The Dark Assassin (30 page)

Scuff shrugged.
"Oh, well, mebbe you'll find suffink then. There's a man wi' real good
pies round there, on the other side o' the road."

"And
tea?"

Scuff rolled his
eyes in exasperation. "O course 'e's got tea! Pies in't no good wi'out
tea!"

In the afternoon
Monk went back to his river patrol duties, forcing the Havilland case and all
its implications out of his mind. The thefts had to be dealt with. He owed that
to Durban, but more than that, to Orme. There was also the question of Clacton.
He was very well aware that he had dealt with him only temporarily. Clacton was
watching, awaiting his chance to catch Monk in another weakness or error. It
was about more than money. His own promotion? To please someone else? Simply to
gain another commander, one he could manipulate more easily?

The reason
mattered little. It could not wait much longer. Orme, at least, was expecting
him to act. Maybe they all were. Had Runcorn dreaded Monk the same way, as one
of the burdens that comes with leadership, to be endured until it can be dealt
with? He winced at the thought.

The river was
cold, the incoming tide swift and choppy, and he was kept very fully occupied
dealing with a warehouse theft. At half past six it was solved and he stood
alone on an old pier beyond King Edward's Stairs. It was totally dark in the
shelter of a half-burned warehouse. Across the water the shore lights glittered
as the wind blurred them. Lightermen were calling out to each other below him
on the river, gusts of wind snatching their voices and distorting their words.

He heard the
boat bump against the steps and someone's feet climbing up, then Orme's solid
figure was silhouetted against the faint light on the water.

Monk moved
forward. "Found the cargo," he said quietly. "Did you get the
boat they used?"

"Yes, sir.
Butterworth's gone to assist 'em now." Orme paused, then said, "I
'ear as the Mets arrested Sixsmith. That true?" At Monk's nod, he sighed.
"Must say I believed it were Argyll. Not as clever as I thought I
were." His voice was rueful.

"I thought
it was Argyll too," Monk agreed. "I still do." He told Orme
briefly of his intention to find the assassin.

Orme was
dubious. "Yer'll be lucky ter see 'ide or 'air of 'im, Mr. Monk. But I'll
'elp you all I can. If anyone'd know 'im, it'd be river men, or folks that live
in the tunnels, or Jacob's Island. 'E could be just a passing seaman, off to
Burma, the fever jungles o' Panama, or the Cape o' Good 'Ope by now."

"He wasn't
a seaman," Monk said with conviction. "Pale face, thin, and he used a
gun. In fact, he used Havilland's own gun. There was a good deal of careful
planning in this. I think he kills for a living."

"There's
'im as do," Orme agreed.

The subject
turned to the careful laying of the trap that would not only catch the actual
thieves on the passenger boats, but would lead, with proof, to the hand behind
them. Monk and Orme sincerely hoped that that was the Fat Man.

"It'll be
dangerous," Orme warned. "It could turn ugly."

Monk smiled.
"Yes, I'm sure it could. There's been something ugly about it from the
beginning."

Monk expected
Orme to respond, perhaps to deny it, but he remained silent. Why? Did he not understand
what Monk was alluding to, or did he already know the answer? Why should he
trust Monk, a newcomer to the river police? He barely knew him. They had never
faced a real danger together-nothing more than choppy weather, the odd barge
out of control, or night work, when a ship in the dark could be lethal. It was
not enough to test a man's courage or loyalty to his fellows. Trust needed to
be earned, and only a fool placed his life in another man's hands blindly.

Or was he
protecting someone? Could he want Monk to fail, spectacularly, so Orme could
take his place? Orme deserved it. The men trusted him. Durban had. Which
brought Monk back to the old question: Why had Durban recommended Monk for the
post? It made no sense, and standing here in the dark on the windy embankment
with the constant slap of the water against the stones, he felt as exposed as
if he had been naked in the lights.

Still he asked
the question. "Who put out the word that we are corrupt? It came from
someone."

"I dunno,
sir." Orme's voice was low and hard. "But certain as death, I mean
ter find out."

They heard the
boat bump against the steps. It was time to go on patrol. Neither said anything
more. The plan would begin the following afternoon. There was much to go over
and prepare before then.

In order to
catch the Fat Man himself they needed the thieves to steal one article of such
value that they could neither divide it, as they would a haul of money, nor
break it up, as they would a piece of jewelry, selling the separate stones. It
had to be something that was of worth only if it remained whole, yet too
specialized and too valuable to sell themselves.

Monk and Orme
had obtained Farnham's permission to borrow an exquisite carving of ivory and
gold. Intact, it was worth a fortune; broken, its only value was in the weight
of the gold, which wasn't much. Even at a glance, a pickpocket would know that
such a carving, in good condition, was worth enough to keep him for a decade,
if fenced successfully.

Farnham had
insisted that Monk himself carry it.

"You can
look the part," he said with a curl of his mouth as he passed over the
figure, wrapped in a soft chamois leather cloth. He surveyed Monk's beautifully
cut jacket and white shirt with its silk cravat, and then his trousers and
polished boots. Such clothes were a legacy from Monk's earlier years, before
the accident, when most of his money went to his tailor. They were not the
fashion of a season, as a woman's gown would have been, but timeless elegance.
They spoke of old money, the kind of taste that is innate, not put on to
impress others. Farnham might not have been able to describe it, but he knew
what it meant. It was inappropriate in a subordinate, which was why Farnham's
smile troubled Monk. He remembered how Runcorn had hated his attire, and it
made him even more uneasy.

"Thank you,
sir." He took the carving and slipped it into the inside pocket of his
coat. It made a slight bump, pulling it out of shape.

"Take care
of it, Monk," Farnham warned. "The River Police will go out of business
if you lose that! With the word going around now, no one will believe we didn't
take it ourselves."

Monk felt odd.
Was he walking straight into a trap, knowing it and yet still stupid enough to
step in? Or caught tightly enough to have no choice?

"Yes, sir."
His voice was rasping, as if the night air off the river had caught in his
throat already.

"Orme will
give you a cutlass later," Farnham added. "Can't let you have a
weapon yet. Even a knife a thief would feel and know there was something wrong.
It's a shame. Leaves you a bit vulnerable, but can't be helped." He was
still smiling, thin-lipped, barely showing his teeth. "Good luck."

"Thank
you." Monk turned and left, going to the outer room where the other men
were waiting. Two of them were dressed as passengers, in order to keep a
firsthand watch on the thieves. The rest were to remain in their own police
boats close at hand, so they could follow anyone easily if they were to escape
by water.

Orme nodded and
signaled the men to go. Monk noticed with a chill and an anxious dryness in his
mouth that they all carried cutlasses in their belts. Three of them carried
extra weapons as well, to arm those who were disguised, should the whole
operation end in violence. Monk had no idea if he had ever fought hand to hand
in his years before the accident, and certainly he had not since then. He was a
detective, not a uniformed officer. It was too late now to wonder if he was up
to it-strong enough, quick enough, even if he had any skill with a cutlass.

He followed the
men out into the hard, cold wind. Each was prepared, knowing his duty, the main
plan, and the contingency. There was nothing more to say.

Outside on the
quay, Orme divided his armed men into three boats, and they pulled out and
headed upriver. Monk and the two others who were dressed as passengers took a
hansom up to Westminster, where they boarded the next ferry down towards
Greenwich.

The tide was
slack, but the wind was raw. As they pulled out into the river, Monk was glad
to go with the other passengers below deck into the cramped cabin, where there
was some shelter. There were at least fifty other people on board: men and
women and several children. Everyone was wrapped up in winter coats that offered
a host of places easy enough to hide the proceeds from picked pockets. One
obese gentleman wore a fur-collared coat that flapped as he walked. He could
have hidden half a dozen one-pound bags of sugar without causing any further
bulges on his person.

A thin woman
with voluminous shawls scolded three children who trailed after her. She looked
like an ordinary housewife, but Monk knew perfectly well that she could also be
a passer of stolen goods, one to whom the pickpocket gave them until he was
safely free of suspicion and could take them back. She would get her cut, in
time.

The plan was
that if no one robbed him on the way down to Greenwich, he was to meet with one
of the other policemen who was dressed as a passenger and show him the carving,
as if intending to sell it to him. The policeman would pretend to decline and
Monk would return to Westminster. He refused even to imagine the possibility of
the thieves taking it and not being caught. On the other hand, if they were
arrested too soon, then the whole operation was abortive. The police would have
the thief-the fingers of the crime-but not the brain or the heart.

A man bumped
against him, apologized, and moved on.

Monk's hands
went to his pocket. The carving was still there.

It happened
again, and again. He was so nervous his fingers were stiff and trembling.

Butterworth
bumped into him and apologized, using the password to let him know that he had
been robbed. Why was the carving not gone? Without the theft they would not
need to find the Fat Man.

They were past
the Surrey Docks and heading down the Limehouse Reach.

Ten minutes
later Monk's pocket was empty, and he had not even felt it. Panic broke over
him in a wave, the sweat hot and then cold on his skin. He had no idea who had
taken it, not even whether it was man or woman. He spun around. Where was
Butterworth?

"Thin man,
mustache, sad face like a rat," Constable Jones said almost at his elbow.
"Over there, by the way up to the deck."

Monk found
himself gasping with relief, barely able to draw enough air into his lungs.
Should he say he knew who had taken the statue? The lie died on his lips. Jones
would see in his reaction that he had not. "Thank you," he said
instead. "He's the one we have to watch, never mind the others."

Butterworth was
almost six feet from the man with the mustache. He was pretending to look for
something in his coat pocket, but his eyes were on the man. He had seen, too.
He and Jones were good, quicker than Monk.

The boat reached
the Dog and Duck Stairs, and the man with the carving got off. Monk, Jones, and
Butterworth got off behind him, as did half a dozen others.

The man walked
down the quay back towards the Greenland Dock. It was dark, and there was a
smell of rain in the wind. Here and there the streetlamps were lit. It was in
some ways the most difficult time to keep anyone in sight. The shadows were
deceptive; you thought you saw someone, and suddenly you didn't. There were
pools of light, and long stretches of gloom. The sound and movement and
shifting reflections of water were everywhere.

Monk, Jones, and
Butterworth moved separately, trying to give themselves three chances not to
lose him. It would be better to arrest him and catch no one else than lose the
carving. But then the whole exercise would have been a failure. One thief was
hardly here or there. They would have betrayed their hand for nothing.

They were moving
south again. Orme and his men should be keeping pace with them along the river.

There was
another man in the shadows. Monk stopped abruptly, afraid of catching up and
being seen. Then he realized he should not have stopped. It drew attention to
him. It was years since he had done this sort of thing. He retraced his steps a
couple of yards and bent down as if to pick up something he had dropped, then went
forward again. The new man had caught up with the thief. His outline under the
lamppost looked familiar. He was short and fat with a long overcoat and a
brimless hat. He had been on that boat-another thief?

A third man had
joined them by the time they turned right and reached another ancient set of
steps down to the water. A boat was waiting for them, and almost immediately
the darkness swallowed them.