The short, grey haired man shuffled out of bed and immediately left his room in the clothes he had slept in. Elliot Chapman had woken to his clockwork alarm at ten past the twelve p.m. and decided that there was no time to wake up slowly, let alone change his outfit. He gave no care to this, mainly because he knew the client he was set to meet with probably did not care either.
Elliot made a fairer living than most scribes who did their business in the back-alley streets of north Annelida, but even so, he was not financially abundant by any stretch. Yes, it could be said that his business practices were unconventional.
Still rubbing the dirt from his eyes, Elliot descended the narrow, nearly collapsed stairs, and stepped into The Grey Horseshoe.
The plan had never failed- meet his client, discuss business over a pint of beer, and invite the fellow back into his room to get the job done- if there was a job. If not, the two would pay for their beers separately and never see each other again.
Now, it had been at least 10 minutes, and there were no signs of the man had been waiting for. Elliot was a patient man, but to be met with lateness after making an express effort to be punctual, was pushing it. He hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet.
One long moment later and still his client had not made himself present. Elliot sighed and walked over to the bar counter, calling the young bartender’s attention.
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"What can I get you?” She swivelled, pleased that an opportunity to escape a group of excessively flirtatious drunkards had presented itself in the form of somebody she vaguely recognised.
Elliot racked his brain for the description he had been given of his late client. “I do business up in Room 6.” he prompted, noticing the brief look of recognition on the bartender’s face. “If a man about my height comes in asking for me, could you do me a favour and tell him that I left and took my tolerance for tardiness with me.”
The woman nodded, glanced at the hollering drunkards (who were making it clear they were ready for their fourth beer of the night), and disappeared into the noise. Elliot turned around, the thought of a couple more hours of sleep seeming particularly appealing- just before the door opened, and in stepped a figure that Elliot recognised immediately.
It’s eyes scanned him up and down- without saying a word, Elliot pulled out a seat at the small table in the far corner of the bar, to which it took it with little grace. It was not a stranger, nor his tardy business partner- although Elliot knew that this individual was here to do business, and only with him.
"Mr Chapman.” the voice projected his surname with the clarity of someone speaking to a crowd, yet despite the racket surrounding them, it barely spoke above speaking volume. In spite of this, and the fact that the figure stood a foot taller than Elliot, it did not speak down to him.
Mr Chapman gestured with his eyes over his spectacles, and the figure withdrew a yellowed, thrice folded piece of parchment from his cloak pocket, pressing it down on the table with a tough fingernail.
"It’s been a while, Elliot. You’ve gone grey” It chuckled thinly.
"It certainly has, Belphegor. You, on the other hand, have not changed a bit.”