Excerpt: Untitled steampunk project.

The knee-jerk reaction of the Raelsburgh police force, at least the parts of it that patrolled the area around The Rows, was to be intentionally blind to the distinction between the categories of `bystander' and `perpetrator.' Since fires often do not happen for no reason whatsoever, and since Declan would hardly set fire to his own pub -- the possibility of insurance fraud through arson was not only postgraduate thinking for your average Raelsburgh copper but would also generate more of the hated paperwork -- it logically followed that Pfor was a prime suspect in the recently opened case of `who set fire to the pub?' In a way, quite aside from the fact that they had unwittingly solved the crime without even knowing for sure that it was a crime, this was remarkably economical thinking from Raelsburgh's Finest -- Pfor would have to explain himself no matter if he was a bystander or a suspect, and defaulting to treating everyone as a suspect made eventual upconversion of their status from witness or bystander to perpetrator or arsonist much easier, and, again, saved on paperwork. Pfor reasoned sourly that the coppers must have been just nearby, possibly themselves heading in for a pint, otherwise he had no way of accounting for this sudden, uncharacteristically rapid response.

The copper in question was expostulating a theory in a slow, drawn-out manner, while postulating liberally into Pfor's face. `Nah, the way I see, it, sir,' he drawled, `you would not have known about the fire unless you'd been in the vicinity of it at its lighting, which means you are either the arsonist or saw the arsonist and are covering for him, making you a dee faktor accomplice, which is also punishable under Paragraph 14 subsection c of the crimes brackets fire slash arson section of Raelsburghian law.'

Pfor fought the desire to roll his eyes skyward. Apparently there was no way to just be there: everyone was a crook somehow. If it were not for the fact that he had indeed set fire to the pub's basement, he would be marvelling at the cynical incompetence of law enforcement in the Principality. Still, even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

He had been brought into the marbled halls of the 17$^{th}$ precinct, the only marbled halls for miles, the 17th being the kind of precinct that, the elimination on which would, on aggregate, result in a net drop in crime across the city, accounting as it did for a disproportionate number of reported crimes and felonies. This was not because the officers of the 17$^{th}$ were in any way more diligent in reporting crimes and felonies, quite aside from their unduly democratic attitude to non-coppers, but rather because the attitude of the entire police force, the fighting 17$^{th}$ included, was to ignore crimes as much as possible, and it would be a fair assumptions that, in the absence of the 17$^{th}$, crimes within its cachment areas would be allowed to continue in its merry way, skipping along like a carefree maiden, without the current impediment of the ham-fisted attentions of the 17$^{th}$'s rough suitors.

The police station was marbled, as has been noted, and upon entering it and passing (left) by the front desk, then into a open-plan office of desks in cubicles, framed by glass-fronted offices occupied by detectives and ranking police. He had been brought into an interrogation room, which consisted of a windowless room with three chairs, two on one side of a long, rectangular table, and one on the other side, for the witness, bystander, perpetrator, all rolled into one non-police person. On the wall behind the two chairs was a suspiciously large mirror, that Pfor was certain was a two-way mirror that would allow for this interrogation to be observed by other police officers. He glared at his own reflection: a nondescript face as van der Balster had said. He considered his appearance in the mirror: a bit scuffed from the recent kerfuffle around the explosion, but his usual soberly dressed self otherwise. He was wearing a dark-blue three-piece suit, with a cream, bordering on butter-coloured shirt, a steel-grey cravat, and dark brown brogues. His sandy brown hair was parted to the right, and his fine mustache was exquisitely trimmed. His large brown eyes spoke of honesty, dependability, and the impression of other such sterling qualities essential for a top-notch confidence trickster. He had also until recently carried a revolver in his right jacket pocket, and a gold pocket watch on a chain that reached across his belly. Both of these had been taken by the police upon his arrest.

Facing him was a Sergeant Lustig (ha ha) and Detective Moessbein. Lustig, a lanky blond chap, was clearly going to play the quiet role in this interrogation, having barely said a word since they sat down. Moessbein was a ruddy, fat-faced prole with serious salivation issues, who regularly sprayed Pfor with spittle in the course of each drawled accusation.

Pfor was horrified. He had actually never been arrested before -- while he had certainly been brought in, politely, to `help the police with their enquiries,' he had actually never been nicked, to borrow from the crude parlance of the officers who now held him. They'd asked him for his name, and gone through the useless charade of enquiring about his name: `Pfor', `What, for?' `No, Pfor!' et cetera et cetera. Pfor's family were from the Eastern provinces, and Pfor was an old and unusual name that had been passed down the generations by his thoughtless ancestors. It usually provided much comedy and Pfor was not usually thin-skinned about it, but his patience was worn now.

Pfor had decided to play the role of the innocent bystander who was, initially, willing to help,was growing increasingly exasperated with the attentions of the local plods. Of course he knew he had set fire to the pub, but the coppers seemed quite willing to believe that he had not -- Pfor certainly got the impression that the attention they were giving him was largely perfunctory and routine, not one where they seriously considered him a suspect. Pfor had to ask how Declan had allowed his relationship with the local constabulary to deteriorate to this extent. It was almost as if they were prepared to believe him, believe that the fire was entirely a result of an unfortunate misadventure, rather than arson. If Declan had been a serious friend of the coppers, Pfor had no doubt they would not rest, not go so easy on the one suspect. There were serious losses that had been incurred here, and while Pfor believed Declan probably was insured, it was still a serious matter, the losses probably exceeding one hundred thousand talers. The fire brigade had arrived before too much structural damage had occurred, but the stock was gone and for a bar that prided itself on its exquisite brandy selection as The Rows did -- or had done, rather -- the stock was always going to be the biggest loss and the hardest to replace. The building was just, well, a building. So if Declan had been paying his local copper bribes, or better and more frequent bribes, then Pfor could have expected to have been put over the barrel for this one. As it was the coppers bought his story.

`As I said,' he repeated, affecting a weary expression, `I had finished my porter, and was leaving. The pub was empty, I saw no sign of Declan, but I had paid up, so I didn't worry about that. As I left I saw something, smoke or a glint, from the cellar, and I went down to investigate. I discovered the fire and immediately went upstairs, where I ran into Declan. I dragged him outside,' this last was a lie, all Pfor had done was to alert Declan to the fire below.

Sergeant Lustig spoke up, causing Pfor to start. He spoke in a slow drawl, putting long pauses between words and sentences, as if inviting Pfor or any conversational partner to jump in with incriminating statements and asiges. Pfor has to stop himself from finishing Lustig's sentences for him. `Herr Merth -- Declan to his friends, which seems to include you -- said he heard three gunshots. The revolver we took from you when you were arrested -- I mean, taken in to assist us with out enquiries, has three empty chambers. I put it to you, mein Herr, that three shots were fired from your revolver. At what, and to what end?'

Ah.

It seemed like it wasn't going to be so easy after all. `Well \ldots ' Pfor was trying his best to think of an explanation for this. `Well, when I got down to the cellar, the fire had spooked some rats, and I abhor rats. I have a morbid fear, a phobia, of them, in fact. I'm afraid I panicked and pulled out my revolved. I honestly cannot remember how many shots I fired -- if you tell me it's three then I suppose I have no choice but to believe you.' He looked down, trying to look shamefaced. `I am a bit embarrassed of my fear of rats, so I did not wish to let you know of my unmanly reaction to the -- rats.' A nice touch, that last one, the slight tremor at the use of the word `rats.' He risked a look up, to see if Lustig had bought it.

Lustig looked unimpressed. A faint smile was playing on the Sergeant fac. Was he rumbled? Pfor calmed himself, why would he, the Sergeant, wish to throw the book at Pfor at this stage? Why let the postulating Detective Moessbein run him through his story three, count them, three times, before turning the screws on him? What kind of a ridiculous interrogation tactic would that be? Pfor fought rising anger -- would rising anger fit into the way that his character \textit{should be} reaction. Would the Pfor he was pretending to be, at this time, be angry at this point? Yes, Lustig was mocking his fear of rats! Lustig had observed his revelation of his terrible, unmanly fear, his phobia, his dark secret, and had been sitting there \textit{smirking} at the terrible effort the unmasking of his dark secret. Pfor could certainly allow himself to be angry at the smirking, supercilious Lustig. There was no question that this reaction would be well within character. Pfor worked himself up into irritation, compressing his eyebrows towards the centre and gritting his teeth. Only if he forgot his real person could he play this role, in reality of course he was the perpetrator, the arsonist, and they had him bang to rights, in the fashion that these coppers probably would call it.

Lustig's faint smile faded and Pfor wondered if he had pulled it off, if he had convinced the detective that his phobia was no laughing matter. Either that, of Lustig had decided this interrogation was heading nowhere. Pfor knew that the time would soon come where they would have to charge him or let him go. `Well,' said Lustig, `as if on cue, `I suppose that makes sense as a story, wouldn't you agree, Detective?'

Moessbein started as if he'd been in a trance. Pfor was angry, how dare this pen-pusher of a Detective nod off in the middle of this serious interrogation? Did he not realise how he and his blonde, laconic colleague were wasting the time of a perfectly innocent pillar of the Raeslburgh community? They should let him go, forthwith, and cease wasting his precious time. He was livid; he had places to go, and people to meet.

`Herr von Uehling, we thank you for your time,' Moessbein intoned. `We may need to ask you more questions, but for now are free to go about your business. We will have a cab drop you off at your residence.'