some of them so deep Gotthilf thought they looked like knife cuts. White hair floated around his face in the chill breeze. His clothes were worn, but neat, and except for his fingerless gloves he might have been any old farmer come to town.
“Ah, Lieutenant,” the old man sighed. “You surely have something better to do than come harass an honest citizen who is simply playing a game of chance.”
Gotthilf gave an admiring glance at Demetrious’ table. It was ingenious in its design, and well made in its craft. It was perhaps a cubit square, and a palm in depth, with legs that supported it well but could be folded up and away to make an easily carried parcel.
Atop the table were three wooden cups, upside down—Demetrious’ “game of chance.” Gotthilf had seen it before, and remained intrigued by it, although Byron insisted that the way Demetrious played, there was precious little chance in it.
“Citizen!” Byron snorted. “You’re not a citizen until you start paying taxes.”
Demetrious nodded at the touch. “Resident, then.”
“Honest resident? Hah.” Byron was playing to the few stragglers of the crowd. Gotthilf knew how his partner worked, and from the slight smile that tugged at the corner of Demetrious’ mouth he was certain that the old man knew it as well.
“Show me your cups, then.”
The two detectives bent their heads over the table as the old man tipped the cups up one by one. “Got anything for us about the Delt murder?” Byron whispered.
“Nay.” Demetrious set the first cup down and picked up the second. “Only a breath here and there that someone very important has been dealing harshly with those who displease him.”
“Any idea who?” Gotthilf murmured. The second cup was placed and the third lifted.
“Nay.” The third cup was set down. “But you might look for a man named Hans Metzger.”
“All right,” Byron said loudly as he straightened. “Your cups are honest. But there’d better be a pea under one of those cups the next time we stop by.”
Demetrious gave a slight bow. “As you command, Lieutenant.”
Gotthilf waved a two-fingered salute as they turned away. Out of the corner of his eye he could see people drifting back to the table once it was clear the detectives were leaving.
Byron muttered something. Gotthilf poked him in the arm. “If you’re going to make noise, say something intelligible.”
“I was really hoping that old gypsy would have something more solid for us.”
“Not in our cards or stars today,” Gotthilf replied as they moved through the crowd.
“Yeah. No joke. Don’t think I’ve heard of the Metzger guy.” Byron pushed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Still, I suppose we’ll have to follow up on the name, since it’s the only lead we’ve got right now.”
“True. And we will be able to tell Captain Reilly that we’re pursuing our investigations.”
“True.”
Byron fell silent, and Gotthilf followed suit. Byron hadn’t recalled the name Metzger, but it rang a bit of a bell with Gotthilf, and he worried after that thought for the better part of a block. Then it came to him.
“Metzger…I think he was the guy who got pulled in on that splashy drunk and disorderly arrest a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, yeah…” Byron nodded. “Yeah, I remember him now. Big blocky guy, right? Looked like a warehouseman?”
“That’s because he is a warehouseman.”
“Who does he work for?”
“Mmm,” Gotthilf thought for a moment. “One of the corn factors; Bünemann or Schardius, I think.”
Those two names were familiar to both men, as they had investigated the murder of Paulus Bünemann earlier in the year. Schardius turned out to have no connection with the murder, but had impressed them both as being a sharp operator. Gotthilf wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the man skated close to the edge of the law in his business.
After a few steps, Byron looked over at Gotthilf. “You don’t suppose
“Ah, Lieutenant,” the old man sighed. “You surely have something better to do than come harass an honest citizen who is simply playing a game of chance.”
Gotthilf gave an admiring glance at Demetrious’ table. It was ingenious in its design, and well made in its craft. It was perhaps a cubit square, and a palm in depth, with legs that supported it well but could be folded up and away to make an easily carried parcel.
Atop the table were three wooden cups, upside down—Demetrious’ “game of chance.” Gotthilf had seen it before, and remained intrigued by it, although Byron insisted that the way Demetrious played, there was precious little chance in it.
“Citizen!” Byron snorted. “You’re not a citizen until you start paying taxes.”
Demetrious nodded at the touch. “Resident, then.”
“Honest resident? Hah.” Byron was playing to the few stragglers of the crowd. Gotthilf knew how his partner worked, and from the slight smile that tugged at the corner of Demetrious’ mouth he was certain that the old man knew it as well.
“Show me your cups, then.”
The two detectives bent their heads over the table as the old man tipped the cups up one by one. “Got anything for us about the Delt murder?” Byron whispered.
“Nay.” Demetrious set the first cup down and picked up the second. “Only a breath here and there that someone very important has been dealing harshly with those who displease him.”
“Any idea who?” Gotthilf murmured. The second cup was placed and the third lifted.
“Nay.” The third cup was set down. “But you might look for a man named Hans Metzger.”
“All right,” Byron said loudly as he straightened. “Your cups are honest. But there’d better be a pea under one of those cups the next time we stop by.”
Demetrious gave a slight bow. “As you command, Lieutenant.”
Gotthilf waved a two-fingered salute as they turned away. Out of the corner of his eye he could see people drifting back to the table once it was clear the detectives were leaving.
Byron muttered something. Gotthilf poked him in the arm. “If you’re going to make noise, say something intelligible.”
“I was really hoping that old gypsy would have something more solid for us.”
“Not in our cards or stars today,” Gotthilf replied as they moved through the crowd.
“Yeah. No joke. Don’t think I’ve heard of the Metzger guy.” Byron pushed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Still, I suppose we’ll have to follow up on the name, since it’s the only lead we’ve got right now.”
“True. And we will be able to tell Captain Reilly that we’re pursuing our investigations.”
“True.”
Byron fell silent, and Gotthilf followed suit. Byron hadn’t recalled the name Metzger, but it rang a bit of a bell with Gotthilf, and he worried after that thought for the better part of a block. Then it came to him.
“Metzger…I think he was the guy who got pulled in on that splashy drunk and disorderly arrest a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, yeah…” Byron nodded. “Yeah, I remember him now. Big blocky guy, right? Looked like a warehouseman?”
“That’s because he is a warehouseman.”
“Who does he work for?”
“Mmm,” Gotthilf thought for a moment. “One of the corn factors; Bünemann or Schardius, I think.”
Those two names were familiar to both men, as they had investigated the murder of Paulus Bünemann earlier in the year. Schardius turned out to have no connection with the murder, but had impressed them both as being a sharp operator. Gotthilf wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the man skated close to the edge of the law in his business.
After a few steps, Byron looked over at Gotthilf. “You don’t suppose
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