Book 04 - Old Tin Sorrows by Glen Cook

by anyone with patience. I leaned forward to see what I could glim through the keyhole.
    Nothing. It was dark in there. I’d left a lamp burning. Trap?
    If so, a dumb one. Especially not getting the door all the way shut. These old boys weren’t pros but I didn’t see them making that basic a mistake. And if not a trap, but just a search, I doubted they’d snuff the lamp. That was a dead giveaway.
    The word disinformation trotted through my mind. From the spy game. Provide not just false information but more information than necessary, most of it untrustworthy, so that all information received came under the shadow of doubt.
    I backed off, leaned against a wall, nodded to myself. Yeah. That felt like a good intuition. I was going to be allowed to find out all kinds of things, most of which were untrue, useless, or misleading. Hard to put a puzzle together when you’ve got three times too many pieces.
    Which still left me faced with a decision what to do right now. It was still possible there was some clumsy idiot hiding in the dark waiting to whack me. So why not play the game right back? The hall was a good twelve feet wide, oversize like everything else in that house, and cluttered up with the usual hardware. Not twenty feet from me was a suit of armor. I got it and lugged it over in front of the door, pushed it up close, backed off, snuffed the nearest hall lamps so whoever was inside wouldn’t see anything but a silhouette. Then I got behind the tin suit, gave the door a nudge, walked the armor ahead a couple of feet, stopped like I was startled.
    Nothing happened. I backed out and got one of the hall lamps and took it inside.
    Nobody there but me and my decoy. I checked the closets and bedroom and dressing room. Nobody there and nothing obviously disturbed. If the place had been tossed, it had been done by an expert so good he’d noticed and replaced the little giveaways I’d rigged.
    So what did we have here? Somebody had gone to the trouble of picking the lock just to snuff a lamp?
    I closed the door, patted the armor’s shoulder. “Somebody’s playing games, old buddy. I think I’ll let you stick around.”
    I lugged it over and shoved it into a cloak closet just big enough to contain it, lighted my lamps, took the hall lamp back, lighted the lamps there, went inside, locked up, sat down at the writing table to let my dinner digest.
    Didn’t work too well. I need a beer or two to get the most out of those occasions. I had to do something about the shortage. In fact, it might be a good idea to vanish for a while and consult some experts.
    There was ink and paper and what not in the drawer under the table. I got it out and started making notes. I put down the names of everyone I’d met and hadn’t, and a mystery woman to the side. Peters, Dellwood, the General, Cook, Jennifer. Hawkes, Chain, and Kaid. Tyler and Wayne, who had the night off, and somebody named Snake Bradon, who was antisocial and wouldn’t come in the house. Somebody named Candy who, theoretically, didn’t count because he’d been fired long ago. And Harcourt, who used to sneak his girlfriends in, but who had left six months ago.
    Eighteen people here, according to Cook. By my count, eleven, plus the mystery blonde. We had us what the Marines call a manpower shortfall. Someone tapped on the door. “Yeah?”
    “Peters, Mike.” I let him in. “What’s up?”
    “I brought you a list of the missing stuff. Can’t guarantee it’s complete. Not the kind of stuff you see everyday and notice is gone right away.” He handed me a wad of papers. I sat down and looked it over.
    “This is a lot of stuff.” And all small. Each item had a guessed value noted. Stuff like gold medals, old jewelry belonging to Stantnor women long dead, silver serviceware disdained by rough, tough ex-Marines, decorative weapons.
    “If you want, I can go through the house room by room and get a better count. Trouble is, it’s hard to tell what’s gone because there isn’t anybody who knows what