Second scenario: I was right, and Melanthus was the phantom Eutyches and guilty as hell. In that case he'd got the Baker and was lying low somewhere until the heat died down. Certainly what Alciphron had told me about the guy being obsessed supported that idea, and it made all sorts of sense because like I said Melanthus fitted the bill perfectly. Furthermore, he was no fool, and as such he wouldn't take me for one either. If as I suspected he'd planted our flashy Ethiopian pal from the Aphrodisian Gate on me as a tail he'd know I'd been asking questions, and it wouldn't take a top-notch philosopher to put two and two together and come up with the conclusion that he'd been rumbled. He might have decided that brazening things out wasn't an option and having got what he was after it was time to fade into the woodwork, at least for the time being. Not, perhaps, the action of a sane man, because that would be tantamount to a confession; but then I didn't think Melanthus was sane, not where the Baker was concerned, anyway. And Heraclitus would back me up on that.
The third scenario I didn't like even to think about. We'd already had a guy in this business who'd gone out one evening and hadn't come back, and I hoped the score hadn't just doubled. If it had, then the theory was screwed; Melanthus wasn't Eutyches at all, he was as innocent as a new-born babe of both the murder and the theft, and we were back where we started. But that just didn't sit right. Melanthus had something cooking, I'd take my oath on it even without what Alciphron had told me: the guy had form for all sorts of reasons. The itch in the back of my neck told me that, and the itch wasn't often wrong.
Then there was Alciphron himself. I wondered about Alciphron…
Ah, leave it. The first job was to find where Melanthus had disappeared to. And if I was very lucky and willing to invest a silver piece or two one of the coachmen or litter teams at the gate would be able to tell me.
The rank was on the other side of the street, just outside the gate itself. I turned round before crossing to check that I wouldn't be mown down by some would-be charioteer chicken-carrier behind with his deliveries…
And froze.
About twenty paces behind me was the Ethiopian. It was the same guy, I was sure of that: there aren't many six-foot-tall soot-black negroes in the City, and I'd bet precious few of them had a penchant for loud tunics hung with flashy paste jewellery.
This time I wasn't giving the bastard the benefit of the doubt, because there wasn't any. I went straight for him.
The guy saw me coming. Quick as lightning, he swerved down an alleyway between two pork butchers' shops. I put on a burst of speed and went after him…
…slap into the side of a porter's mule which panicked and stood on my foot. Hard.
I doubled up in agony. When I'd stopped hopping around and pushed past the mule and its cursing driver the Ethiopian was gone. Long gone, and in that part of the Potters' Quarter you can lose yourself in the crowd like water into sand. Especially if you've got two good feet to the other guy's one. Hell. So much for that idea, and now he knew I was on to him he'd be more careful. I gave my crushed toes a rub and hobbled back to the main drag. Ah, well. You win some, you lose some. And the guy I really wanted at this precise moment was Melanthus. There were half a dozen coachmen in soiled tunics hanging around the gate touting for custom. I picked out the sharpest looking.
'Coach, lord?' he said.
'Not today, friend.' I took out my purse and hefted it so the coins jingled. 'What I'm after is information.'
'Is that right?' He eyed the purse. 'And what sort of information would that be, now?'
'I want to trace a fare. He took a coach or a litter from here yesterday just before sunset.' I described Melanthus. 'You know him?'
The coachman rubbed his jaw. 'He come here often?'
'Yeah. Or so I've been told.'
'Then I might've seen him around. He's not one of my regulars, though. Where was he headed, lord? Do you know?'
'No. That's what I want to find out.'
He nodded, and turned. 'Hey, Stichus!'
'Yeah.' Another man ambled over; a brother, from the facial resemblance, only this one's nose had been broken at some point and no one had bothered to reset it.
'Gentleman here's looking for one of the regulars.' The first guy repeated my description. 'Ring any bells with you?'
'Sounds like one of Dida's.' Broken-nose turned to me. 'Was he here last night, lord, around sunset?'
'Yeah. Yeah, he was.' Hey, great! I looked at the crowd of tunics. 'Which one's Dida?'
'You're out of luck. Dida hasn't been around today.' The cabby glanced at his brother. 'Am I right?'
Stichus nodded. 'He hasn't been in, lord. I've been here since first light and I'd've seen him. He's your man all the same.' He scratched at a wart. 'I saw him set out last night with your friend myself.'
'Which direction?'
'In. Towards town.'
'You know where this Dida lives?'
The two brothers looked at each other. The cabby answered for both.
'No, lord.'
Ah, well, I'd just have to be patient. 'Never mind. Look, my name's Valerius Corvinus, right? I live in Diomea, about a quarter mile beyond the Hippades Gate. Next time you see this Dida you tell him from me I'd like a word.'
'Hippades Gate's right the other side of town, lord,' Stichus pointed out. 'That's a long way to go just for a talk.'
'I'll make it worth his while.' They looked sceptical. 'Really worth his while. Okay?'
'Okay.' It was grudging, sure, but they'd deliver the message. And I couldn't hang around the gate for ever.
I pulled out my purse and gave them a tetradrach each. 'Here. Thanks for your help.'
'You're welcome, lord.' Well, that'd put the smile back on their faces, anyway. Eight drachs wasn't bad for two minutes' work, but it was money well spent: I hoped now they'd tell Dida that whatever he was after the Roman was no piker.
I was turning to go when another thought struck me.
'Maybe I will take your coach after all, pal,' I said to the first brother.
'Sure.' The smile widened. 'Lyceum Road, right?'
I shook my head. 'The Piraeus. Tomb of Themistocles. Oh, and one more thing.'
'Yeah?'
'Keep your eyes peeled for a big black guy in a fancy tunic following us. If he's there I want to know.'
Once was enough. The next time I saw that Ethiopian bastard I'd make sure we talked.
14
I left my tame coachman waiting at the roadside and walked down to Smaragdus's beach hut. Now I'd got a name and a face for Eutyches, potentially at least, it might help to have another talk with the guy in the hope that they'd jog a hidden memory or two; certainly it was worth a try, and I wasn't doing anything else that day anyway.
The hut looked deserted, but the Alcyone was pulled up on the sand and the door was ajar. I knocked. No answer. Well, maybe he'd slipped out for a cup of wine somewhere. Still, it was just as well to check. I went inside.