The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [35]
“Twelve pound, ten!” he said in horror. “It’s worth more than twice that! Twenty, at the very least.”
She thought for a moment, looking at him through her eyelashes. “Fifteen,” she offered.
“Twenty?” He could not afford to lose her, or to appear to give in too easily.
This time she considered for longer.
Monk felt a sweat break out on his body in the warm room. He had made a mistake. He had let his desperation push him into going too far. Now he had no retreat.
“Seventeen,” she said at last.
“Right,” he agreed, his mouth dry. He wanted to escape this stifling house and be outside alone in the street to think of a way to extricate himself, and still be able to hear any information Little Lil might give him. “Thank you.” He inclined his head slightly, and saw her acknowledge it with a gleam of satisfaction. She liked him. He despised himself for playing on it, at the same time as he knew he had to.
In the street, he was barely beyond the ring of the lamplight when Scuff materialized from the darkness.
“Yer got anyfink?” he asked eagerly.
Monk swore under his breath.
Scuff giggled with satisfaction. “She like yer, does she?” he said.
Monk realized Scuff had expected it, and he reached out to clip him over the ear for the acute embarrassment he had suffered, but Scuff ducked sideways and Monk’s hand missed him. Not that it would have hurt more than a slight sting. He was still laughing.
They reached the main street running parallel with the docks and crossed into the better light. Monk turned to Scuff again, and realized he was not there. He saw a shadow in front of him, a row of buttons gleaming on a dark jacket, a solidity, a confidence to him.
“Has his wits about him more’n yer have, Mr. Monk,” the man observed.
Monk froze. The man was River Police; he knew it with certainty—more than the uniform, it was the quiet authority in him, the sense of pride in his calling. He did not need to threaten, not even to raise his voice. He was the law and he understood its worth. If only Monk had that same dignity, the fellowship of all the other quiet men who kept order on the river and its immediate shore. Suddenly the reality of his aloneness was almost beyond bearing.
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said stiffly, with more than necessary politeness.
“Durban,” the man replied. “Inspector Durban o’ the River Police. I haven’t seen you here before a couple o’ days ago. You say you’re looking for work, but it doesn’t seem to me like you want it. Why would that be, Mr. Monk?”
Monk ached to tell him the truth, but he dared not. He was committed to Clement Louvain, and to his own need.
“I’d rather work with my brain than bending my back,” he replied, putting an edge of truculence in his voice that he did not feel.
“There’s not much call for brain work down on the dock,” Durban pointed out. “Least not that’s legal. There’s a lot that’s not, as I’m sure you know. But I wonder if you really know how dangerous that is? You wouldn’t believe the number of dead bodies we pick up out of the water, an’ there’s no one to say how they got in there. I wouldn’t like yours to be one of ’em, Mr. Monk. Just be a little bit careful, eh? Don’t go messing with the likes o’ Little Lil Fosdyke, or the Fat Man, or Mr. Weskit. There’s no room for more opulent receivers than we’ve already got. Do you take my meaning?”
“I’m sure there isn’t,” Monk agreed, hating the lies. “My interest is in running errands and being of service to people who can’t do all their own jobs. I don’t buy or sell goods.”
“Really . . .” Durban said with disbelief. His face was almost unreadable in the near darkness, but his voice was sad, as if he had expected better, fewer lies at least.
Monk remembered with a jarring urgency being in exactly the same position, seeing a man well-dressed, well-spoken, hoping he was in the run-down alley only by chance, and realizing within minutes that he was a thief. He remembered his disappointment. He drew in his breath to explain himself to Durban and then let it out again in a sigh.