The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [111]
“You wrote police identification papers for two men, purporting to come from the Lye Street station.” He made a statement, not a question. “I don’t want you for it; I want the men. It’s a case of murder, so you’d do well to stay on the right side of it.”
The man leered, his thin lips stretching wide in some private amusement. “You Monk?”
“And if I am?” He was surprised the man had heard of him. Was his reputation so wide? Apparently it was.
“Your case they walked inter, was it?” The man’s mirth bubbled over in a silent chuckle, shaking his mass of flesh.
“It’s my case now,” Monk replied. He did not want to tell the man the robbery and the murder were separate; the threat of hanging was too useful.
“Wotcher want?” the man asked. His voice was hoarse, as if from too much shouting or laughter, yet it was hard imagining him doing either.
“Who are they?” Monk pressed.
“Now Mr. Monk, ’ow should I know?” His massive shoulders were still twitching. “Do I ask people’s names?”
“Probably not, but you know who they are. Don’t pretend to be stupid; it doesn’t suit you.”
“I know some people,” he conceded in little more than a whisper. “’Course I do; but not every muck snipe ’oo tries ’is ’and at thievin’.”
“Muck snipe?” Monk looked at him with derision. “Since when did you hand out fakements for nothing? You don’t do favors for down-and-outs. They paid you, or someone did. If they didn’t pay you themselves, tell me who did; that’ll do.”
The man’s narrow eyes widened a fraction. “Oh clever, Mr. Monk, very clever.” He clapped his broad, powerful hands together in soundless applause.
“So who paid you?”
“My business is confidential, Mr. Monk. Lose it all if I starts putting the down on people wot comes ter me. It was a moneylender, that’s all I’ll tell yer.”
“Not much call for a screever in Australia.” Monk looked at the man’s subtle, sensitive fingers. “Hard labor—bad climate.”
“Put me on the boat, would yer?” The man’s lip curled. “Yer’d ’ave ter catch me first, and yer know as well as I do yer’d never find me.” The smile on his face did not alter even a fraction. “An’ yer’d be a fool ter look; ’orrible fings ’appen ter a Peeler as gets caught in ver rookeries, if ve word goes aht.”
“And horrible things happen to a screever who informs on his clients—if the word goes out,” Monk added immediately. “Horrible things—like broken fingers. And what use is a screever without his fingers?”
The man stared at him, suddenly hatred undisguised in his heavy eyes.
“An’ w’y should the word go out, Mr. Monk, seein’ as ’ow I aven’t told yer nuffink?”
In the doorway Evan moved uncomfortably. Monk ignored him.
“Because I shall put it out,” he replied, “that you have.”
“But you ain’t got no one fer yer robbery.” The hoarse whisper was level again, the amusement creeping back. “I’ll find someone.”
“Takes time, Mr. Monk; and ’ow are yer goin’ ter do it if I don’t tell yer?”
“You are leaping to conclusions, screever,” Monk said ruthlessly. “It doesn’t have to be the right ones; anyone will do. By the time the word gets back I have the wrong people, it’ll be too late to save your fingers. Broken fingers heal hard, and they ache for years, so I’m told.”
The man called him something obscene.
“Quite.” Monk looked at him with disgust. “So who paid you?”
The man glared at him, hate hot in his face.
“Who paid you?” Monk leaned forward a little.
“Josiah Wigtight, moneylender,” the man spat out. “Find ’im in Gun Lane, Whitechapel. Now get out!”
“Moneylender. What sort of people does he lend money to?”
“The sort o’ people wot can pay ’im back, o’ course, fool!”
“Thank you.” Monk smiled and straightened up. “Thank you, screever; your business is secure. You have told us nothing.”
The screever swore at him again, but Monk was out of the door and hurrying down the rickety stairs, Evan, anxious and doubtful, at his heel, but Monk offered him no explanation, and did not meet his questioning look.
It was too late to try the moneylender that day, and all he could think of was to get out