of the room, found nothing suggestive of a man planning a panicked flight away from the jaws of impending matrimony. What I did find, hidden in the far corner of the topmost sockdrawer, was a box that held a golden ring.

Tamar’s ring. I’m no jeweler, but I’m no infant, either. A man on the run could sell that ring for a quarter of its worth and still finance a very long trip. The fact that he hadn’t sold it told me he hadn’t planned on leaving at all.

I put the ring back where I found it, smoothed the bedcovers where I’d rumpled them, put everything as it had been. Then I put my ear to his door and listened for footfalls outside.

It was quiet. I opened the door and stepped outside and closed it behind me.

No one saw, shouted or rushed toward me with a club.

I was so happy I could have whistled.

But I didn’t. I patted my Avalante brooch and straightened my collar and decided that since Lady Luck was smiling I’d see if she’d join me for lunch.

I marched down the hall, all pretense of sneaking gone. Why sneak? I was a friend of House Avalante, and a lunch guest at Lethway. If any mere butler dared question my presence I’d show him the bottom of my nose.

I managed to locate the dining room by following the smells. The door was ajar, and from the hustle and bustle of servants and carts I gathered I’d nearly missed lunch.

I opened the door and stepped inside. A butler whirled to face me, his sudden expression of haughty offense marred by the full mouth of mashed potatoes he was struggling to swallow.

“I hope I’m not too late,” I said, before he could speak. “I was told downstairs there would be fried chicken. I prefer white meat.”

Lady Luck wasn’t just smiling but laughing and drinking straight from the bottle. A black-haired maid started filling a plate with chicken.

The butler fell into a fit of coughing. I breezed past him and helped myself to an empty glass and a pitcher of tea.

“Green beans, too, that’s a dear.” She smiled and piled them high.

Somewhere in the coughing fit, I suppose the butler spied my Avalante pin, because he tottered off to cover his mouth, waving the maids on as he turned. I grinned and grabbed a dinner roll. It was buttered and warm.

The maid pulled a chair out for me, and I plopped onto it.

“Too bad the meeting ran long. I was looking forward to lunch with the family.” I tore into the chicken.

“Oh, sir, the Lady never takes her lunch here anymore,” quoth the younger of the two maids. “Dines in her rooms, you know. Hardly leaves them, these days.”

“Hush, Margaret,” said the other, eyeing me with something like suspicion. “Fetch the gentleman a napkin.”

“This is good,” I said, between mouthfuls. “Someone here knows her business.”

“And what business brings you here, sir?” asked the suspicious maid. I pretended to wipe an errant crumb off my lapel, in case she hadn’t seen my brooch.

“Morris ram stabilizers,” I replied. Bits of Rafe’s conversation with Evis crept back to me. “Did you know that straight-bore mining drills wear out after only eighteen days? But not with a pair of Morris stabilizers on the forepins. They’ll go twenty-six days, or better. Factor that in with the savings in site idle time and wages spent on repairs, and you’ll see an overall boost to your profits of nearly one and a quarter percent over any six-month period. And I don’t have to tell you how much that means in profits over the life of a copper mine.”

I did not, in fact, have to tell her anything of the sort, because she gathered up a stack of plates and stomped from the room. Whether she’d bought my line of mining lore or was off to fetch the headsman I didn’t know.

Margaret of the inky-black locks grinned and poured me more tea.

“My father was a miner,” she said in a whisper. “I grew up around mines. There’s no such thing as a ram stabilizer, is there?”

“There probably ought to be,” I whispered back. “Are you going to scream for the Watch?”

“Depends. Are you here to help or hurt?”

I swallowed and met her eyes squarely.

“I’m here to bring Carris Lethway home.”

She just nodded and gathered plates.

“End of the hall. Take a right. Next time, a left. Third door on the right. Be gentle. She’s a nice lady. Just sick with worry.”

“Worry about Carris?”

She didn’t answer. She scooped up plates and fled, leaving me alone with a table-full of scraps.

I did linger and finish my chicken. I’m sure that illuminated a deep-seated flaw in my soul, but, as I said, it was good chicken.

Chapter Seven

I counted doors. One, two, three.

Outside door number three sat a silver platter.

Someone hadn’t touched her lunch.

I paused, listened, heard nothing.

So I knocked.

“Mrs. Lethway?”

I barely heard the muffled reply.

“Mrs. Lethway? May I speak to you, please?”

“Go ’way.”

I winced. The Lady might have missed her meal, but she wasn’t wanting for drink. Not just a dainty sip for milady, either. I could smell whiskey through the door.

“It’s about Carris, Lady. Please.”

“My Carris? Where is he? Is he alive?”

I heard hurried footsteps behind the door and then fumblings with the latch.

Fumblings, and then a soft thud, as though a wife-sized body sank slowly to the floor.

And then snoring.

I cussed. So close. I tried a few more times to rouse the sotted Mrs. Lethway, but to no avail.

Lady Luck seldom smiles all day.

I hadn’t been able to ask Mrs. Lethway a single question, but she’d managed to answer the most important one of all.

I took off my Avalante brooch once I hit the first floor landing. Few of Rannit’s florists were also associates of the Dark Houses.

I passed servants going about their duties and got nothing but nods and smiles. I found my most recent sitting room, heard voices inside, and hesitated for the barest fraction of a second. I’d gotten what I came for, and the front door was just strides away and unguarded, but Darla had given me the hat I’d left on a hook in that room and I was loathe to leave it.

The door was ajar. I stepped through it, not smiling.

The pair of stalwarts who first met me at the door glared and converged on me.

“Where have you been?” demanded the largest.

I made the same huffing noise deep in my throat that I’d seen barkeep Eddie make at customers who dared hint that his glasses could use a wash. When that was not met with violence, I snapped my fingers under the bulky man’s nose.

“I was left waiting-me, left waiting! – in this room for hours,” I said. “Hours! I was forced to seek out a water closet. The hospitality of your House, sir, is nothing short of brutal.” I poked him in the chest with my finger. His face went purple with suppressed rage. “You may inform the groom he will need to seek the services of another florist. Do you hear? I will not stand for rudeness. Walter and Walter has a long history of being retained by the finest families in Rannit for their nuptial floral needs. We have no need of your sortof coin, no need at all. Good day, sir.”

With that, I turned, snatched my hat off the hook, and marched for the door.

The other man darted ahead of me and opened it for me and slammed it behind me.

I squinted in the sunlight. I was unthrashed, well fed and immaculately hatted. I had learned that Carris’s mother knew nothing of his whereabouts and feared him dead.

Not a bad morning’s work, for a humble wedding florist.

My cabbie was long gone, leaving me to hoof it back down the Hill in the hope an empty one would rattle along before I developed blisters on my heels.

The green and pleasant lawns of the Hill kept me company as I walked. The shade was generous and cool. The Houses, all set well back from the street, were quiet and stately, whether they housed murderous halfdead or Rannit’s living rich.

You’d think walking down the Hill would be easy. And it is, at first, but any long walk on an incline becomes difficult after a while. Especially if the walker has been spending too much time behind desks and various restaurant tables of late.

I’d worked up a sweat before I was even a quarter of the way down, and still no friendly cabs drew near. By the halfway point, I was mincing and hopping and my visit-the-rich-folks shoes were reminding me with every step they were neither broken in nor made for long downhill hikes.

So when the peaked roofs of Avalante rose above the blood-oaks, I put my brooch back on and mopped the sweat from my face and decided my dignity could withstand a bit of begging for a ride downtown. I wouldn’t trouble Evis, of course, who would still be deep in his vampire slumber, but I was known to enough of the daytime staff to make the occasional nuisance of myself.

And so it was that I crossed the Brown River Bridge for the second time that day aboard one of Avalante’s many carriages. The bridge clowns gave us wide berth, as they do all of the Dark Houses. I waved at them anyway and got obscene gestures back for my troubles.

My driver, a taciturn older gentleman named Halbert, struck a clown square in the face with the core of the apple he’d been munching on when we left. The clowns applauded and bowed.

“Good throw,” I shouted.

“Thankee.”

I thought for a moment. “Drop me off at the corner of Harold and Skinner, will you?”

I’d told him to head for the offices of Lethway Mining when we’d left Avalante. Now I was having second thoughts about being seen arriving in a cab bearing Avalante’s crest. I doubted the Lethway patriarch was going to be pleased by my visit, and there was no need to drag Evis into this.

“Whatever you say.”

We rattled off the bridge, and I settled back and gathered my thoughts.

Seeing a man like Mr. Lethway is no easy task. He employs a building full of secretaries and assistants and managers just to make sure he seldom actually sees anyone himself.

When I passed through his doors, I was still unsure of which words I would speak to the smiling young woman perched behind the slab of polished granite that took up half the room. The walls were dark oak, recently polished with something that contained lemon juice. The floors were marble. The potted plants in the corners probably earned a higher wage than half of Rannit would ever see.

A bent little man in a fancy footman’s outfit closed the doors behind me. “Welcome, sir,” he said, his voice barely audible. “May I take your hat?”

“You may indeed,” I said. My smile would have dazzled, had there been enough light. “Thank you.”

I crossed to the desk while my hat was slowly conveyed to a row of gold hooks on the wall. Judging by the number of hats already hanging there, Lethway Mining was having a busy day.

“Good afternoon.” I rested my elbows on the granite desk and leaned down a bit. The girl behind the desk smiled, but it was a practiced, neutral smile, and I suspected she wore it all day, whether I was standing there or not.

“Good afternoon.” Her voice was as smooth and as practiced as her smile. “With whom is your appointment?”

“I’m here to speak with Mr. Lethway. My name is Markhat.”

Her smile never wavered. Her eyes did, lowering, inspecting some document I couldn’t see.

“I won’t be on your list.” I lowered my voice to conspiratorial whisper. “This is a private matter.”

“I’m sure it is, Mr. Markhat. But this is a place of business, and if you don’t have an appointment, I’m afraid Mr. Lethway isn’t available. Good day.”

“Has anyone told you lately you have lovely eyes?”

“My husband. Twice a day. Simmons will fetch your hat.”

“Tell Simmons to hold on for just a moment. Mr. Lethway needs to see me, even though he doesn’t know it yet. This is important.”

She sighed. Her eyes were indeed lovely, but they weren’t softening.

“Important or not, no appointment means Simmons fetches your hat.”

Someone tapped me on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard anyone approach. I turned my head, and marveled that a man so big could move so quietly.

“Does dis man have an appointment, Miss Marchin?”

“He does not.”

“Den why is he still here, Miss Marchin?”

“He was just saying goodbye. Weren’t you, Mr. Markhat?”

I straightened, nice and slow, so no ham-fisted giants in my vicinity would misinterpret my action as preparatory to rudeness.

“I was indeed. Good day, Miss Marchin. Give my best to Mr. Marchin and all the little Marchins.”

“Simmons has your hat,” spoke the giant. “Dat’s him. By the door. You have the nice day.”

Indeed, the grizzled Simmons was standing by the door, my hat clutched in his shaking hand. His grin was small but spiteful.

I turned to face the behemoth behind me.

He was a full head taller than me, and then some. He’d clearly left his neck in his other shirt, possibly because there wasn’t room on a single human frame for a neck and those shoulders. His chest bulged, and not from fat. His arms were more ogre than human.

He had short, black hair slicked back with oil and a crooked, flat nose and much to my surprise, all of his teeth, which gleamed a pearly white.

His eyes were neither dim nor close-set. I even fancied I could see humor there.

“My name is Markhat,” I said, adjusting my tie. “Who might you be?”

“I might be da pleasant gentleman what shows you polite-like to the door, or I might be da man who picks you up and throws you through it,” he said, still smiling. “Who do you want me to be?”

“Look. You’ve both got me all wrong. I’m not a salesman. I’m not a mooch. I need to see Mr. Lethway on an urgent private matter, and-”

“Den I’ll be the second one,” said the giant.

He put his hands under my arms and picked me up before I could say another word.

I could have done a couple of things, in that moment. I could have boxed his ears, for instance. Or poked my fingers in his eyes. Or kicked him in the groin. Yes indeed, I could have dealt out any number of crushing blows, since his hands were occupied and I was facing him in close quarters.

But I didn’t. Mainly because my ribs were bending double and he’d squeezed the breath out of me.

But also because he winked.

So I deigned to allow myself to be carried unceremoniously from the downtown offices of Lethway Mining. As we passed Simmons, I did manage to reach out and grab my hat, which I stuck jauntily on my head.

I waved to Miss Marchin, who did at least wave back, and my giant took a pair of steps into the street so the door could shut before he put me down on my feet.

Passers-by laughed and pointed. I adjusted my jacket and caught my breath.

“I hope you’ll forgive that, Mr. Markhat.”

“Oh, I enjoyed it. My thanks for not throwing me over your shoulder. That would have been undignified.”

He laughed.

“I know who you are. Markhat the finder. Why would you be wanting to speak to the boss?”

“No offense, but that’s between him and me. And speaking of names, I missed yours.”

“Dey calls me Pratt.”

“What’s with the dey and the den?”

He shrugged. “It suits the character. People are more comfortable with big dumb men than big smart ones. I like to keep people comfortable.”

“My ribcage disagrees. Look. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you already know why I need to see your boss. Can we leave it at that?”

He regarded me for a long moment.

“You have a reputation, Mr. Markhat. So I’ll arrange something. But not here. Somewhere private. You know the Troll’s Den?”

“Fancy cigar place? Off Trotline?”

“The very same. Can you be there tonight, around Curfew?”

“I can do that.”

“Den we’ll see you dere. You have the nice day.” He turned, opened the doors, and shouted over his shoulder. “And don’t be comin’ round no more. You ain’t welcome.”

I turned on my heel, managed to fill my lungs with a wheeze and a cough, and marched away with my head held high.

I didn’t march home, though. I decided I’d sample another cup of good Fields coffee and see if I could find Tamar. She wasn’t my client, technically, but keeping her informed seemed like a good way to keep my actual client happy.

The walk to the bakery wasn’t a long one. I got there well after the lunch rush and well before the pre-Curfew scramble for supper, which meant there were a half-dozen diners scattered about the place, talking in groups of two over steaming cups of coffee or tea.

Mr. Fields was behind the counter. He looked up when the bell attached to the door rang, saw me and failed to break out into a warm welcoming smile.

“She’s not here,” he said. “Not going to be here, either.”

I settled onto a stool right across from him just as Mr. Tibbles yapped from the kitchen.

Mr. Fields shrugged and cussed. “Damn that animal.”

“Causing you grief is not my intention, you know.”

He set a cup of coffee before me and turned away.

“I’m just trying to find out what happened to your daughter’s fiance. I know you don’t like the young man. But I suspect he’s in trouble.”

“If he is, he’s in it because the Lethways themselves are trouble. I don’t want my daughter taking their name, finder. If she does, trouble is going to find her too.”

He’d spoken so softly I’d barely heard him.

“Sounds like you know more than I do.”

“What’s this going to cost me?”

I leaned in closer, lost.

“I don’t follow.”

“How much will it cost me to have you let this go, finder? How much will it take to make you go away, and let things settle down on their own?”

“I don’t like talking to your back.”

He turned.

“I don’t like talking to you. At all.” Something like menace blossomed on his puffy face. “Name your price. Or maybe you’ll find trouble yourself. Real soon.”

I took a swallow of coffee and dropped a couple of coppers on the counter.

“Needs sugar.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.” I raised my voice. “Tamar? Miss Fields?”

From the kitchen came a renewed yapping, and then Tamar popped through the swinging doors, Mr. Tibbles struggling and growling in her grasp.

“Mr. Markhat. I was hoping you’d drop by. Say hello, Mr. Tibbles.”

The mutt bared his teeth and growled.

“He’s warming up to me. Care to take a stroll? We need to talk.”

“Of course. I was just leaving anyway. Goodbye, Father. See you at home.”

She planted a kiss on Mr. Field’s flushed cheeks, and I escorted her through the door, feeling her father’s glare on my back with each step.

I mourned my last cup of his coffee, because I’d not dare drink another. My palate is overly sensitive to hemlock.

Tamar’s breathless narrative continued all the way to a sidewalk cafe a full two blocks from her father’s listening ears. Along the way, I learned that she despised trumpets but adored flutes, that she felt this season’s hats were far too enamored of lace, and that Mr. Tibbles was experiencing one of his frequent bouts with gas.

The latter I didn’t need notification thereof, since most of the walk put me downwind of Mr. Tibbles.

I took us to a table and sent the waiter away with orders for hot tea and a plate of cookies. “Nothing with nuts, please,” added Tamar. “They’ll just make Mr. Tibbles worse.”