Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [68]
“Yeah,” Hammett admitted with chagrin. “It's sometimes hard to sit quiet. But most people don't notice.”
“I, however, am not most people.”
“I'm beginning to think that. C'mon, it's down here.”
The place Hammett led him to was more neighbourhood pub than urban speakeasy; one table hosted a poker game and at another a friendly argument about boxing. There was even a darts board on the back wall. When they walked in, the man drying glasses behind the bar greeted Hammett as a longtime acquaintance.
“Hey there, Dash. Guy was looking for you earlier.”
“Evening, Jimmy. What sort of guy would that be?”
The man's eyes slid sideways to take in Holmes, and his answer was oblique. “The sort of guy you sometimes work with, seen him with you once or twice a while back.”
“Well, he'll find me if he wants me. I'll have my usual, Jimmy. This is my friend Mr Smith. He's got a doctor's prescription you can fill.”
“What's your medicament, Mr Smith?” the man asked as he reached for a bottle of whiskey, poured a glass, and set it in front of Hammett.
“No chance of a decent claret, I take it?” Holmes said wistfully.
“I could give you something red called wine, but I'm not sure a Frenchman would recognise it.”
“Very well. What about a single malt?”
The barman shook his head sadly. “The state of my cellar's tragic, that's all you can call it.”
“Never mind, I'll take a—”
“Now, don't be hasty. Said it was tragic, didn't say it was completely empty. Just explaining to you why the good stuff's limited and the price'll make you wince.”
The quality was fine, although the price did truly make Holmes wince. But he counted out his money and followed Hammett over to a quiet table, taking out his cigarette case and offering one to his companion. When the tobacco was going, the two men sat back with their drinks, eyeing each other curiously.
They were of a size, Hammett an inch or so taller, but he possessed the folded-up quality of the man whose height fit him ill, and was so emaciated that his suit, nicely cut though it was, nonetheless draped his shoulders like one of the shrouded chairs in Russell's house; when he spoke, one was aware of the skull's movement. By comparison, Holmes looked positively robust. Hammett's thick, light red hair, combed back from his high forehead, showed a great deal of white at the temples, although he couldn't have been more than thirty. His clothes were good, his collar white, his ever-so-slightly flashy tie was precisely knotted beneath a face composed of watchful brown eyes, thick brows, knife-straight nose, and a mouth that skirted the edge of pretty. Strangers seeing the two men at the table might have taken them for father and son; certainly their long, thin, nervous fingers were of a type.
“So,” the American finally broke the silence. “You want to tell me why you didn't shoot me in the face back there?”
“Personally, I've always found leaving a trail of corpses inconvenient, although I admit it has been some time since I lived in America—perhaps strictures have relaxed in the past ten years. However, as it was I who got the drop on you, perhaps I should be permitted the first questions.”
“Fair enough. Shoot.”
“Clearly, the most fundamental question in our relationship has to be, Why were you following me?”
“I was paid to.”
“By the Pinkertons?” Holmes had had dealings with the American detective agency before; not all of them had gone smoothly. His manner gave away none of this, merely his familiarity with the company.
“By whoever hired the Pinkertons.”
“You don't know the identity of your employer?”
“Nope. Which also gives you the answer to your second fundamental question.”
Holmes took a swallow of the passable single-malt Scotch, slumping back into his chair in a way that made the other man think the Englishman was enjoying himself, and said, “That question being?”
“Why didn't I have my pal Jimmy there