Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [91]
Orme was dubious. “Yer’ll be lucky ter see ’ide or ’air of ’im, Mr. Monk. But I’ll ’elp you all I can. If anyone’d know ’im, it’d be river men, or folks that live in the tunnels, or Jacob’s Island. ’E could be just a passing seaman, off to Burma, the fever jungles o’ Panama, or the Cape o’ Good ’Ope by now.”
“He wasn’t a seaman,” Monk said with conviction. “Pale face, thin, and he used a gun. In fact, he used Havilland’s own gun. There was a good deal of careful planning in this. I think he kills for a living.”
“There’s ’im as do,” Orme agreed.
The subject turned to the careful laying of the trap that would not only catch the actual thieves on the passenger boats, but would lead, with proof, to the hand behind them. Monk and Orme sincerely hoped that that was the Fat Man.
“It’ll be dangerous,” Orme warned. “It could turn ugly.”
Monk smiled. “Yes, I’m sure it could. There’s been something ugly about it from the beginning.”
Monk expected Orme to respond, perhaps to deny it, but he remained silent. Why? Did he not understand what Monk was alluding to, or did he already know the answer? Why should he trust Monk, a newcomer to the river police? He barely knew him. They had never faced a real danger together—nothing more than choppy weather, the odd barge out of control, or night work, when a ship in the dark could be lethal. It was not enough to test a man’s courage or loyalty to his fellows. Trust needed to be earned, and only a fool placed his life in another man’s hands blindly.
Or was he protecting someone? Could he want Monk to fail, spectacularly, so Orme could take his place? Orme deserved it. The men trusted him. Durban had. Which brought Monk back to the old question: Why had Durban recommended Monk for the post? It made no sense, and standing here in the dark on the windy embankment with the constant slap of the water against the stones, he felt as exposed as if he had been naked in the lights.
Still he asked the question. “Who put out the word that we are corrupt? It came from someone.”
“I dunno, sir.” Orme’s voice was low and hard. “But certain as death, I mean ter find out.”
They heard the boat bump against the steps. It was time to go on patrol. Neither said anything more. The plan would begin the following afternoon. There was much to go over and prepare before then.
In order to catch the Fat Man himself they needed the thieves to steal one article of such value that they could neither divide it, as they would a haul of money, nor break it up, as they would a piece of jewelry, selling the separate stones. It had to be something that was of worth only if it remained whole, yet too specialized and too valuable to sell themselves.
Monk and Orme had obtained Farnham’s permission to borrow an exquisite carving of ivory and gold. Intact, it was worth a fortune; broken, its only value was in the weight of the gold, which wasn’t much. Even at a glance, a pickpocket would know that such a carving, in good condition, was worth enough to keep him for a decade, if fenced successfully.
Farnham had insisted that Monk himself carry it.
“You can look the part,” he said with a curl of his mouth as he passed over the figure, wrapped in a soft chamois leather cloth. He surveyed Monk’s beautifully cut jacket and white shirt with its silk cravat, and then his trousers and polished boots. Such clothes were a legacy from Monk’s earlier years, before the accident, when most of his money went to his tailor. They were not the fashion of a season, as a woman’s gown would have been, but timeless elegance. They spoke of old money, the kind of taste that is innate, not put on to impress others. Farnham might not have been able to describe it, but he knew what it meant. It was inappropriate in a subordinate, which was why Farnham’s smile troubled Monk. He remembered how Runcorn had hated his attire, and it made him even more uneasy.
“Thank you, sir.” He took the carving and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. It made a slight bump, pulling it out of shape.
“Take care