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By Root 398 0

competent at your job, Inspector, you would start looking at some of those married women he used! Try Louisa Crabbe! I’ll wager you haven’t even thought of that, have you?” His eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction as he saw Pitt’s surprise. “No—I thought not! I wonder what Albert Crabbe thought of Max? I’ll wager he’d have been delighted to cut him to pieces in the most disgustingly intimate way!” He screwed up his face. Such vulgarity was offensive. He made a more than comfortable living out of the physical appetites of others, but he found such things distasteful himself. He sat down and crossed his legs.

The thought flickered through Pitt’s mind that Louisa Crabbe was an invention, but Ambrose’s face was too secure, too satisfied.

“Indeed,” Pitt said with as little expression as he could. “And where do I find this Albert Crabbe?”

Ambrose smiled. “My dear Inspector, are you completely incapable? How in God’s name do I know? Look through Max’s books—there’s bound to be some record of how he contacted her. He suited the women to the client, you know. This is not a merely haphazard business. One has to have a certain flair! We at this end of the market are not common, take-your-chance whorehouses!”

“Thank you,” Pitt said sarcastically. “I confess I had not fully appreciated your entrepreneurial art.”

“What?”

Pitt did not bother to explain. He felt a flicker of satisfaction, but it was a poor victory, and he knew it. The aftertaste was thin.

“I imagine Louisa Crabbe was not the only one—simply the only one whose name you care to give me,” Pitt said.

“I told you, Inspector, Max Burton was of no importance to me.” Ambrose’s face was smooth again, unconcerned. “I didn’t bother to keep up with his comings and goings. Why should I? I have a steady clientele and I do very nicely. Naturally there were those he hurt in the way of taking their business. If I were you, I’d ask the Daltons. They’re in the cheap end of the trade. I dare say they had cause to be upset with Max.”

Pitt could go back to the police station and find out about the Daltons, but he could not be bothered to pretend. His pride was not worth it. “Where are they?” he asked.

A smile of superiority touched Ambrose’s mouth. “Crossgate Street. Really, Inspector, what would you do without me?”

“Ask someone else,” Pitt replied. “Don’t tempt me to think. If the Devil’s Acre were not such a cesspit, I’d be inclined to work for one whorehouse the fewer.” He glanced round the pale room. “But what difference would it make? Have you ever read of the labors of Hercules?”

Ambrose knew he was being insulted both directly and obscurely. He resented the one he did not understand the more.

“No, perhaps not,” Pitt answered his own question. “Look up the Augean Stables sometime. We might consider diverting the Thames!”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about!” Ambrose snapped. “Hadn’t you better get on with your job? It doesn’t strike me you’ve made so much progress that you can afford to stand around here wasting your time—and mine!”

It was hurtfully true. And with Hubert Pinchin and Bertie Astley also dead, the motive for the murder of Max was becoming less and less important anyway.

“Was Sir Bertram Astley ever a customer of yours?” Pitt asked as a parting shot from the doorway.

Ambrose raised his thready eyebrows. “Really, Inspector, do you imagine I ask gentlemen for their names? Don’t be naive!”

“No, I didn’t imagine you asked them, Ambrose,” Pitt replied levelly. “But I most certainly imagined you knew!”

Ambrose smiled. In an obscure way it was an admission of his competence, of his professional skill. Indecision wavered for a moment in his face, then disappeared. “No,” he said at last. “Not Bertram Astley—nor Dr. Pinchin either.” His smile widened. “Sorry.”

Pitt believed him. The indecision he judged not to be whether to admit to it but whether to brag a little and pad out the importance of his clientele—and by implication the fact that he had nothing to fear from Max.

“No.” Pitt glanced around the room again and allowed a faint curl to