Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [92]
Monk felt odd. Was he walking straight into a trap, knowing it and yet still stupid enough to step in? Or caught tightly enough to have no choice?
“Yes, sir.” His voice was rasping, as if the night air off the river had caught in his throat already.
“Orme will give you a cutlass later,” Farnham added. “Can’t let you have a weapon yet. Even a knife a thief would feel and know there was something wrong. It’s a shame. Leaves you a bit vulnerable, but can’t be helped.” He was still smiling, thin-lipped, barely showing his teeth.
“Good luck.”
“Thank you.” Monk turned and left, going to the outer room where the other men were waiting. Two of them were dressed as passengers, in order to keep a firsthand watch on the thieves. The rest were to remain in their own police boats close at hand, so they could follow anyone easily if they were to escape by water.
Orme nodded and signaled the men to go. Monk noticed with a chill and an anxious dryness in his mouth that they all carried cutlasses in their belts. Three of them carried extra weapons as well, to arm those who were disguised, should the whole operation end in violence. Monk had no idea if he had ever fought hand to hand in his years before the accident, and certainly he had not since then. He was a detective, not a uniformed officer. It was too late now to wonder if he was up to it—strong enough, quick enough, even if he had any skill with a cutlass.
He followed the men out into the hard, cold wind. Each was prepared, knowing his duty, the main plan, and the contingency. There was nothing more to say.
Outside on the quay, Orme divided his armed men into three boats, and they pulled out and headed upriver. Monk and the two others who were dressed as passengers took a hansom up to Westminster, where they boarded the next ferry down towards Greenwich.
The tide was slack, but the wind was raw. As they pulled out into the river, Monk was glad to go with the other passengers below deck into the cramped cabin, where there was some shelter. There were at least fifty other people on board: men and women and several children. Everyone was wrapped up in winter coats that offered a host of places easy enough to hide the proceeds from picked pockets. One obese gentleman wore a fur-collared coat that flapped as he walked. He could have hidden half a dozen one-pound bags of sugar without causing any further bulges on his person.
A thin woman with voluminous shawls scolded three children who trailed after her. She looked like an ordinary housewife, but Monk knew perfectly well that she could also be a passer of stolen goods, one to whom the pickpocket gave them until he was safely free of suspicion and could take them back. She would get her cut, in time.
The plan was that if no one robbed him on the way down to Greenwich, he was to meet with one of the other policemen who was dressed as a passenger and show him the carving, as if intending to sell it to him. The policeman would pretend to decline and Monk would return to Westminster. He refused even to imagine the possibility of the thieves taking it and not being caught. On the other hand, if they were arrested too soon, then the whole operation was abortive. The police would have the thief—the fingers of the crime—but not the brain or the heart.
A man bumped against him, apologized, and moved on.
Monk’s hands went to his pocket. The carving was still there.
It happened again, and again. He was so nervous his fingers were stiff and trembling.
Butterworth bumped into him and apologized, using the password to let him know that he had been robbed. Why was the carving not gone? Without the theft they would not need to find the Fat Man.
They were past the Surrey Docks and heading down the Limehouse Reach.
Ten minutes later Monk’s pocket was empty, and he had not even felt it. Panic broke over him in a wave, the sweat hot and then cold on his skin. He had no