"Overwrought isn't the half. Bullock is talking bad. I'd hate to be those guys and get caught by him."

"Yeah? I'd better check this out."

Bullock was in Duretile at the time, coordinating his work with that of the Duke's incompetent secret police.

Those guys were a joke. They were practically celebrities, and not a one had the guts to go down into the Buskin, where really interesting things happened. There is a Buskin in every city, though the name varies. It is a slum so bad the police dare go in only in force. Law there is haphazard at best, mostly enforced by self-proclaimed magistrates supported by toughs they recruit themselves. It is a very subjective justice they mete, likely to be swift, savage, unforgiving, and directed by graft.

I caught up with Bullock, told him, "Till this latest business is cleaned up, I stick like your leg." He scowled. His heavy cheeks reddened. "Orders," I lied, faking an apologetic tone.

"Yeah? All right. Come on."

"Where you headed?"

"The Buskin. Thing like this had to come out of the Buskin. I'm going to track it down." He had guts, for all his other failings. Nothing intimidated him.

I wanted to see the Buskin. He might be the best guide available. I'd heard he went there often, without interference. His reputation was that nasty. A good shadow to walk in.

"Now?" I asked.

"Now." He led me out into the cold and down the hill. He did not ride. One of his little affectations. He never rode. He set a brisk pace, as a man will who is accustomed to getting things done afoot.

"What're we going to look for?" I asked.

"Old coins. The chamber they defiled goes back several centuries. If somebody spent a lot of old money in the last couple days, we might get a line on our men."

I frowned. "I don't know spending patterns here. Places I've been, though, people can hang on to a family horde for ages| then have one black sheep up and spend it all. A few old coins might not mean anything."

"We're looking for a flood, not a few. For a man who spent a fistful. There were three or four men involved. Odds are good one of them is a fool." Bullock had a good grasp of the stupid side of human nature. Maybe because he was close to it himself.

"We'll be real nice doing the tracing," he told me, as though he expected me to hammer people in outrage. His values were the only ones he could imagine. "The man we want will run when he hears me asking questions."

"We chase him?"

"Just enough so he keeps moving. Maybe he'll lead us somewhere. I know several bosses down there who could've engineered this. If one of them did, I want his balls on a platter."

He spoke in a fever, like a crusader. Did he have some special grievance against the crime lords of the slum? I asked.