Terry Newman - Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf

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.