Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [95]
Silence gripped the thieves as if by the throat.
“Well!” said the Fat Man in a voice little more than a whisper. “What a pretty piece of work.” Monk was not certain if he meant the betrayal or the ivory.
One man squeaked half a word, then stifled it instantly.
The Fat Man ignored him. “Discipline, discipline.” He shook his head and his massive jowls wobbled. “Without order we perish. How many times have I told you that? If you had given that to me, openly and honestly as we agreed, I would have sold it and given you half.” His mouth hardened. He stood motionless. “But as I have had to take the trouble of coming for it myself, and bringing my men with me, I shall have to keep all of it. Expenses, you see?”
No one moved.
“And discipline…always discipline. Can’t have things getting out of control. No!” He barked the last word as one of the thieves made to stand up, his hand going to his waist for a weapon. “Very foolish, Doyle. Very foolish indeed. Do you imagine I have come unarmed? Now, you know me better than that! Or perhaps you don’t, or you would not have tried such a stupid piece of duplicity.”
But the man was too angry to heed a warning. He drew a dagger out of his belt and lunged forward.
The Fat Man shouted, and the next moment the shadows came alive. There was a melee of heaving bodies, flying arms and legs, and the candlelight on the sudden, bright arcs of knives and cutlasses. It took less than a minute to realize that the Fat Man’s followers were getting the better of it. There were more of them and they were better armed.
Orme was staring at Monk, waiting for the word.
For a sick, blinding instant Monk wanted to escape. How many men could he lose in a swordfight in the candlelight, with the thieves and the Fat Man’s men against them?
Then his mind cleared. What were the odds to do with anything? They were policemen. They wore the queen’s uniform. The Fat Man would take the carving and the police would have stood by like cowards and watched. Monk knew exactly how many men he would lose then—all of them.
“Forward!” he said, and charged, heading for the Fat Man.
The next moments were violent, painful, and terrifying. Monk was in the thick of it, and at first the cutlass felt strange in his hand. He was not sure whether to stab with it or hack. A thin man, scrawny but surprisingly powerful, swung at him with a cudgel and caught him a glancing blow on the arm. The pain of it jerked him into reality and hot anger. He swung back with the cutlass and missed. A knife tore the flesh of his right shoulder, and he felt the hot blood. This time his cutlass did not miss and the jar of its blade on bone rocked him.
But beyond the first taste of bile in his mouth, there was no time to think what he might have done. Orme was to his right, in trouble, and Clacton beyond was struggling. Jones came to his rescue. Where was the Fat Man?
Monk turned and slashed at Orme’s attacker, catching only his sleeve. Then again and again the metallic clash of steel, the smells of sweat and blood fresh over the stink of slime.
He was hit from behind and fell forward, managing at the last moment to hold his blade clear. He rolled over and scrambled up again. He lashed back and this time struck flesh. There was a yell, and curses all around him. At least his own men were easier to recognize by the outline of their uniform tunics, although most of their hats had been lost in the battle.
Some memory within his own muscles brought back the skill to balance and lunge, to duck, keep upright, push forward and strike. His blood was hot and in some wild way he was almost enjoying it. He barely felt his own pain.
Then suddenly he was backed into a corner. There were two men in front of him, not one, and then a third. Fear was sick and real. He could not fight three men. How had he been so careless?
A blade arced up. He saw