Free Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud

“Hold on a minute, Kipps.”
    “Evening, Inspector.” Lockwood wore his widest smile. “Kipps.”
    “
They
aren’t on the list, are they?” Kipps said. “Want me to run them off?”
    Barnes shook his head; he took a sip of soup. “Lockwood, Miss Carlyle…To what do I owe the pleasure?”
    Since he spoke with all the joy of a man giving a speech at his mother’s funeral, “pleasure” was evidently a relative thing for Barnes. It wasn’t that he
hated
us—we’d helped him out too often for that—but sometimes mild irritation went a long way.
    “Just passing by,” Lockwood said. “Thought we’d say hello. Looks like you have quite the gathering here. Most of the agencies in London are represented.” His smile
broadened. “Just wondering if you’d forgotten our invitations.”
    Barnes regarded us. The steam from his cup curled around his mustache fronds like mist in a Chinese bamboo forest. He took another sip. “No.”
    “Good soup, is it?” Lockwood asked, after a pause. “What sort?”
    “Tomato.” Barnes gazed into his cup. “Why? What’s wrong with it? Not quality enough for you?”
    “No, it looks very nice….Particularly the bit on the end of your mustache. May I ask why DEPRAC hasn’t included Lockwood and Co. in the whole Chelsea operation? If this
outbreak’s so dreadful, surely you could do with our assistance?”
    “Don’t think so.” Barnes glared across at the crowd gathered beneath the Column. “It may be a national crisis, but we’re not
that
desperate. Look around
you. We’ve got plenty of talent here. Quality agents.”
    I looked. Some of the operatives standing close were familiar to me, kids with reputations. Others, less so. At the base of the steps, a group of pale girls in mustard jackets had been marshaled
by an immensely fat man. By his dangling jowls, rolling belly, and self-importantly clenched buttocks, I recognized Mr. Adam Bunchurch, proprietor of that undistinguished agency.
    Lockwood frowned. “I see the
quantity
. Quality, not so much.” He leaned in, spoke softly. “Bunchurch? I mean,
come on
.”
    Barnes stirred his soup with a plastic spoon. “I don’t deny your talents, Mr. Lockwood. If nothing else, those pearly teeth of yours could light our way in the darkest alleys. But
how many of you
are
there in your company? Still three? Exactly. And one of those is George Cubbins. Skilled as you and Ms. Carlyle undoubtedly are, three more agents simply won’t
make any difference.” He tapped his spoon on the edge of the cup and handed it to Kipps. “This Chelsea case is huge,” he said. “It covers a massive area. Shades, Specters,
Wraiths, and Lurkers—more and more of ’em appearing, and no sign of the central cause. Hundreds of buildings are under surveillance, whole streets being evacuated….The public
aren’t happy about it—that’s why they’re holding this protest here tonight. We need numbers for this, and people who’ll do what they’re told. Sorry, but
that’s two excellent reasons to leave you out.” He took a decisive sip of soup and cursed. “Ow! Hot!”
    “Better blow on it for him, Kipps.” Lockwood’s expression had darkened as Barnes spoke; he turned away. “Well, have a good evening, Inspector. Give us a call when things
get difficult.”
    We set off back toward the taxi.
    “Lockwood! Wait!”
    It was Kipps, stalking after us, the binder under his arm.
    “Can I help you?” Lockwood spoke coolly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
    “I’m not coming to crow,” Kipps said, “though heaven knows I could. I’m coming with advice—for Lucy, mainly, since I know
you’re
unlikely to
listen to sense.”
    “I don’t need advice from you,” I said.
    Kipps grinned. “Oh, but you do. Listen, you’re missing out. There’re weird things going on in Chelsea. More Visitors than I’ve ever seen before. More
different
kinds, all close together—and dangerous, too, like they’ve been stirred up by