Gyf, ignoring the levity, slid over to the little intercom box at one side of the desk, crawled in through one of the slits, curled up, and promptly went to sleep. It seems that Fidwell, along with his other faults, had also been a sufferer of insomnia.
"I suppose," I said to Gyl, conversationally, "you'll be wanting a new body now...."
"Not necessarily. Not right away." He edged away from the blotter my desk fan was blowing in his direction. "Want to wait—" A burp nearly flipped him again. "—until these garlic fumes effervesce more completely from my system."
"It worked out wonderfully well, though," I said, "even though you did have to put up with the garlic for awhile." I brought out the gin bottle from the lower drawer. "It was certainly fortunate that Gyf was on hand to occupy Fidwell just after his wife murdered him." I unstoppered the bottle and raised it to my lips. "To Fidwell, departed partner and erstwhile owner of the Remey Company!"
"And the joke was on Mrs. Fidwell," sparkled Gyl's sense of humor. "Just imagine: seeing her husband up walking around, hale and hearty, just a half hour after she had throttled the life out of him with her own two hands!"
"No wonder she had to be locked up," I chuckled, pouring a few drops of gin on the polished glass near my companion.
"My getting the body of Pasquamine, owner of the floating stock, wasn't so bad either," he reminded me, isolating a drop of gin and flowing around it.