Three Hands In The Fountain

He wore a neutral-coloured tunic with faintly rakish styling, close-fitting boots, and a hard leather belt. Hung on the belt were a small purse, a large note tablet, and a set of nail files to keep him occupied if he ever needed; to lean against an Ionic column for hours observing a suspect. Somebody must have been giving him lessons. He had the classic informer's look: tough, slightly truculent, perhaps amiable if you got to know him, a curious and faintly unreliable sort of character.

`Welcome home, and congratulations! I hear that Petronius Longus is unwinding your partnership?' I covered my eyes and shuddered quietly. I was, so exhausted I was helpless, and Anacrites could see that. He did the dirty work very gently, like a tooth-puller assuring you it's not going to hurt just at the moment when he makes you scream. `Mother was right, Falco. Aren't you glad there's someone else available? It looks as if it's you and me now after all!'