"Let me guess," I said nonchalantly to my guide. "If I start any trouble, you just say the Word, and the animals connected to those heads will come suddenly crashing through the walls and have a go at me, right?"
The young Thai waiter looked at me strangely. "No," he said. "They’re just conversation pieces. The boss bought them as a job lot, to brighten up the place."
"Sorry," I said. "It’s the company I’ve been keeping recently."
We reached the end of the corridor, and he knocked briefly on the only door before opening it and standing back to usher me in. I stepped inside, and he immediately shut the door and retreated back up the corridor. I didn’t take it personally. The room was more than comfortably large, very luxurious, almost sybaritic. Deep pile carpet, padded furniture, drapes and throw cushions everywhere. More subdued lighting, but upgraded to cosy rather than gloomy. The air was perfumed sweetly with attar, the essence of roses, and just a hint of opium. And there on the great circular bed was the Middleman himself, Marcus Middleton, propped up against half a dozen pillows. He smiled at me in a resigned sort of way but made no move to rise.
He was wearing green silk pajamas, stylishly cut, and sipping at a slender flute of champagne. He was also smoking a slim black cigarillo set in a long ivory holder. His long slender fingers were set off by jet-black nail polish. He was handsome enough, in an aged and ruined sort of way, with flat black hair, surprisingly subtle makeup, and mild brown eyes that had seen absolutely everything before. He studied me for a moment, and then beckoned me forward with a vague smile and a languid gesture. I moved to stand at the foot of the bed, facing him.
The bed was surrounded by dozens of phones, all in easy reach, in a variety of styles from Victorian Gothic to the frankly futuristic. These were interspersed with a nice collection of crystal balls, magic mirrors, and even a scrying pool in a chamber pot. At least, I hoped it was a scrying pool. The Middleman started to say something but was interrupted by a sudden ringing from one of his phones.
"Excuse me, dear boy," he said calmly. "But I have to get this. Do make yourself comfortable."
He waved me towards a chair, but I declined, standing facing him with my golden arms folded across my armoured chest. It’s hard to look fierce and imposing when you’re sitting down, and I needed all the psychological edge I could get. The Middleman sighed theatrically, flicked some ash from his cigarillo over the side of the bed, and picked up a seventies Trimphone in puke yellow plastic.
"Oh, hello, Tarquin; what can I do you for? Dwarves…Really, dear heart, I told you only the week before that there was going to be a shortage…They’re all working on this tacky new fantasy film they’re shooting at Elstree Studios. Making good money too, from what I hear. Are you sure you couldn’t settle for pixies? I could get you a really nice price on a group booking…Has to be dwarves. I see. Well, leave it with me, duckie, and I’ll see what I can sort out for you."
He put the Trimphone down with a graceful sweeping movement and a swirl of his green silk sleeve, and then looked at me for a long moment, while taking another sip of champagne and a deep drag on the cigarillo. If he was impressed by my armour, he was doing a really good job of hiding it.
"Well, hello," he said finally, favouring me with an arch and decidedly self-satisfied smile. "And which little Drood are you?"
"I’m Edwin," I said harshly. "The new rogue."
"Really? How thrilling…It’s been such a while since anyone was able to tempt one of you away from the straight and narrow. Can I tempt you with anything? I have some fine beluga caviar, or perhaps a little Martian red weed? It’s such a smooth smoke…No? There must be something I can offer you, to make you feel more at home and relaxed. How about if I was to call in a pretty Thai lady or ladyboy?"
"Definitely no," I said. "I’m here on business."
"How very tiresome." The Middleman sniffed loudly. "Typical Drood; you people just don’t know how to have fun. I suppose it was too much to hope you might have been thrown out of your nauseatingly self-righteous family for actually developing a few civilised vices. So, what can I do for you, dear boy?"
"You’ve worked for the Drood family for years, off and on," I said carefully. "Helping us locate just the right specialist, when needed for certain out of the ordinary operations."
"Yes, and don’t I know it, duckie; your family uses me ruthlessly and never pays a penny. I do as I’m told, or they’ll shut me down. And they’re always so terribly rude to me. I don’t know why; I merely provide a service. I put people of like minds together for mutual fun and profit. What they do afterwards is no concern of mine."
"No," I said. "You don’t care how much trouble and suffering you cause. None of the blood that ends up spilled ever stains your dainty fingers. You make awful things possible but never take responsibility for your actions."
"Oh, how very tiresome. A philosopher Drood. But still something of a man of action, I hear. It’s all over town, what you did to the Chelsea Lovers, the poor dears. It’ll take them years to regain the ground you’ve lost them. Not that I care, of course. I never care; it’s bad for the complexion. And I can’t help feeling they’d find my little peccadilloes far too bland for their extreme tastes. I never had much time for revolutions anyway, of any stamp. I like the world just the way it is." He reached across his pillows and took a Belgian chocolate from a large open box. He popped it into his mouth, chewed for a moment, and then gestured vaguely at me with one black-nailed hand. "What exactly did you come here for, dear boy? Do get to the point. I have some important lounging about I should be getting on with."
"You have contacts inside my family," I said slowly. "You must…hear things. Do you know why I was banished, declared rogue?"
"I’m afraid not, no. Haven’t heard a thing, I promise you. The news came out of nowhere, no warning at all. You could have knocked me down with a feather, duckie. Cover me in chocolate and throw me to the lady-boys, I thought. Not dear upright Eddie! You’ve established quite a reputation here in the city, these last ten years. Honest, upright, and depressingly incorruptible, I would have said. No wonder your family assembled such an army to attack you on the motorway…"
"It was you," I said abruptly. "The penny’s just dropped. You organised the attacks on the M4!"
"Well, of course, dear boy. Who else? And don’t think it was easy, contacting and putting together so many disparate elements, and getting them to play nice with each other for the duration of the attack. I wouldn’t have chosen half of them, but my instructions were very specific; all bases were to be covered, scientific and magical. Honestly, the disputes I had over orders of precedence! Half of them wouldn’t even talk to each other, except through me. I would have had them all attack you at once, get it over with, and be sure of killing you…but no, they all had to take their separate turn, to show what they could do…Why can’t people be professional?"
I lowered my arms and took a step forward, and he actually flinched back against his pillows. "There’s something else you haven’t been meaning to tell me, isn’t there?" I said. "What is it, Marcus?"
"All right, all right! It’s just that…this particular commission didn’t come from your family. As such. This was a private commission, from the Drood Matriarch herself. Dear old Martha, bless her black vindictive little heart. I danced with her, you know, one memorable evening back in the sixties, when Soho was still Soho…Of course, we were both a lot younger and prettier in those days. Such a glamorous scene…It was only after the attack on you failed that I got word you’d been officially declared rogue. What did you do to upset her?"