The Shifting Tide (22 page)

“Nor am I,” Monk said with a slight laugh he hoped was believable. “And I don’t want more than one tusk, and only that if the price is right.”

“Oh, yeah? An’ what price would that be, then?” Gould still had confidence.

“Twenty pounds,” Monk said rashly.

“Fifty!” Gould retorted with undisguised derision.

Monk pushed his hands into his pockets and stared at the pile of tusks thoughtfully, as if considering.

“Forty-five is the lowest I’ll go,” Gould offered.

Monk was disgusted, but he dared not show it. He thought of Hodge lying on the step above the hold, his head broken, his brain crushed.

“Twenty-five,” he said.

They argued back and forth, up a pound, down a pound. Monk realized that Crow had gone—please God to fetch help, though he owed Monk nothing, no friendship, no loyalty. But he prayed that Scuff had managed to get Louvain. Durban would not need to be asked more than once.

“It’s worth more than that!” Gould said angrily when Monk refused to go any higher, afraid of agreement and the end of the conversation. “I worked bleedin’ ’ard fer it!” Gould went on. “You any idea ’ow ’eavy them things are?”

“Too heavy for one man,” Monk responded. “Someone helped you. Where is he? Behind me? Or are you planning to cut him out of the deal?”

There was a faint movement in the passage ten or fifteen feet beyond the doorway. Now he wished Crow had not gone—although there was no guarantee of which side he would have been on. Perhaps a thieves’ quarrel was his best chance. “Were you the one that went into the hold of the
Maude Idris
?” he asked, his voice louder than he meant, and unsteady. He wanted to know who had killed Hodge then he would have no guilt in killing him in return, if he had to in order to escape with his own life. Where the hell was Louvain? He had had time to get there by now.

“Why d’you care?” Gould’s eyes narrowed.

“Were you?” Monk demanded, taking a step forward.

“Yeah! So wot of it?” Gould challenged.

“Then it was you who murdered Hodge!” Monk accused. “Perhaps your partner won’t be so happy to share the rope that’s waiting for you, along with the price of your tusks?”

Gould froze. “ ’Odge? I never murdered no one! ’Oo’s ’Odge?” He sounded honestly confused.

“The night watchman whose head you beat in,” Monk said bitterly. “Did that slip your mind?”

“Geez! I din’t bash ’is ’ead in!” Gould’s voice rose to a screech. “There weren’t nothin’ wrong wi’ ’is ’ead!” He looked gray-white, even in the gloom, his eyes wide with horror. Had he not seen Hodge’s body himself, Monk would have sworn it was genuine.

“Rubbish!” he barked, rage welling up inside him for the lie as much as the violence. It was twisting his own emotions because he wanted to believe him, and it was impossible.

“So ’elp me Gawd, it’s the truth!” Gould ignored the ivory and stepped forward towards Monk, but there was no threat in him, only urgency, even pleading. “ ’e were lyin’ there on the step. I thought ’e were dead drunk. He must a fell from the top.”

Monk hesitated. “Did you look at the back of his head?” he asked.

“There weren’t nothin’ wrong wi’ it!” Gould insisted. “ ’e might a banged it bad, I dunno, but it weren’t bashed so’s I could see. ’Ow’d you know, anyway?”

“I’m looking for the ivory because I’m paid to,” Monk said bitterly. “But I’m looking for whoever killed Hodge because I want him to answer for it.”

“Well, it in’t me!” Gould said desperately.

Monk stood still, his back to the doorjamb. It was bitterly cold in there, so cold his fingers were dead and his feet were growing numb. The damp was everywhere, heavy with the reek of mud and effluent and the sweet stench of rot. Everything was sagging, dripping, full of slight sounds like the soft tread of feet, rat feet, human feet, creaking like the shifting of weight, and always water oozing and trickling, the slow sinking of the land and the rising of the river.

He tried to clear his head. He was beginning to believe Gould, and yet it made no sense. Who would beat in the head of a man already dead?

There was a distinct sound about a dozen yards away, a movement too big to be a rat. Monk swiveled around to look. The shadows changed. Was there someone there, a man coming this way, creeping step by step? The sweat broke out on his skin, and his body was shaking. He backed farther into the room, looking at Gould. “Someone’ll hang for it,” he said softly. “The police are coming, and they’ll make sure of that. It’ll be prison, then trial, then three weeks of waiting, and one morning they’ll take you for the short walk and the long drop—into eternity, darkness . . .”

“I din’t kill ’im!” Gould’s cry was stifled in his throat, as if he could already feel the rope.

At that moment the other man reached the doorway just behind Monk. Monk saw it in Gould’s face, and twisted away as the man lunged forward and Monk caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head, bruising his own hand.

Gould stood frozen, indecision wild in his face. Were the police really coming? Crow was gone, and he knew where to lead them back.

Monk waited, his heart pounding.

The man started to get up. Gould swung his arm and hit the man hard, sending him backwards, his head thudding against the floor, and he lay still. “I din’t kill nobody!” Gould said again. “But they’ll kill you if yer don’t get out of ’ere! C’mon!” He started to move past Monk.

“Wait!” Monk commanded. “I need one tusk to prove to the police that they were here.” He stepped back and picked up the largest one from the pile. It was startlingly heavy, cold and smooth to the touch. He hoisted it onto his shoulder with difficulty, the effort tearing at his injured arm, then he staggered after Gould, leaving the other man senseless on the floor. They did not go the way they had come in, but awkwardly veering a little from right to left under the burden of the tusk, up a short flight of steps.

At the top he leaned against the wall and the rotted paneling gave way behind him. He swung around and let the tusk slip into the cavity, easing the crick out of his shoulder, then turned to see if it was still visible. It wasn’t, but he could feel it. He would be able to show Durban where it was.

He hurried after Gould along the corridor. Broken windows let in the gray light. He caught up with him going down another stair with iron rails, then through a door into an open patch of ground overgrown with weeds just as Louvain and four of his men emerged from the ruins of a warehouse at the other side. They were wind-burned, brawny men dressed in seamen’s jackets.

Monk and Gould stopped abruptly, five or six yards from them.

“Well?” Louvain said grimly. “What have you got? I don’t see anything!”

“Thirteen tusks of ivory,” Monk replied. He jerked his hand. “Back there. You might have to fight for them.”

“Thirteen?” Louvain questioned, his face darkening. “Do you think you’re keeping one for yourself? That wasn’t the bargain.”

“One for the police, for evidence,” Monk replied. “Or would you rather the thieves got away with it?” He let a slight sneer into his voice. “That’s not good for business. You’ll get the last one back when the case is over. Keep it for a memento. You’ve got away cheaply. A damned sight cheaper than Hodge.”

Louvain looked puzzled for an instant, then realization flooded his face. “Who’s he?” he demanded, indicating Gould with a jerk of his head.

Instinct made Monk lie. “He’s with me. Did you think I’d come here alone?”

Louvain’s face relaxed. He did not ask who had killed Hodge, and the omission angered Monk. “Right. We’ll take the ivory. I want to be gone before the police get here. No questions. Come to my office tonight and I’ll pay you.” It was curt, dismissive. He strode past Monk and into the shadows of the building, leaving his men to follow.

Durban should be here any time now, Monk realized. He glanced at Gould, white-faced, shifting from foot to foot.

“Don’t think of it,” Monk warned. “You’ll be hunted down like a rat.”

“I din’t kill ’im!” Gould’s voice was hoarse with fear, and his eyes begged for belief. “I swear on my life!”

“Very appropriate,” Monk said dryly. “Since it’s with your life you’ll be paying for it.” But he felt a tug of pity he had not expected. Was it even imaginable that one of the crew had killed Hodge? A quarrel of some sort? Perhaps there had even been a traitor in the crew, and Hodge had seen him, and would have told Louvain? Had they stunned him first, and killed him after Gould had gone, perhaps because he would have told Louvain?

There was no point in asking Gould; it would be offering him an obvious avenue of escape, and naturally he would take it. And why should Monk involve himself in looking for the last shreds of truth and untangling them to save a thief?

Because the man might not be a murderer, and no one else would bother to help him.

“Someone beat his head in,” he said aloud. “If it wasn’t you, then it was somebody else on the
Maude Idris
.”

“I dunno!” Gould was desperate. “Yer can’t . . . oh, geez!” He said nothing more.

They stood on the damp, sour earth and waited. Neither Louvain nor any of his men passed them. They had found another route to take the ivory away, swiftly and unseen, no doubt expecting Durban to come from this side.

Five minutes later Monk heard Gould gasp as if he were choking, and his breath caught in a sob. He looked around and saw Durban’s distinctive walk as he came out of the shadow of the building ahead, Sergeant Orme and a constable behind him.

“Go with him,” Monk said quietly to Gould. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Good day, Mr. Monk,” Durban said curiously, stopping a couple of yards away. “What are you doing here?”

“Stolen goods,” Monk replied. “One very handsome ivory tusk, but the point is that the night watchman on the
Maude Idris
was killed in the theft.”

Durban’s face was comical with understanding and skepticism. “That why they took only one tusk, is it?”

Monk knew without question that Durban did not believe it. He knew exactly what Monk had done. “I imagine so,” Monk said smoothly. “Maybe there was a bit of double-crossing going on. Gould says he didn’t kill Hodge, but somebody did. I’ll show you where the tusk is.”

Durban signaled for his man to take Gould, who let out a cry and swiveled to look at Monk, and was jerked sharply to face forward as manacles were put on his wrists.

Monk turned and led Durban back into the far building, going slowly, partly because he was uncertain of the way, but mostly because he wanted to be sure that Louvain had had sufficient time to move all the tusks and leave no trace for Durban to find. It also crossed his mind to wonder if now that he had his ivory back he would cheat on the payment, but Monk refused to dwell on that. If Louvain did, then Monk would open up the Hodge murder case in such a way that Durban would plague Louvain until he’d wish he had not paid Monk to retrieve the ivory in the beginning. But even as he thought that, he knew what a dangerous thing it would be to do. It would be a last resort, only to be adopted in order to save his own reputation; not for the money, but for all future work.

They were inside the long corridor again, and the gloom closed in on them. Monk walked slowly, picking his way by touch as well as sight, stepping carefully to avoid the rotted boards, the refuse, and the weeds which had grown up through the floor and died, their stems slimy.

He found the place where he had left the one tusk, recognizing it by the newly broken wood. He pointed to it, and allowed Durban to dislodge the ivory and pull it out.

“I see,” Durban said expressionlessly. “So who does it belong to then, when we’ve finished with it? I assume he’s going to press charges, apart from the murder of the watchman?”

“Clement Louvain,” Monk replied. He wished he could be more open with Durban. Every lie scraped at him like an abrasion to the skin, but he had left himself no room to maneuver.

At Durban’s instruction, Sergeant Orme hoisted the tusk onto his shoulder, and Durban turned to walk back again. Monk followed him, wanting to say something, anything to let Durban understand, and knowing he could not.

He found Louvain in his office after dark that evening. The room was warm. A fire was burning briskly in the grate under the ornate mantel, the light of the flames dancing on the polished wood of the desk. Louvain was standing by the window with his back to the somber view of the river. It was too dark to see anything but the yellow eyes of other windows and the riding lights of ships at anchor.

He was smiling. He had a decanter of brandy on the small table—and two glasses out, polished to burn like crystals in the reflected fire. A small leather purse sat beside them, its soft fabric distorted out of shape by the weight of coins inside.

“Sit down,” he invited as soon as Monk had closed the door. “Have some brandy. You’ve done well, Monk. I admit, I had doubts at times; I thought you weren’t up to it. But this is excellent. I have my ivory back, bar one tusk for evidence.” He nodded, smiling, and there was no curb or evasion in it. “You couldn’t have done better. If I get another problem I’ll send for you. As it is, I’ll recommend you to everyone I like.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “And I’ll hope my enemies never find you.” He poured a generous brandy for Monk and passed it to him, then one for himself. He raised the glass. “To your continued prosperity—and mine!” He drank with relish. “There’s an extra ten guineas in the purse for you. I like you, Monk. You’re a man like myself.”

It was a generous compliment, and honest.

“Thank you.” Monk picked up the purse and put it in his pocket. Quite apart from the money in it, it was a beautiful piece of leather. It was a generous gesture. He picked up his brandy and took a mouthful. It was exquisite, old, mellow, and full of warmth.

EIGHT

Squeaky Robinson staggered into the kitchen at Portpool Lane and heaved two baskets of shopping onto the table. His fingers were still bent from the weight of them.

“ ’ave yer got any idea ’ow ’eavy that lot is?” he demanded, looking at Hester indignantly.

“Of course I have,” she replied, barely turning from the stove, where she was straining beef tea. “I usually carry it myself. I just haven’t had time to go out lately. Unpack it, will you? And put everything away.”