Phule had spent a good fraction of the morning learning that, if Hix’s World had a private detective agency, it was extremely private. Secret might be a better description-at least, there were none listed on the Net, nor in the business directory, nor in the phone books. And Carlotta, the receptionist who’d greeted him upon arrival, showed no sign of comprehending what he was looking for when he asked her advice. He was beginning to wonder if anybody on Hix’s World did anything that required investigation, improbable as that seemed.
In fact, it didn’t make sense at all. There was certainly a government here, and Phule had even seen evidence of a police force, although not one that would have impressed visitors from a built-up world like Rot’n‘art or New Baltimore. And he had no doubt that people here were swindling their business partners and cheating on their spouses just as frequently as on any other world he’d been to. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how they found out what was going on-unless everybody did their own private investigations. Which is what it looked as if he was going to have to do if he was going to find Nightingale- and ultimately, Beeker.
So: back to square one. He knew they were here, and in fact they couldn’t be far away. If he visited the nearby hotels and rooming houses, he had a good chance of either spotting them or getting a desk clerk or waiter to recognize them by description. It would be labor-intensive, but it was fairly straightforward.
Alternately, he could start visiting places they were likely to go, hoping to intercept them there. That also required time, but a bit less legwork. He could pick a museum gallery or a park bench and wait-if he picked the right one. It’d be just his luck to spend hours inspecting the crowds someplace they’d already checked off their list. What kind of attraction would Beeker be drawn to? He realized he had no better idea than he’d had on Rot’n‘art.
Well, one thing they had to do was eat. And even if their hotel had a four-star restaurant, they’d likely want to sample the others in the neighborhood, if only for a change of scenery-or to avoid a special trip back in the midst of a day of sightseeing. That was the ticket! He’d pick a popular lunch spot near tourist spots, and lie in wait for them there. The Directory of Local Attractions provided by the hotel gave him the names of several likely spots; he chose one, got directions there, and headed out.
Encore Silver Plate was a little cafe and wine bar with outdoor tables, half a block from the main shopping street in the largest nearby town, New Yarmouth. The walls were hung with works of local artists, all priced for sale, and none to Phule’s taste. But the place was obviously popular-nearly full, in fact-and the colorful sign in front was large enough to catch the eye of any jaded shopper looking for a place to take a lunch break. Best of all, the outside tables gave a clear view along the street in both directions, as well as of the foot traffic on High Street.
Phule ordered a large coffee and settled himself at a table near the curb, with a local newsprint he’d picked up on the way into town. A look around at the clientele suggested that the place was frequented equally by locals and off-worlders here to see the Floribunda Fete.
The tourists sat in small groups, ostentatiously dressed in expensive walking or cycling outfits, noisily comparing notes on maps and guidebooks, or off-world newsprints. The locals-most of them wearing casual outfits that wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow on any of the settled worlds of the Alliance-also kept to themselves, swapping hilarious gossip about their neighbors or playing some local card game-which looked to be an improbable cross between cribbage and tonk. They paid no attention to the tourists, who returned the favor.
Phule wasn’t especially interested in either group, except for a particular pair of tourists. He’d already determined that neither Beeker nor Nightingale were in the cafe or on the nearby streets. He took a sip of his coffee, opened the newsprint, and sat back in a position where he could see along the street in both directions without lowering the paper or otherwise making it obvious he was looking for someone. He figured that even if someone noticed him scanning the crowd, they were most likely to assume he was- like at least two other men in the cafe-a bored tourist awaiting his wife’s return from a shopping expedition.
An hour passed; Phule bought a second coffee and some kind of sweet pastry, overtipping the girl behind the counter-if he had to sit at his table a long time, he didn’t want her to get too annoyed at him, maybe even decide he looked suspicious and call the authorities on him. He’d already lost interest in the newsprint. But he’d made up his mind to stay here till after lunchtime, then move on to someplace else and take up the vigil there-unless he got a break first.
After another hour, he was beginning to regret the two coffees, good as they were. There was a restroom inside the cafe, of course. But to use it was to risk missing Beeker or Nightingale, should they by chance pick that very moment to pass by. He sat there a while longer, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he wondered what professional detectives did in this situation. Finally, after convincing himself that the odds of missing his quarry were so slim as to be negligible, he gave in to the inevitable and went inside.
Naturally, he’d been gone mere seconds before Beeker and Nightingale strolled slowly past the cafe, stopping to read the menu and peer inside before moving on down the street. But by the time Phule was back outside, they’d turned the corner. He never knew how close he’d come to finding them.
Worse yet, he never finished reading his newsprint. If he’d gotten as far as the sports section, he could have seen a headline reading: “Rot’n‘art Edges NB in Alliance Cup.” In smaller type, just below, it read, “Greebfap Beams in Shot at Beeper to Ice OT Win.”
“Why do you want to go to the captain’s hotel?” asked Sushi. “Rembrandt ordered us not to let the captain know we’re here trying to help him. Or did you forget that?”
Do-Wop shrugged. “I didn’t forget nothin‘,” he said. “Thing is, we’ve seen Nightingale twice, already. So we know she-and OF Beeky-has gotta be close. But the captain, he don’t know that. So we’re gonna leave him a ’nonymous tip sayin‘ the people he’s lookin’ for are right here under his nose.”
“Well, that makes sense,” said Sushi. He found a piece of paper and jotted down a brief message. He folded it, wrote on the outside “To Capt. Jester,” and stuck it in the pocket of his jumpsuit. “OK, let’s go,” he said.
They walked over to the local bike shop, where they rented a tandem model, the cheapest alternative for two traveling together. True to form, Do-Wop was initially reluctant to trust himself to the “two-wheeled thingie.”
“Aww, come on,” said Sushi. “Little girls can ride these things. What’s the big brave legionnaire afraid of?”
‘Tallin’ off and breakin‘ my neck,“ said Do-Wop, eyeing it warily. But after a little more joking, Sushi persuaded him to give it a try. Sure enough, he picked up the knack in short time, and admitted that it came close to being fun. That was likely to change the first time he took a fall, but Sushi coached him in the basics and soon he was satisfied that his buddy was ready to roll.
With that settled, they hopped on the rented tandem and set off for Phule’s hotel. Not surprisingly, La Retraite Rus-tique was in a considerably fancier neighborhood than their own modest digs. Several of the neighboring properties appeared to be large country estates, perhaps in the same family since the time of the Founding. So when the two of them pulled their well-used tandem up to its front door, the doorman appeared ready to direct them to the delivery entrance.