Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [143]
“I got two older brothers. One's a drunk and one's in prison. Which one do you want?”
“By the sound of it, neither of them. I need someone who's wise enough not to fall into a bottle and bright enough not to get caught when he does something slick. How smart are you?”
“Smarter'n you, mister, if you think I'll fall for that guff.”
“Up to you. I need a job done, and I'm willing to pay, but if you're not interested, I'll find someone else.”
“What kind of job?”
“The kind of job that takes brains and the ability to keep his friends under control.”
The boy looked at the friends in question, standing in a knot just a little further down the alley. Then he looked back at Holmes, and took a couple of steps closer. “Like I said—what kind of a job?”
The negotiations that followed would have done a wigged barrister proud, but in the end, Holmes had bought the day's services of the boy's pack: keeping constant watch over the Hammett door, running a messenger to the St Francis if anyone came to the apartment, and following discreetly when the intruder left.
“You'll need to be wary of the boot-leggers on the ground floor,” he warned his new lieutenant. “They may stand watch in the evenings. And if an intruder comes, you are not to approach him, or her as the case may be. You will follow, at a distance, for as long as you can. If she—or he—gets into a taxi, don't try to run behind or draw attention to yourself by trying to hail a taxi of your own. Just get the cab's number and we can later find where the driver went. Er, I am correct in assuming you can all read numbers?” The scornful snort the lad gave out reminded Holmes of Russell; it also satisfied him, and he went on. “If she goes into a shop, one of you go around the back to make sure—”
“Mister,” the leader interrupted with infinite disdain, “we know all this. My uncle runs a betting shop, and when one of his customers don't pay up, sometimes he asks us to help lay hands on the guy. You're doin' what he calls ‘Teaching granny to suck eggs,' whatever that means. Sounds disgusting, but that's what you're doin'.”
Holmes beamed at the boy and reached out a hand to pat the disreputable tweed cap, then changed the gesture to the offer of a hand-shake, which the lad eyed curiously, then accepted. “You give me hope for the coming generation,” he said. “You needn't continue all night, as the man who lives there will be at home, but if nothing has happened today, I'd like you back here tomorrow. Same rates. I'll come back here first thing in the morning, to pay you what I owe you and receive your report.” He handed over the agreed-to retainer of two dollars and left the pack to their work.
At the end of the alleyway, he stopped to change his neck-tie for one less gaudy, reverse his coat so that its staid side was facing out, snap the brim of his hat down into dignity, and brush the dust from his trouser-legs and shoes.
He entered Chinatown with the appearance of just another stray from the financial district, looking for a late lunch.
It took a while before Long could extricate himself from customers, a while longer while they settled into the corner of a tea-house, and even longer before he grasped what Holmes was asking.
“You think there is treasure buried in the Russell garden, and you want me to help you find it?” He was too polite to sound openly incredulous, but it was in the back of his voice.
“I believe there is something of importance hidden in the grounds, yes. Consider, if you will, three points. First, Charles Russell wrote a codicil to his will shortly after the fire, making it nearly impossible for any outsider to gain access to the property, a thing most easily explained by the presence of something either valuable or incriminating on the premises. Second, a thorough search of the house interior gave us nothing. And third, your family, long and faithful though their service seems to have been, appears nowhere