Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [91]
In the morning Tellman went straight to the prison where Jones was being held and asked to see him. The charge of passing forged money was very serious, if it could be proved, but it was not always easy to do. People made poor imitation of notes, never claiming they were real. It was known as flash money and was used in theaters, games, and tricks. That was distinct from counterfeit, which was intended to be taken as real.
Tellman had been careful to plant counterfeit money with the landlord who had passed it to Jones. Since Jones had taken it in extortion, he could not pass the blame to the landlord and therefore exonerate himself. Even so, he might well think up some other excuse and get his freedom within a reasonably short time.
He faced Tellman with a confusion of anger and the desire not to antagonize the police until he was sure exactly where his best chances lay.
“What d’yer want?” he said sullenly, when the cell door was closed.
Tellman looked him up and down. Without the large coat on, Jones was a far less massive figure, lean and slightly potbellied, his toes turned in, pigeonlike. But his dark face was not without strength, and a good deal of cunning, as he stared back at Tellman. He might be a tool of Grover’s, but he was not a foolish or unwilling one.
Tellman considered trying to copy Pitt’s easy manner, but he was too angry. It would be better to stay with his own sparse, slightly dour nature. “Something that would do you good, and me too,” he answered.
“Yeah? Well I don’ think as yer’d come ’ere jus’ ter do me good,” Jones said sarcastically. He might be of Welsh ancestry, but he had none of the music of Wales in his voice.
“You’re in a spot of bother,” Tellman observed. “Caught with a counterfeit five-pound note. Bad business, that.”
“It ain’t counterfeit,” Jones contradicted him. “It’s flash—nuffin’ wrong in that. You made a mistake. You police is always makin’ mistakes.”
“No, it isn’t flash,” Tellman argued. “It looks real unless you know the difference. Paper’s wrong, that’s all.”
Jones looked aggrieved. “Then ’ow was I ter know it weren’t real. I got took! It’s me as you should be sorry for. I’m the one wot was robbed ’ere!”
Tellman affected innocence. “Of what, Mr. Jones?”
Jones was indignant.
“A finny, o’ course. You saw it! Took it off me. ’Ere was I thinkin’ it was the real thing. I bin ’ad!”
“Yes, it looks as if you have,” Tellman agreed. “Who by, I wonder. Do you know where you got it? Maybe he’s the one I should be talking to.”
“Yeah! Yer should, an’ all!” Jones agreed. “It were that thievin’ landlord of the Triple Plea! I got it just afore yer nicked me. I din’t ’ad time ter look at it proper, or I’d a known!”
“And brought it to us,” Tellman added, playing the game. “So we could go and speak to the landlord, and see where he got it, and if he knew it was forged.”
Jones winced. “Don’ use that word, Mr. Tellman, it ain’t nice. I knowed o’ forgers wot got crapped.”
“Don’t worry,” Tellman soothed him. “We’re not that free with the rope anymore. Keep it mostly for things like murder. Anyone killed, to do with this, was there? Then of course the rope’s the thing.”
“No o’ course there weren’t!” Jones said heatedly. “I only ’ad the bleedin’ thing for less than an hour!”
“You got it from the landlord at the Triple Plea?”
“Yeah!”
“Can you prove that?”
“Well…” Jones suddenly saw a pitfall.
“What was he paying you for?” Tellman asked innocently.
Jones’s mind raced; the reflection of it was in his eyes. Now the trap gaped in front of him.
Tellman waited.
“ ’E owed me money,” Jones said at last, a note of desperation in his voice. “ ’E’ll tell yer that!” he added, seeking to add a touch of defiance, brazening it out.
“For what?” Tellman asked.
“That in’t none o’ yer business.” Jones was beginning to feel safer. He had very neatly avoided a nasty trap. “I done ’im a favor.”
“Big favor, was it? You had twenty-seven pounds on you. Or had you done favors for other people as well, and just by