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Evan, with his fair face and wide, humorous eyes, looked too clean to be dishonest. There was none of the wiliness of a survivor in him; yet some of the best survivors of all were those most skilled in deception and the most innocent of face. The underworld was big enough for any variation of lie and fraud, and no weakness was left unexploited.

They began a little to the west of Mecklenburg Square, going to the King’s Cross Road. When the first tavern produced nothing immediate, they moved north to the Pentonville Road, then south and east again into Clerkenwell.

In spite of all that logic could tell him, by the following day Monk was beginning to feel as if he were on a fool’s errand, and Runcorn would have the last laugh. Then, in a congested public house by the name of the Grinning Rat, a scruffy little man, smiling, showing yellow teeth, slid into the seat beside them, looking warily at Evan. The room was full of noise, the strong smell of ale, sweat, the dirt of clothes and bodies long unwashed, and the heavy steam of food. The floor was covered with sawdust and there was a constant chink of glass.

“’Ello, Mr. Monk; I hain’t seen you for a long time. W’ere yer bin?”

Monk felt a leap of excitement and studied hard to hide it.

“Had an accident,” he answered, keeping his voice level.

The man looked him up and down critically and grunted, dismissing it.

“I ’ears as yer after som’un as’ll blow a little?”

“That’s right,” Monk agreed. He must not be too precipitate, or the price would be high, and he could not afford the time to bargain; he must be right first time, or he would appear green. He knew from the air, the smell of it, that haggling was part of the game.

“Worf anyfink?” the man asked.

“Could be.”

“Well,” the man said, thinking it over. “Yer always bin fair, that’s why I comes to yer ’stead o’ some ’o them other jacks. Proper mean, some o’ them; yer’d be right ashamed if yer knew.” He shook his head and sniffed hard, pulling a face of disgust.

Monk smiled.

“Wotcher want, then?” the man asked.

“Several things.” Monk lowered his voice even further, still looking across the table and not at the man. “Some stolen goods—a fence, and a good screever.”

The man also looked at the table, studying the stain ring marks of mugs.

“Plenty o’ fences, guv; and a fair few screevers. Special goods, these?”

“Not very.”

“W’y yer want ’em ven? Som’one done over bad?”

“Yes.”

“O’right, so wot are vey ven?”

Monk began to describe them as well as he could; he had only memory to go on.

“Table silver—”

The man looked at him witheringly.

Monk abandoned the silver. “A jade ornament,” he continued. “About six inches high, of a dancing lady with her arms up in front of her, bent at the elbows. It was pinky-colored jade—”

“Aw, nar vat’s better.” The man’s voice lifted; Monk avoided looking at his face. “Hain’t a lot o’ pink jade abaht,” he went on. “Anyfink else?”

“A silver scuttle, about four or five inches, I think, and a couple of inlaid snuffboxes.”

“Wot kind o’ snuffboxes, guv: siller, gold, enamel? Yer gotta give me mor’n vat!”

“I can’t remember.”

“Yer wot? Don’t ve geezer wot lorst ’em know?” His face darkened with suspicion and for the first time he looked at Monk. “’Ere! ’E croaked, or suffink?”

“Yes,” Monk said levelly, still staring at the wall. “But no reason to suppose the thief did it. He was dead long before the robbery.”

“Yer sure o’ vat? ’Ow d’yer know ’e were gorn afore?”

“He was dead two months before.” Monk smiled acidly. “Even I couldn’t mistake that. His empty house was robbed.”

The man thought this over for several minutes before delivering his opinion.

Somewhere over near the bar there was a roar of laughter.

“Robbin’ a deadlurk?” he said with heavy condescension. “Bit chancy to find anyfink, in’ it? Wot did yer say abaht a screever? Wot yer want a screever fer ven?”

“Because the thieves used forged police papers to get in,” Monk replied.

The man’s face lit up with delight and he chuckled