Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [82]
“Thank you, sir.”
Narraway glared at him.
It was dusk when Pitt walked slowly down the cobbled street towards the last public house to collect the extortion money. He was trying to judge the exact manner to display. If he looked completely unafraid he might arouse suspicion. He had robbed an organization of a considerable amount of money. If he were not afraid, it could only be because he believed he had greater strength than they did. If they saw that, then this whole exercise was wasted, and he could not start again. It would not work a second time.
He could hear no footsteps behind him, only the moving and shifting in doorways of beggars half asleep, the scuttle of rats’ feet in the side alley, and the drip of leaking roofs and guttering. Fifty yards away someone laughed. He sounded drunk. Please God that Narraway’s man was close too, watching him, there to protect him when the time came. Narraway could not afford to lose him, he was essential to his war against Wetron. There’d be nothing left of Special Branch if Wetron became commissioner.
Pitt tripped over a loose cobble and nearly pitched over. Narraway could not be a member of the Circle, could he? Double bluff!
A man was crossing the road towards him, a big man with heavy shoulders. The streetlamps were not lit yet, but there was still enough daylight to see his face. It was broad, big-nosed, a scar over one cheek. His left ear was almost shapeless from bruising and tearing.
He stepped in front of Pitt. When he spoke his voice was soft with a faint burr to it.
“I wouldn’t go askin’ fer that if I wuz you. In’t no point, cos’ I got it, see?” He was Pitt’s height, and they stood face-to-face on the narrow pavement, about two feet apart. Pitt could feel the sweat run down his body and freeze. He prayed that his voice would stay steady enough to hide the fear that rippled through him.
“Did you collect the usual amount?” he asked politely.
“Course I did! Wot ’appened ter Mister Jones?”
“You don’t know?” Pitt affected surprise. “He got careless. Took a bit of flash paper instead of the real thing. Got caught with it.”
The big man pursed his lips. “Jones is too fly for that. Wot really ’appened?”
“It was a good copy. He got careless.”
“Did you make that ’appen, then?”
Pitt decided to take the credit. “I have plans,” he said in reply. “I can make more out of this than he did. I have contacts. And what you’ll like about it is that I can make more for you too. That is, if you like?”
“Oh yeah? An’ ’ow’s that, then?” the man asked skeptically. “Tell me why I shouldn’t stick a shiv inter yer gut an’ take it all, eh?”
“Because I haven’t got it with me, of course!” Pitt responded. “Stick a knife in me now, and you’ll never know what I plan, and more to the point, you won’t have any money to take back to your…master.” He invested the word with contempt.
“In’t nobody’s my master!” the other man snarled.
“Jones the Pocket was working for you?” Pitt damned the idea as idiotic by the laughter in his voice. “You’re an errand boy, a carrier of messages. But you don’t have to be…Mr.—?”
“Yancy.” He was interested, in spite of himself, but he kept his right hand in his pocket, where Pitt guessed he had his fingers around the hilt of a knife.
“You happy with being a messenger, Mr. Yancy?” Pitt was shaking slightly, his heart was knocking in his chest. “Safe, is it?”
“What do you want then?” Yancy asked cautiously.
“Who do you give it to?”
“If I tell you that, you’ll take my place!” Yancy spat. “Think I’m a fool?”
“Not your place, Mr. Yancy, I want far more than that! I want his place!” He saw the doubt in Yancy’s eyes. He had not gone far enough. How much did Yancy know? It all hung on persuading him now. A word too much, a word too little, and it would slip out of his grasp. “There are people getting a bit above themselves,” he said, his voice catching. He needed to cough, to clear his throat, but it would betray his nerves.