The Face of a Stranger (35 page)

"Tommy taken up screeving?" Monk concealed his relief by
making a general and he hoped meaningless remark.

The little man looked at him with amazement.

" "Course not! 'E can't even write 'is name, let alone a
fekement fer some'un else! But 'e knows a right downy geezer wot does. Reckon
'e's the one as writ yer police papers for yer. 'E's known to do vat kind o'
fing."

"Good. Now what about the jade—anything at all?"

The man twisted his rubberlike features into the expression of an
affronted rodent.

"Bit 'aid, vat, guv. Know one feller wot got a piece, but 'e swears
blind it were a snoozer wot brought it—an' you din't say nuffink abaht no
snoozer."

"This was no hotel thief," Monk agreed. "That the only
one?"

"Only one as I knows fer sure."

Monk knew the man was lying, although he could not have said how—an
accumulation of impressions too subtle to be analyzed.

"I don't believe you, Jake; but you've done well with the
screever." He fished in his pocket and brought out the promised gold. “And
if it leads to the man I want, there'll be another for you. Now take me to
Blind Tommy the shofulman."

They all stood up and wormed their way
out
through the crowd into
the street. It was not until they were two hundred yards away that Monk
realized, with a shudder of excitement he could not control, that he had called
the man by name. It was coming back, more than merely his memory for his own sake,
but his skill was returning. He quickened his step and found himself smiling
broadly at Evan.

The rookery was monstrous, a rotting pile of tenements crammed one
beside the other, piled precariously, timbers awry as the damp warped them and
floors and walls were patched and repatched. It was dark even in the late summer
afternoon and the humid air was clammy to the skin. It smelled of human waste
and the gutters down the overhung alleys ran with filth. The squeaking and
slithering of rats was a constant background. Everywhere there were people,
huddled in doorways, lying on stones, sometimes six or eight together, some of
them alive, some already dead from hunger or disease. Typhoid and pneumonia
were endemic in such places and venereal diseases passed from one to another,
as did the flies and lice.

Monk looked at a child in the gutter as he passed, perhaps five or six
years old, its fece gray in the half-light, pinched sharp; it was impossible to
tell whether it was male or female. Monk thought with a dull rage that bestial
as it was to beat a man to death as Grey had been beaten, it was still a better
murder than this child's abject death.

He noticed Evan's face, white in the gloom, eyes like holes in his head.
There was nothing he could think of to say—no words that served any purpose.
Instead he put out his hand and touched him briefly, an intimacy that came
quite naturally in that awful place.

They followed Jake through another alley and then another, up a flight
of stairs that threatened to give way beneath them with each step, and at the
top at last Jake stopped, his voice hushed as if the despair had reached even
him. He spoke as one does in the presence of death.

"One more lot o' steps, Mr. Monk, from 'ere, an' Blind Tommy's
be'ind ver door on yer right."

"Thank you. I'll give you your guinea when I've seen him, if he can
help.''

Jake's face split in a grin.

“I already got it, Mr. Monk.'' He held up a bright coin. "Fink I
fergot 'ow ter do it, did yer? I used ter be a fine wirer, I did, w'en I were
younger." He laughed and slipped it into his pocket. "I were taught
by the best kids-man in ve business. I'll be seein' yer, Mr. Monk; yer owes me
anuvver, if yer gets vem fieves."

Monk smiled in spite of himself. The man was a pickpocket, but he had
been taught by one of those who make their own living by teaching children to
steal for them, and taking the profits in return for the child's keep. It was
an apprenticeship in survival. Perhaps his only alternative had been
starvation, like the child they had passed. Only the quick-fingered, the strong
and the lucky reached adulthood. Monk could not afford to indulge in judgment,
and he was too torn with pity and anger to try.

"It's yours, Jack, if I get them," he promised, then started
up the last flight and Evan followed. At the top he opened the door without
knocking.

Blind Tommy must have been expecting him. He was a dapper little man,
about five feet tall with a sharp, ugly face, and dressed in a manner he
himself would have described as "flash." He was apparently no more
than shortsighted because he saw Monk immediately and knew who he was.

" 'Evenin', Mr. Monk. I 'ears as yer lookin' fer a screever, a
partic'lar one, like?"

"That's right, Tommy. I want one who made some fake-ments for two
rampsmen who robbed a house in Mecklenburg Square. Went in pretending to be
Peelers."

Tommy's face lit up with amusement.

"I like that," he admitted. "It's a smart lay, vat
is."

"Providing you don't get caught."

"Wot's it worf?" Tommy's eyes narrowed.

"It's murder, Tommy. Whoever did it'll be topped, and whoever helps
them stands a good chance of getting the boat."

"Oh Gawd!" Tommy's face paled visibly. "I 'an't no fancy
for Horstralia. Boats don't suit me at all, vey don't. Men wasn't meant ter go
orf all over like vat! In't nat'ral. An' 'orrible stories IVe 'eard about vem
parts." He shivered dramatically. "Full o' savages an' creatures wot
weren't never made by no Christian Gawd. Fings wif dozens 'o legs, an' fings
wi' no legs at all. Ugh!" He rolled his eyes. "Right 'eathen place,
it is."

"Then don't run any risk of being sent there," Monk advised
without any sympathy. "Find me this screever."

"Are yer sure it's murder?" Tommy was still not entirely
convinced. Monk wondered how much it was a matter of loyalties, and how much
simply a weighing of one advantage against another.

"Of course I'm sure!" he said with a low, level voice. He knew
the threat was implicit in it. "Murder and robbery. Silver and jade
stolen. Know anything about a jade dancing lady, pink jade, about six inches
high?"

Tommy was defensive, a thin, nasal quality of fear in his tone.

"Fencin's not my life, guv. Don't do none o' vat—don't yer try
an'hike vat on me."

"The screever?" Monk said flatly.

"Yeah, well I'll take yer. Anyfink in it fer me?" Hope seldom
died. If the fearful reality of the rookery did not kill it, Monk certainly
could not.

"If it's the right man," he grunted.

Tommy took them through another labyrinth of alleys and stairways, but
Monk wondered how much distance they had actually covered. He had a strong
feeling it was more to lose their sense of direction than to travel above a few
hundred yards. Eventually they stopped at another large door, and after a sharp
knock, Blind Tommy disappeared and the door swung open in front of them.

The room inside was bright and smelled of burning.

Monk stepped in, then looked up involuntarily and saw glass skylights.
He saw down the walls where there were large windows as well. Of course—light
for a forger's careful pen.

The man inside turned to look at the intruders. He was squat, with
powerful shoulders and large spatulate hands. His face was pale-skinned but
ingrained with the dirt of years, and his colorless hair stuck to his head in
thin spikes.

"Well?" he demanded irritably. When he spoke Monk saw his
teeth were short and black; Monk fancied he could smell the stale odor of them,
even from where he stood.

"You wrote police identification papers for two men, purporting to
come from the Lye Street station." He made a statement, not a question.
"I don't want you for it; I want the men. It's a case of murder, so you'd
do well to stay on the right side of it."

The man leered, his thin lips stretching wide in some private amusement.
"You Monk?"

"And if I am?" He was surprised the man had heard of him. Was
his reputation so wide? Apparently it was.

"Your case they walked inter, was it?" The man's mirth bubbled
over in a silent chuckle, shaking his mass of flesh.

"It's my case now," Monk replied. He did not want to tell the
man the robbery and the murder were separate; the threat of hanging was too
useful.

"Wotcher want?" the man asked. His voice was hoarse, as if
from too much shouting or laughter, yet it was hard imagining him doing either.

"Who are they?" Monk pressed.

"Now Mr. Monk, 'ow should I know?" His massive shoulders were
still twitching. "Do I ask people's names?"

"Probably not, but you know who they are. Don't pretend to be
stupid; it doesn't suit you."

"I know some people," he conceded in little more than a
whisper. " 'Course I do; but not every muck snipe 'oo tries 'is 'and at
thievin'."

"Muck snipe?" Monk looked at him with derision. "Since
when did you hand out fekements for nothing? You don't do favors for
down-and-outs. They paid you, or someone did. If they didn't pay you
themselves, tell me who did; that'll do."

The man's narrow eyes widened a fraction. "Oh clever, Mr. Monk,
very clever." He clapped his broad, powerful hands together in soundless
applause.

"So who paid you?"

"My business is confidential, Mr. Monk. Lose it all if I starts
putting the down on people wot comes ter me. It was a moneylender, that's all
I'll tell yer."

"Not much call for a screever in Australia." Monk looked at
the man's subtle, sensitive fingers. "Hard labor—bad climate."

"Put me on the boat, would yer?" The man's lip curled.
"Yer'd 'ave ter catch me first, and yer know as well as I do yer'd never
find me." The smile on his face did not alter even a fraction. "An'
yer'd be a fool ter look; 'orrible fings 'appen ter a Peeler as gets caught in
ver rookeries, if ve word goes aht."

“And horrible things happen to a screever who informs on his clients—if
the word goes out," Monk added immediately. "Horrible things—like
broken fingers. And what use is a screever without his fingers?"

The man stared at him, suddenly hatred undisguised in his heavy eyes.

"An' w'y should the word go out, Mr. Monk, seein' as 'ow I aven't
told yer nuffink?"

In the doorway Evan moved uncomfortably. Monk ignored him.

"Because I shall put it out," he replied, "that you
have."

"But you ain't got no one fer yer robbery." The hoarse whisper
was level again, the amusement creeping back.

"I'll find someone."

"Takes time, Mr. Monk; and 'ow are yer goin' ter do it if I don't
tell yer?"

"You are leaping to conclusions, screever," Monk said
ruthlessly. "It doesn't have to be the right ones; anyone will do. By the
time the word gets back I have the wrong people, it'll be too late to save your
fingers. Broken fingers heal hard, and they ache for years, so I'm told."

The man called him something obscene.

"Quite." Monk looked at him with disgust. "So who paid
you?"

The man glared at him, hate hot in his face.

"Who paid you?" Monk leaned forward a little.

"Josiah Wigtight, moneylender," the man spat out. "Find
'im in Gun Lane, Whitechapel. Now get out!"

"Moneylender. What sort of people does he lend money to?"

"The sort o' people wot can pay 'im back, o' course, fool!"

"Thank you." Monk smiled and straightened up. "Thank you,
screever; your business is secure. You have told us nothing."

The screever swore at him again, but Monk was out of the door and
hurrying down the rickety stairs, Evan, anxious and doubtful, at his heel, but
Monk offered him no explanation, and did not meet his questioning look.

It was too late to try the moneylender that day, and all he could think
of was to get out of the rookeries in one piece before someone stabbed one of
them for his clothes, poor as they were, or merely because they were strangers.

He said good-night briefly and watched Evan hesitate, then reply in his
quiet voice and turn away in the darkness, an elegant figure, oddly young in
the gaslight.

Back at Mrs. Worley's, he ate a hot meal, grateful for it, at once
savoring each mouthful and hating it because he could not dismiss from his mind
all those who would count it victory merely to have survived the day and eaten
enough to sustain life.

None of it was strange to him, as it obviously had been to Evan. He must
have been to such places many times before. He had behaved instinctively,
altering his stance,

knowing how to melt into the background, not to look like a stranger,
least of all a figure of authority. The beggars, the sick, the hopeless moved
him to excruciating pity, and a deep, abiding anger—but no surprise.

And his mercilessness with the screever had come without calculation,
his natural reaction. He knew the rookeries and their denizens. He might even
have survived in them himself.