“And I know you said we weren't to keep watch all night,” the lad told him, “but I figured that if they all got murdered in their beds during the night, you'd like to know who done it. That maybe there'd be a bonus, like,” he added cheekily.

Holmes hid his grin and counted out the previous day's pay, then added half as much again for the night duty. “You'll stay on during the day, when they leave?”

“You pay, we stay,” the boy told him. “We'll hunt you down if anything happens.”

“You're doing a good job. I only hope you go back to school when this is over.”

“School's a waste of time.”

“That may be so, but university isn't, and you have to get through school to get to university.”

The look of scepticism shooting out of those dark eyes would have given a priest doubt, but Holmes had seen it before. He tipped his hat to the boy, then paused. “What's your name, lad?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because gentlemen do not address each other as ‘Hey, you.'”

“Gen'lmen, huh? Okay, it's Ricky. Rick Garcia.”

“Mr Garcia, it is a pleasure doing business with you. My name is Holmes. I shall try to return this evening, but you know where to find me.”

“Okay. 'Bye then, Mr Holmes. See you later.”

Holmes' eggs had just been placed before him when a bellman came to tell him there was a telephone call for him. It was Hammett, suggesting that they meet.

“I'm just taking breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

“Sure, that would be fine. I'll be there in ten minutes or so.”

Hammett arrived, looking as well-dressed and cadaverous as ever, just in time to see the dignified Englishman half-rise from his chair, eyes popping at some article in the paper before him, and then ball it up and hurl it to the floor. The entire restaurant fell dead silent; the only people moving were the maître d' and Dashiell Hammett.

“Sir, what is it?” begged the hotel gentleman. “Is there anything—”

Holmes raised his eyes and found Hammett standing in front of him, then looked further and noticed that every pair of eyes was avidly waiting to see what this dignified Englishman would do next. He gave a sharp little laugh, waved away the maître d', and dropped back into his chair. Hammett scooped up the armful of newsprint and sat across from him.

“Don't like the news?” Hammett asked laconically, straightening the pages.

The older man scowled furiously at the day's Chronicle. “Hammett, if ever you find yourself bound to a literary agent, for God's sake make sure the man isn't utterly barking mad.”

“Literary agent?” Hammett asked.