Let’s face it - I’m a sherpa, not a detective. But Mama always said curiosity was next to courtesy and I was very curious about what fate had befallen my new friends. I might not be a detective, but I was prepared to turn over every last stone in my quest for the truth.

 It occurred to me that Round Booth’s disappearance was connected somehow to the disappearance of  the BSIs, so I decided to start my search with him.

 ”Excuse me ma’am,” I said to a passer-by who was passing by, “have you seen a round red booth around here anywhere?”

 She scowled at me and kept walking.

 I don’t know how Canadians got the reputation for being so polite.

 ”Excuse me Sir,” I said to a man, “Have you seen a round red booth around here anywhere?”

 ”What did he look like?” asked the man.

 ”He was round,” I replied, “and red.”

 ”How tall?” asked the man.

 ”About 4 and a half feet,” I replied.

 ”Any distinguishing marks? Scars, rips, tears, repairs, tattoos?”

 ”I don’t know,” I admitted, “I didn’t know him that well.”

 ”How much did he weigh?” asked the man, “Did he walk with a limp? What languages did he speak? How old was he? Who were his friends?”

 ”What are you, a fucking detective??” I asked.

 I took off down Bank Street with the intrusive little man hot on my heels, peppering me with a relentless barrage of questions.

 ”What’s his birthdate? Has he ever been married? Where does he bank? Has he ever had cosmetic surgery?”

 Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned around and shot him once between the eyes.

 Several passers-by gasped and stared at me in horror.

 ”What are you looking at?” I demanded, “You’d have done the same thing!”

 Then I dragged his body into the alleyway behind Sugar Mountain.

 You’ll never guess what I found back there. Go ahead, try to guess.