Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf

I had already let myself into the office from the corridor before I noticed someone in the reception room. Opening the adjoining door to invite them in, it being the help’s day off, I found myself taking a breath even deeper than Highbury had mustered out on the beach. If you were to think I was unused to seeing stunning women, dripping jewels and wearing the latest in high fashion, waiting in one of my rooms, well, you would be right. She unwrapped legs longer than my treasure house deficit and stood up.

‘You keep irregular hours, Detective Strongoak.’

‘The sign on the door says “waiting”, lady, but it ain’t compulsory.’

‘It does not seem likely to encourage custom.’

‘Custom tends to find me, one way or another.’

‘Are you going to at least invite me in?’

‘Lady, the place is yours.’ And it probably could be, with just one little stone from one perfectly manicured finger.

She strode across the room like an expensive racehorse. Her hair was as black as the deepest dwarf mine, and piled up high in a topknot, with some escaping down like a mane. I was willing to bet that pulling out just one pin from the complete, carefully contrived concoction would cause a whole cascade down her back. Thoughts like that can put a fire in your grate on long winter evenings.

‘And how was the beach, Detective Strongoak?’

‘The beach was just fine.’

‘Is that why you brought so much of it back with you?’

I looked down at myself. Yes, she had a point. Offering her a seat, I got myself behind the business end of the desk and tried to instil the proceedings with just a little dignity.

‘Look, lady, this is a lot of fun, and I’m sure we could keep it up all day, but how about you just tell me what the matter is and I’ll tell you if I can help?’

She ignored the offer of the seat and decided to keep on prowling.

‘But Detective Strongoak, I was so enjoying it, and I do tend to want more of what I enjoy.’ Finally she parked a perfectly formed rear on my desk and leaned towards me. ‘You do believe that, don’t you, De-tec-tive?’

I must admit until she said it I did not know the word had so many syllables, but she pronounced each one perfectly and each one sounded like a sin. But she didn’t know who she was dealing with; after all, I’d just had my Citadel Guards 100 strides swimming certificate updated.

‘Lady, I’ll be willing to believe that Princess Panaline and the Dwarf Brothers were just good friends, if you’re footing the bill. Negotiations have yet to reach that point though, so how about I peel you off my lapels and put you into a seat?’

This I did with the maximum of grace and the minimum of bodily contact. She still seemed unwilling to get to the point. From her new vantage point she surveyed the rest of the room.

‘You do not decorate your offices in the height of fashion, Detective Strongoak.’

Fashion was obviously something she knew all about. She was wearing a dark-blue dress that buttoned at the front like a man’s double-breasted jacket. The effect was disorientating. Her long elegant hands held white pixie-lace gloves. She played with them, her only trace of nervousness.

‘Discussing hem lines would also be fun, lady, but I have a living to make.’

‘And what sort of living would that be?’

‘It keeps the wolves from the tree and fills the occasional pipe.’

‘Your manner is a trifle short, Sir,’ she observed, putting her gloves upon my desk.

‘I’ve heard them all before, lady. So come on, why don’t you put your cards on the table as well as those gloves, which you can’t quite stop yourself fiddling with?’

I am not quite sure why I was doing the tough-guy routine, except that maybe she was expecting it. Certainly I seemed to have passed some unseen test, because she finally got to what was on her mind.

‘My name is Hardwood; you may have heard of my husband.’

The amount of emotion I revealed wouldn’t have filled a pixie’s purse. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him.’

Who hadn’t? Hardwood was one of the wealthiest industrialists in the Citadel, a real financial wizard. He owned half the petrochemical plants that added so much to the Bay area – and the Bay itself. The word was that he bought Councillors and traded in Aldermen, being one himself.

‘But then again, I’ve heard of Dofu the Dragon Herder.’

‘I don’t think Dofu the Dragon Herder ever owned the Hardwood emerald.’

‘No, I don’t believe he ever did.’

‘Well I do, and it’s gone missing.’ She dropped her head, making her expression unreadable.

‘Lady, if that means “stolen”, then you should try the Citadel Guards. The Cits aren’t quite the fools they are made out to be.’ I got up out of my chair and walked round the desk. I slowly sat down on its edge in front of her.

‘If “missing” means something else, then I think you probably want one of the big First-Level outfits, because this sounds out of my league. Why choose me? Apart from my big brown eyes, of course.’

Face still hidden, she said: ‘I need someone who knows about gems. Who can recognise the real thing.’ That sounded reasonable.

‘And,’ I added, lifting up her face to meet my own.

‘And,’ she said, as we matched lights, ‘I need someone who can be discreet. I cannot risk a large company. As I said, the stone is only missing. It disappeared from my home and no one from outside could have stolen it. I just want it returned and I am willing to pay.’

‘What makes you think that whoever “missed” this sparkler for you will want to part with it?’

‘I just think they will; I think they will. With the right middle-man, or middle-dwarf.’ Something in her expression had gone overseas and she was as unreadable as the goblin alphabet. Decision time for dwarf detectives. I flipped a mental half-a-crown and it came up shields – all right, Nicely!

I got up off the desk and sat back on the hired help’s side and opened a drawer. ‘I’ll get a contract drawn up.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Oh yes, I have tax returns to fill in so that I can give the Citadel authorities something to laugh about at Cit Hall. Also I’ll need a list naming all your staff, plus any that have left in the last year, and their reasons for leaving.’

She said she would have it ready the next day, and if I wanted to come round to Hardwood House at cocktail time she would see that I received it. I promised to bring the contract round at the same time and told her, while she was at it, to lay on lots of those little cheesy biscuits. She said she preferred to lie on mattresses but was willing to try anything once. We left it at that: points even, Nicely to throw next.

6

TRUETOUCH

I probably should have enjoyed a quiet supper and gone directly to bed or maybe practised my paper-folding skills, but, still edgy from the beach, I put the wagon into first and headed on out. If a stone like the Hardwood Emerald goes missing, it has got to turn up somewhere. However, the kind of collector who dabbles in that sort of gem is not likely to advertise in Stones and Stonemen, but the merchandise still has to be moved. There are middlemen with minders, negotiators and evaluators. Leaks happen. When in doubt go and listen to the talk on the streets – but if there was any talk, it can’t have been in the five languages I spoke. In the end, of course, I didn’t have to go looking for trouble; it found me. I have a talent for trouble.

I was sitting in a skin joint named the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go keeping a pot of muddled ale company. The owner of this establishment dedicated to the disrobing arts, one Snatchpole Sidling, owed me a favour. I had sorted out some trouble for him, a little problem with under-age gnomes, fresh from Little Hundred, trying to improve their knowledge of other-race anatomy. I hoped that he might be able to clear the debt tonight. He always kept one finger on the Citadel’s pulse, but it was not yet payback time. Snatchpole had not heard a single whisper from his various sources about the illicit marketing of an expensive piece of pre-loved treasure trove.

Some bored-looking ‘Jane the Wad’ was taking her clothes off on the platform, with all the enthusiasm of a patient about to undergo an unwanted internal examination from a physic with cold hands. She was billed as Elsie the Enchanted Elfess, but with a wig like that she was not fooling anyone. Certainly elfin clothing is not renowned for quite so many frills, garters, bows and inspection vents.

The music came courtesy of a three-piece band that probably thought they were a four-piece band, judging by all the gaps they were leaving in the tunes. Still, the drink was good, although I would not be willing to guess what the paying guests were consuming, and how much it was costing. I had seen and heard enough, and certainly drunk enough, when I noticed a halfway familiar elfin face enter, scanning the stalls. I was on my way out, but I put my hat down again. The young elf saw me at about the same time and came over in a hurry. He was wearing a lightweight linen summer coat with pearl buttons over a raw silk scoop-neck top and ankle-hugging five-pleat trousers. Very natty; he had certainly not been dressed by his mother! But the confidence displayed in his dress was not matched in his manner. The normal elfin air of self-possession had been replaced by something approaching nervousness.

‘You are hard to track down, Master Dwarf.’

I finally placed him, one of the Surf Elves; Highbury’s young towel guardian. ‘I get around,’ I ventured, not at all sure what he might want from me.

‘Can we go somewhere to talk?’ he continued, glancing around, fingers playing with loose change in his trouser pocket and his foot tapping impatiently; as worried as an elf is ever capable of getting. I looked around too; was there something else agitating him? Something other than Elsie the Enchanted Elfess, now down to her silks and satins?

‘What’s wrong, don’t you like the surroundings? Snatchpole spent a small fortune getting exactly that right combination of glamour and grime.’

‘It is not the sort of place an elf should really be seen in,’ he said, obviously not fooled by Elsie the Enchanted Elfess’s ample charms, finally being revealed in all their glory. I thought of mentioning this fine example of elf femininity, but my essential good nature got the better of me. After all, this could be the break I had been waiting for.

‘I take it that this is more than a social call, elf?’

‘Perhaps we can leave that conversation until later, somewhere else?’

I nodded and followed the young elf out, missing Elsie’s finale and what in the business I believe is called a ‘bowstring’. The things women will put on to attract a mate, when really just a smile is all they need to wear. Elsie certainly wasn’t wearing one of those as she slipped behind the curtain.

At the door I threw a salute to Snatchpole and then together the elf and I went to collect my wagon. It was parked nearby and it was only a short walk. The elf seemed to relax as soon as we were out in the open air and when he saw my wagon he got positively animated.

‘Dragonette ’57? That’s the last model they made with the wings and the air trimming, isn’t it?’

I nodded an affirmative.

‘They should never have gone over to foils, big mistake. Dragonettes were never the same after that.’

So, the elf knew his way round a wagon and also dressed with dash. I was beginning to warm to him, but would never put something like that in writing.

I opened the door for him and he ran one hand appreciatively over the milkwood trim with a contented sigh. Yes, definitively warming to him. We drove off together into the clammy, clinging, high-summer Citadel night.

Now he had started to talk it was hard to shut the elf up. After a few more comments on the current sorry state of wagon production and some observations on how badly traffic was handled in the Citadel, I got a detailed elf-centric analysis of the economic woes of Widergard in general, and then, finally, an introduction.

‘My name is Truetouch.’

‘Nicely Strongoak, but you probably caught that on the beach when you were with your Surf Elf buddies.’

‘Yes, Strongoak – a good name.’

‘Didn’t elves ever consider that, maybe now, they should, just perhaps, consider investing in some last names as well?’

This earned me a somewhat restrained laugh.

‘My dear, Detective Strongoak, it is the duty of an elf to give names to things, not to be named ourselves.’

I had to laugh. ‘Hardly an attitude to endear yourselves to the postal service?’

‘Perhaps not. But have you ever seen an elf post a letter?’

I tapped the steering wheel, more than slightly irritated. ‘Well, didn’t elves ever consider that, maybe now, they should, just perhaps, stop being such almighty, self-important, pains in the posterior?’

Truetouch didn’t have an answer for this one. It shut him up for a while, though.

I had kept the ragtop up, as discretion seemed the better part of not attracting attention. It was still warm and the air that climbed into the half-opened windows from the narrow streets and back alleys spoke of the heat of spicy food, over-worked machinery and sweating bodies. I followed the elf’s directions and he navigated us by a tortuous route to the Fifth Level. Truetouch certainly knew his way around the Citadel and we passed some interesting places where one might while away the odd lifetime or two. That’s one thing you can say about the Citadel: around every corner is a new way of endangering your health. I do not know if Truetouch thought we were being shadowed, but he had done a very good job of losing anyone who might have been trying to follow.

We finally pulled up at a place just outside the Fifth Level, some distance from my quarters in the armoury on the other side of the Citadel. It was an undistinguished building in an area I was not familiar with. I looked out of the driver’s window; if this was the Inn Truetouch was recommending. I could not see the attraction of the establishment. There was no sign and no modern cold-light tubes. I suppose in its own way the building was actually quite remarkable, one of those rare places in the Citadel that looked as if history had passed it by. Solid stonework, in need of some mortar, and good ironwood shingles, all with no signs of the damage that combat and canon fire can impart. Nothing special had ever happened here, nobody important had been born here, no one important had died here either, and in a place like the Citadel, believe me, that is remarkable.

The elf stepped nimbly from my Dragonette, as they have a tendency to do. He beckoned, but I paused before following.

‘Is there a problem, Master Strongoak?’

‘No, I always follow strange elves into places unknown where their disaffected brethren might be waiting to welcome me with a stout staff made from the wood they value so much.’

Truetouch seemed genuinely surprised by the comment. I know elves are supposed to have difficulty lying, but that is another part of their self-promotion I have trouble believing. That and the whole five-day sex business.

‘Well, Truetouch, is it the sort of invitation you always accept?’

He thought a moment and a genuinely winning smile came to his lips. ‘Master Detective, I have seen from your suits and hats that you are indeed an expert of matters sartorial. Do you really think that if I had intended you harm tonight I would have worn a linen summer coat with pearl buttons?’

‘That,’ I said, with a matching grin, ‘was the best answer you could have given. Lead on!’ No doubt about it, I was most definitely warming.

We went down some badly lit steps that had seen some traffic over the years. At the bottom there was a crude board with the legend The Twilight Alehouse written in chalk. The elf knocked twice on the door and we were let in by a greybeard who had seen it all before, and hadn’t enjoyed it the first time.

Nobody looked up as we walked in, and nobody said anything as we sat down. The customers were a strange mix. The lighting was low enough for most men to be sent stumbling, and even my mine-adapted vision found it oppressive. Two Brothers got up as I entered and left without a sign – which was strange; obviously they were on some business which was not necessarily all ‘above ground’. A couple of characters, boasting hairlines that had moved south to invade their eyebrows, looked like men from way out of town. They carried themselves with the swagger of pathfinders. A couple of others, pumping some goblin blood by their eyes and dentition, might be the local muscle. They were sharing a table with a straight-backed individual who could have given a pillar lessons in posture. Something about him was familiar but a large hood hid any features. I even thought I saw a couple more elves in one corner. No gnomes, but what’s new?

The elf went to fetch the drinks. I studied him at the bar. He certainly looked like one of the Lower Elves; those left behind when the Higher Elves disappeared off in a sulk back to the Hidden Lands all those years ago. There was something a little different about him though, maybe the sense of humour. Elves are as renowned for their sense of humour as they are for their humility and big bushy beards. Truetouch returned with two full glasses and an extra bottle. My sort of round. He almost dropped the tray as he sat down. Nerves, surely not? Where was that famous elf composure now?

I knocked my wine back quickly. I’d drunk worse, but I can say that most places I go. Truetouch sat, toying awkwardly with his glass. At last he spoke. ‘Master Strongoak, I saw the way you handled Highbury at the Gnada, and it was very impressive.’ He gave that winning smile another airing. It suited him. ‘You would not believe the uproar on the beach after you drove off.’

‘Oh, I think I could! I’ve seen a five year old throw a tantrum before.’

‘One might be half inclined to believe, Master Dwarf, that you do not hold my brethren and myself in very high regard?’

‘Not at all! Some of my best friends are elves … oh no they’re not.’

This got the winning smile a final outing before he grew serious again.

‘So Master Detective Strongoak … to the point … I would like to hire you.’

‘Suppose I’m not for hire.’ This was a turn of events that obviously had not occurred to him.

‘But you must be!’ he blurted.

‘No “must” about it, Truetouch,’ I replied. ‘I have two clients at this moment and I like to give customer satisfaction; unless you can give me a good reason why I should think otherwise.’

‘I can pay you.’

‘Generally a sound first move; however, in this case, not good enough.’

Truetouch finished his drink, and hurriedly poured another. That soon went the way of the first, and he collected another one to keep them both company. I followed on at a more sedate pace now.

‘But I need … I need protection,’ he finally admitted.

‘And whom might you need protection from?’ Was there disharmony amongst the Surf Elves? Could he have seen something in connection with Perry, perhaps? This might be even better than a clue. This just might be a lead.

Truetouch drummed his fingers on the table and tried a change of tack. ‘I could provide you with something, something of value, that I think you might find very interesting.’

It felt like he was playing me here, so I proceeded with some caution. ‘“Something of value”? That’s a rather vague term, Truetouch – sort of politician’s words. You running for office this year?’

Truetouch found this a pretty funny idea and it raised a snort of derision. ‘That is a pretty spiteful thing to say to an elf that just bought you a drink.’

‘You’re right, I take it back, but the sentiment still remains.’

‘Shall we say “material germane to your investigation” instead?’ he continued.

‘You can, Truetouch. Me, I don’t use gold-coin words when I can be straight with a body.’ I poured myself another large helping of gravy and soaked some of it up while the elf considered his options.

‘Look,’ I said finally, feigning disinterest, ‘as the old Da use to say: if it’s getting too hot, get off the dragon.’ And, indeed, it was actually hot in the bar. We were both sweating like goblins. I glanced around. The place had pretty much emptied.

‘Maybe I can help you take me seriously. Have you a quill?’ I passed him my pen, wondering when everyone with blond hair and pointy ears would finally learn to speak the common tongue like the rest of us. He fished out a scrap of card from the inside pocket of his rather lovely linen coat. He scribbled something rapidly and passed it over to me. It was a picture giveaway from a pipeleaf packet, a horse of all things. On the script side, in one corner, he had written an outer Citadel number. ‘Give me a blast on the horn at this number tomorrow at midwatch and I assure you that you will not be disappointed.’

‘Why wait until tomorrow? What’s the game, Truetouch?’

‘The game is bigger than you can imagine, Master Detective. Much bigger! Tomorrow I will have something in my possession that I think you will be very pleased to see. It will more than recompense you for your services and should warrant a bonus too. Just as long as you can keep me safe!’

Truetouch was looking around him, his sky-blue eyes darting back and forth. The remaining customers were not paying us the slightest attention. I wondered who he was looking for: friend or foe? Beads of perspiration were gathering on his brow, like spray from the sea. He was not looking at all well. Mind you, I wasn’t feeling too great either. Something was not as it should be.

I looked Truetouch in his clear elfin eyes. The eyes were big, blue and round. The biggest bluest eyes I had ever seen. They got bigger and rounder, as large and inviting as two swimming pools shimmering on a hot summer’s day. It was so warm I almost felt like going for a dip. I was trying to remember why this might be a bad idea, but it was too late and I could already feel myself diving, down, down and down. The swimming-pool eyes opened even wider with surprise and slowly, slowly … I went under.

7

WET WORK

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.