Faces of Man

5

The café sat on top of a small bakery near the river. The room was heavy with the smell of fresh bread, tea, and fried sausages; the air filled with the early-morning talk of businessmen. A stack of newspapers promised the newest gossip and information about the happenings all around the globe. Men clad in dark, expensive looking suits populated the tables. Several young waitresses hurried around, serving breakfast, refilling teacups. Some of the men eyed a group of dwarves sitting in a corner of the room, separated from the other patrons. They talked in hushed voices, shooting anxious glances at the men sitting around them. But they were tolerated because dwarves worked down the river in the banks of the financial district; no one wanted to take the risk of displeasing the keepers of such wealth, just in case they could meddle with the savings.

One of the tables drew even more attention; from both men and dwarves alike. And although the café was brimming, no one dared to sit near the two men. A waitress hurried over to them, two plates filled with sausages, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, fried egg, and several slices of toast balancing in one hand, a heavy pot of tea in the other.

"I'm sorry," she announced as she placed the plates in front of the two men, before she proceeded to pour them some tea. "But it's a busy morning. You can see yourselves." She smiled an uneasy smile, her eyes only shortly flickering up to look at their faces before they returned to the desktop. She had to steady her hand which held the tea pot to stop it from trembling.

"It's all right," announced Monroe. He attempted to smile at the woman, but she flinched away from it and hurried away.

Hopkins had already emptied the steaming hot tea and was digging heartedly into the breakfast; shovelling loads of baked beans on a slice of toast before he tried to add one of the grilled tomatoes. Monroe turned the plate listless around, stared into the cup of tea, and decided it was time for another cigarette. He produced his tobacco pouch and began to roll one.

The river flowed lavishly in front of the window; half hidden by a set of trees growing on the promenade. The streetlights were still burning, although the sun had already crept over the eastern horizon, filling the city with the first grey light of early morning.

Monroe exhaled a gust of blueish tobacco smoke. Whatever the elderly couple had served them last night in the far-eastern restaurant, it had left its mark on him. He stared down at the baked beans swimming around the plate, and his throat clenched. Hopkins didn't seem to be affected. He had already eaten half of his own breakfast and began to stare hungrily over at Monroe's.

A newspaper lay forgotten on the windowsill. Monroe grabbed it, skimming over the front page. BARTON CARNAGE – A MONSTER FRENZY! was the most prominent one.

"Looks like O'Shea got his hands full."

"What do they write?"

"Nothing much." Monroe shrugged. "Maybe the Doctor knows more about it."

A boy hurried up the stairs. His clothes were tattered, his shoes on the brink of falling apart. He stood a moment on the landing, breathing hard, his cheeks red from morning cold and exertion. As he spied the two special detectives, he sighed in relief and walked over. The boy sat down beside Monroe, wrinkling his nose.

"You smell awful."

"What are you doing here, Oliver?" asked Hopkins between two bites.

The boy breathed deeply, longingly looking at Monroe's untouched plate of breakfast. Monroe caught him staring and shoved the plate over, earning himself an annoyed look from Hopkins.