He waited patiently, the odour of old sweat and bad breath and acidic beer and stale piss clogging his nostrils. He didn't have to wait for long.
'So they're in Mile End now, are they?' shouted Spooner above the noise.
'Yus,' said Penniforth.
'They'll be 'ere next, then,' said the East Ender, with an air of resignation. 'My mate over in Wapping lost 'is tenant to 'em last week.'
'Wotcher mean, `lost'?'
'They snatched one of the kids what roomed at 'is place. That's what they do-they steal the nippers, though most of the kids what were taken 'ave come back since. They took 'em from Whitechapel first, then Shadwell, Wapping these weeks past, and now I guess it's Mile End's turn.'
'Bloody 'ell. What are they?'
'Dunno, mate. Dogs. Wolves. Men. Summick in-between. You know they explode?'
'Explode?' uttered Burton. 'What do yer mean?'
'I've 'eard of three occasions when it's 'appened: they burst into flames for no reason and burn like dry straw 'til there ain't nuffink of'em left! I wish the 'ole lot o' them would go up like that. It's hell draggin' 'em back, if yer arsk me!'
'It's a rum do, that's fer sure!' said Burton.
'Come on, Pa-we'd better be off,' urged Penniforth.
'I'll finish me drink first,' objected Burton.
''Urry it up, then!'
'You seen an artist around?' Burton asked Spooner.
'Aye. Slick Sid Sedgewick is the best in the business. Why, you got a scam?'
'No, mate. Not a con artist. I mean an artist what draws and paints.'
Spooner spluttered into his glass. 'You gotta be jokin'! A paintin' artist around 'ere!'
'I just 'eard there was one, that's all.'
'What is it, Dad? You wanna get yer portrait done 'n' hanged in the National bleedin' Gallery?'
'All right, all right!' protested Burton.
He and Penniforth swigged back the last of their gin and bid Spooner farewell.
'Good luck to yer!' he said as they pushed away from the bar and heaved their way through the throng to the door. They burst out into the alleyway hoping for a breath of fresh air and getting quite the opposite.
It was well past midnight. The atmosphere was thick, loathsome, and catarrhal.
'Wapping's about a mile away as the crow flies,' said Burton in a low voice. 'Probably considerably farther through this maze.'
'Don't worry, guv'nor, I knows the way.'
'Are you up for it?'
'In for a penny, in for a pound.'
'Good man! And well done-the way you got information out of that Spooner fellow was admirable! Thanks to you, we now know where the loupsgarous are hunting.'
'The what?'
'Men-wolves.'
They resumed their trek through the hellish backstreets and, once again, were accosted every few minutes with varying degrees of pleading and promised violence. Only their pistols and Montague Penniforth's great size kept the knifemen, club wielders, and garrotters at bay.
Even those deterrents failed as they crossed Cable Street and entered the outskirts of Wapping.
They'd just passed along juniper Street and turned left into an unnamed alley when, from dark doorways to either side, a gang of men hurled themselves out and threw a large blanket over Penniforth, tripping him and, as he crashed to the ground, piling on top of him. He struggled and yelled but with five heavyset thugs applying their full weight, he was helpless.
Meanwhile, Burton found himself surrounded by three hard-eyed mentwo in front of him and one behind-each sneering, each waving a dagger threateningly.
He stood still, maintaining his guise as an elderly seaman, his back a little crooked, his eyes peering short- sightedly at the gang.
'W-what do yer want?' he stuttered, weakly.
'What 'ave you got?' replied one of the men, the apparent leader. He was tall, rat-faced, with a tangled black beard and lank hair.
'Nuffink.'
'Is that so? Funny, 'cos I see a nice pair o' strong boots on yer feet, an' word 'as reached me that there's a pistol under that there warm-lookin' coat o' yours. Don't go for it if yer wanna live.'
Burton heard the man behind taking a step forward.
Just one more, my friend, he thought.
'An' that bowler you're a-wearing on your 'ead will look just fine an' dandy on mine, I reckons.'
'Ummph!' came Penniforth's voice from inside the blanket.
The step was taken.
Burton whirled and straightened, his right arm shot up, and his fist connected with the man's chin with such force that the jawbone broke with an audible snap and the crook's feet left the ground.
Before the man had landed on his back, Burton was facing front and springing at the leader. Taken aback, Rat-face stabbed at him reflexively, the dagger aimed at his throat, but Burton swivelled, brought his own arm up under his opponent's, hooked his elbow and wrist around it, and jerked upward. With a nauseating crunch, Rat- face's arm splintered. His scream was cut short by a ferocious uppercut. He flopped backward, out cold.
As the third man closed in, others left the blanket to come to his assistance. It was a stupid mistake. Penniforth erupted out of it with a bellow of rage, ripping the material asunder.
While the cabbie laid into the gang, Burton took off his bowler and tossed it at the remaining knifeman's face. Momentarily distracted, the crook ducked and his beady eyes wavered, missing Burton's next lightning-fast movement. Before he realised what had happened, the East Ender felt his wrist clutched in a grip of such strength that his fingers opened involuntarily and the dagger fell from them. He was yanked forward and his erstwhile victim's forehead smashed into the bridge of his nose. The thief collapsed to his knees, blood spurting from his face, his wrist still held, as if in a vise. He looked up, half dazed, and the eyes that met his blazed with sullen rage.
'N-no,' he stammered.
'Yes,' said Burton.
He twisted the man's arm out of its socket and put an end to the highpitched shriek with a chop to the neck. The limp crook crumpled into a yellowish puddle.
Burton turned to see how Penniforth was getting on and laughed.
The giant cabbie was grinning, with three unconscious men at his feet. He was holding the other two upside down, a hand around an ankle of each.
'What shall I do with the rubbish, guv'nor?' he asked.
Burton recovered his slime-stained bowler. 'Just drop it in the street like everyone else does around here.'
He turned and caught sight of four squat figures passing the far end of the alley. They were gone in an instant, leaving him with a vague impression of floor-length scarlet cloaks with big hoods, totally enveloping the wearers. A new order of nuns, perhaps, come to aid the poor? Yet there had been something disturbing about those four shapes; something-what was it?-yes, something about their gait.
'Monty!' he snapped, and started running.
The cabbie dropped the crooks and followed. They reached the end of the passage and Burton looked to the right just in time to see a glimpse of red cloth sliding past the edge of a wall.
'Come on!'
He raced to the corner and peered down a dank alleyway no wider than the span of his arms. Far ahead, the four red cloaks were consumed by billowing fog.
Burton sped on, occasionally slipping in the slime, almost falling, with Monty on his heels.
An arched entrance opened onto yet another backstreet; almost pitch black, with just a glimmer of
