Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [79]
Durban had put a great deal of time and energy into the investigation and followed every lead. His hope and frustration were clearly marked in his notes. But after nearly three months he had learned nothing of value and been obliged to abandon his concentration on it and turn his entire attention to other duties. The death of Roger Thorwood remained a mystery. Durban’s last entry on the subject was scribbled and in places almost illegible.
I have spoken to Mrs. Thorwood for the last time. There is nothing more I can do. All trails are closed. They lead either nowhere or into a hopeless morass. I never thought I would say of any murder that it is better left, but I do of this. And it is wrong to expect Orme to carry the responsibility here any longer. It is not even as if one day he might be justly rewarded for his work or his loyalty. He owes it not to me, but because that is his nature, nonetheless I am profoundly grateful to him. There is no more to say.
Monk stared at the page. It was oddly difficult to turn over and continue with the murders, robberies, fights, and accidents that occurred later. There was something painfully unfinished about it, not only the mystery of Roger Thorwood’s death but Durban’s obvious involvement. His anger and disappointment were there, and something else less obvious, which he was too guarded to name. Guarding someone else, or himself?
There was also his oblique reference to Orme never receiving appropriate recompense for his work. It seemed he had covered for Durban as well as for Monk. It raised the question again as to why he had not received the promotion his skill had earned him. It seemed that Durban knew the reason. Monk realized that perhaps he ought to, in order to make a better judgment of Orme. But he was glad there was no time to search now.
What he needed was a plan to catch the thieves on the passenger boats. More important, he wanted to trace them back to the opulent receiver who was organizing them, and probably the kidsmen as well.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Orme returned. Together, without mentioning Durban at all, they carefully constructed their strategy.
Orme looked nervous, but he did not argue with Monk’s intention to be present.
“And Clacton,” Monk added.
Orme looked at him quickly.
Monk smiled, but he did not explain himself.
Orme’s mouth tightened, and he nodded.
Monk met Runcorn by the hot-chestnut stand just off Westminster Bridge Road. It was four in the afternoon and already dark. A heavy cloud hung like a pall over the city. There was the smell of chimney smoke in the air, and the wind held the sting of snow to come. Downriver on the incoming tide was a drift of fog, and Monk, standing within sight of the dark, flat water, could hear the boom of foghorns drifting up. Although there were several of them, it was an eerie sound of utter desolation. Now it echoed vaguely. When the fog came in it would be swallowed, cut off half finished, like a cry strangled in the throat.
“Found the cabbie,” Runcorn said, blowing on a hot chestnut before putting it into his mouth. “Took the man as far as Piccadilly. Remembers him quite well because he did an odd thing. He got out of his cab and crossed the Circus, which was pretty quiet at that time in the morning, all the theaters on Haymarket and Shaftesbury Avenue being out long since. Then he got straight into another cab and disappeared east along Coventry Street, towards Leicester Square.” He looked up from his chestnut, watching for Monk’s reaction. “Why would a man change cabs when there’s nothing wrong with the one he’s in?”
“Because he wants to disappear,” Monk replied. “I expect he changed again, maybe twice, before he got where he wanted to be.”
“Exactly,” Runcorn agreed, taking another chestnut and smiling. “He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t a beggar, he certainly wasn’t anyone’s