Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [99]
It was bitterly cold, and the narrow alleys made funnels for the wind. The dim figures Pitt passed were hunched forward, heads sunk into their shoulders, faces averted. In doorways sleepers piled together like sacks for the heat of each other’s bodies. The splinters of a broken gin bottle caught a gleam of light from a gas lamp.
Pitt found the Triple Plea after only one false turn. Pushing his way through the raucous drinkers in the public bar, he reached the counter. The landlord, in a beer-stained calico apron, shirt sleeves at half mast, looked at his unfamiliar face warily.
“Yeah?”
“Anyone asking for me?” Pitt asked quietly. “Name’s Pitt.”
“An’ why should I know that? I in’t a public service!”
“Oh, but you are.” Pitt forced a civil expression to his face. He fished in his pocket and brought out a sixpence. “And services should be paid for, when they’re worth it. When someone does ask, you tell me. Meantime I’ll have a cider.”
The man eyed the money ungraciously, pulled a draft cider into a tankard, and pushed it across. “There y’are. ’Is name’s Black Sam, an’ ’e’s over in the corner wiv a blue shirt and a brown coat—an’ the cider’ll be extra.”
“Naturally,” Pitt agreed, and added another tuppence. He took the glass and sipped from it gingerly. Actually it was rough and sweet, and surprisingly good. Taking a long drink, he made his way quite slowly over to the corner indicated, his eyes roaming to find the patterer. Several of the men here were probably of that occupation; they were not far from the printing houses, and they had the mobile faces, the quick eyes and lean figures of men who were constantly on the move.
He saw a man with an unusually dark complexion and a bright blue shirt sitting over a jar of ale. Almost immediately their eyes met, and Pitt knew it was S. Smith; there was an air of waiting in him, a restless scanning of faces. Pitt forced his way through and stopped in front of the cramped table.
“Mr. Smith?”
“That’s right.”
“Pitt. You said that for a consideration you could help me.”
“So I can. Drink yer cider; then when I leave, foller me out a minute or two be’ind. Don’t want ter give folks reason ter think, thinkin’ in’t good fer ’em. I’ll be outside on the street opposite. I ’ope yer’ve brought summink gen’rous wiv yer? I don’t give no credit. Noos is noos, an’ I makes me livin’ by it.”
“Sometimes it is,” Pitt said coolly. “Sometimes it’s lies. I’ve heard plenty of good cocks before.” A “cock” was a colorful melodrama invented when real news was slow; there were several famous ones making the rounds.
Black Sam smiled, showing crooked teeth that were surprisingly clean. “Sure. But they’re fer entertainin’ ladies as like a good cry an’ no ’arm done if the story is a bit—decorated like. That’s art.”
“Quite. Well, I’d like nature, or nothing.”
“Oh, you’ll get it, don’t fret.” And he stood up, tipped his mug back and drained it to the last drop, set it back on the bench, and pushed past Pitt without looking at him again. A moment later he had disappeared.
Pitt finished his cider without hurrying, then edged his way out into the night. The fine drizzle had stopped and it was beginning to freeze over. There were no stars because of the pall of smoke that hung over the city from the tens of thousands of chimneys. He could see the dim outline of Black Sam on the far curb. He crossed over and approached him.
“How much?” Sam said pleasantly without moving.
“If I find the woman in the pink dress and she’s the right one, half a crown.”
“An’ wot’s ter stop yer sayin’ it in’t the right one?”
Pitt had already thought of that. “My reputation. If I fiddle you out of what’s rightly yours for services rendered, no one’ll give