'I think perhaps we'll just be going,' he said carefully.
'Right,' said the werewolf. Mr Tulip had smashed open a big jar of pickles, or at least things that were long, chubby and green, and was trying to insert one up his nose.
'If we wanted to stay, we would,' said Mr Pin.
'Right. But you want to go. So does your... friend,' said the werewolf.
Mr Pin backed towards the door. 'Mr Tulip, we have business elsewhere,' he said. 'Sheesh, take the damn pickle out of your nose, will you? We're supposed to be professionals!'
That's not a pickle,' said a voice in the dark.
Mr Pin was uncharacteristically thankful when the door slammed behind them. To his surprise, he also heard the bolts shoot home.
'Well, that could have gone better,' he said, brushing dust and hair off his coat.
'What now?' said Mr Tulip.
'Time to think of a plan B,' said Pin.
'Why don't we just --ing hit people until someone tells us where the dog is?' said Mr Tulip.
'Tempting,' said Mr Pin. 'But we'll leave that for plan C--'
'Bugrit.'
They both turned.
'Bent treacle edges, I told 'em,' said Foul Ole Ron, lurching across the street, a wad of Timeses under one arm and the string of his nondescript mongrel in his other hand. He caught sight of the New Firm.
'Harglegarlyurp?' he said. 'LayamEnipl You gents want a paper?'
It seemed to Mr Pin that the last sentence, while in pretty much the same voice, had an intrusive, not-quite-right quality. Apart from anything else, it made sense.
'You got some change?' he said to Mr Tulip, patting his pockets.
'You're going to --ing buy one?' said his partner.
'There's a time and a place, Mr Tulip, a time and a place. Here you are, mister.'
'Millennium hand and shrimp, bugrit,' said Ron, adding, 'Much obliged, gents.'
Mr Pin opened the Times. 'This thing has got--' He stopped and looked closer.
' "Have You Seen This Dog?"' he said. 'Sheesh...' He stared at Ron.
'You sell lots of these things?' he said.
'Qeedle the slops, I told 'em. Yeah, hundreds.'
There it was again, the slight sensation of two voices.
'Hundreds,' said Mr Pin. He looked down at the paper seller's dog. It looked pretty much like the one in the paper, but all terriers looked alike. Anyway, this one was on a string. 'Hundreds,' he said again, and read the short article again.
He stared. 'I think we have a plan B,' he said.
At ground level the newspaper seller's dog watched them carefully as they walked away.
'That was too close for comfort,' it said, when they'd turned the corner.