The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [114]
“Ah.” Wigtight breathed out deeply. He was a portly man, swelling out like a giant toad behind his desk, wide mouth split into a smile that died long before it reached his bulbous eyes. “Ah,” he repeated. “A matter of business somewhat delicate, Mr.—er?”
“Somewhat,” Monk agreed. He decided not to sit down in the soft, dark chair; he was almost afraid it would swallow him, like a mire, smother his judgment. He felt he would be at a disadvantage in it and not able to move if he should need to.
“Sit down, sit down!” Wigtight waved. “Let us talk about it. I’m sure some accommodation can be arrived at.”
“I hope so.” Monk perched on the arm of the chair. It was uncomfortable, but in this room he preferred to be uncomfortable.
“You are temporarily embarrassed?” Wigtight began. “You wish to take advantage of an excellent investment? You have expectations of a relative, in poor health, who favors you—”
“Thank you, I have employment which is quite sufficient for my needs.”
“You are a fortunate man.” There was no belief in his smooth, expressionless voice; he had heard every lie and excuse human ingenuity could come up with.
“More fortunate than Joscelin Grey!” Monk said baldly.
Wigtight’s face changed in only the minutest of ways—a shadow, no more. Had Monk not been watching for it he would have missed it altogether.
“Joscelin Grey?” Wigtight repeated. Monk could see in his face the indecision whether to deny knowing him or admit it as a matter of common knowledge. He decided the wrong way.
“I know no such person, sir.”
“You’ve never heard of him?” Monk tried not to press too hard. He hated moneylenders with far more anger than reason could tell him of. He meant to trap this soft, fat man in his own words, trap him and watch the bloated body struggle.
But Wigtight sensed a pitfall.
“I hear so many names,” he added cautiously.
“Then you had better look in your books,” Monk suggested. “And see if his is there, since you don’t remember.”
“I don’t keep books, after debts are paid.” Wigtight’s wide, pale eyes assumed a blandness. “Matter of discretion, you know. People don’t like to be reminded of their hard times.”
“How civil of you,” Monk said sarcastically. “How about looking through the lists of those who didn’t repay you?”
“Mr. Grey is not among them.”
“So he paid you.” Monk allowed only a little of his triumph to creep through.
“I have not said I lent him anything.”
“Then if you lent him nothing, why did you hire two men to deceive their way into his flat and ransack it? And incidentally, to steal his silver and small ornaments?” He saw with delight that Wigtight flinched. “Clumsy, that, Mr. Wigtight. You’re hiring a very poor class of ruffian these days. A good man would never have helped himself on the side like that. Dangerous; brings another charge into it—and those goods are so easy to trace.”
“You’re police!” Wigtight’s understanding was sudden and venomous.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t hire thieves.” Now Wigtight was hedging, trying to gain time to think, and Monk knew it.
“You hire collectors, who turned out to be thieves as well,” Monk said immediately. “The law doesn’t see any difference.”
“I hire people to do my collecting, of course,” Wigtight agreed. “Can’t go out into the streets after everybody myself.”
“How many do you call on with forged police papers, two months after you’ve murdered them?”
Every vestige of color drained out of Wigtight’s face, leaving it gray, like a cold fish skin. Monk thought for a moment he was having some kind of a fit, and he felt no concern at all.
It was long seconds before Wigtight could speak,