“All right, you know the world, and the business. What’s your best guess? What sort of woman was she, and what happened to her?”
The woman laughed abruptly, then the bitterness softened into pity, for herself and all those who shared her lot, even peripherally. “I dunno,” she said. “Could be dead, for all I know, or more like come down in the world. Life in this business can be short. ’Ow the hell do I know what ’appened to ’er, poor bitch?”
“She was different, you said that; so did the others who saw her. What’s your best guess as to where she came from? Come on, Alice, I need to know, and you’ve the best chance of being right.”
She sighed. “My guess is she was Quality out slumming it, God knows why. Maybe she was just bent that way. Some is. Although why any woman that’s got a roof over ’er ’ead and food for the rest of ’er life should want ter risk it is beyond me. Still, I reckon insanity can ’it the Quality like the rest of us. Now that’s all, I in’t got nothing else to add to it. You ’ad your time; I got things to do. I bin more’n fair— an I ’ope you’ll remember that.”
Pitt stood up. “I will,” he promised. “As far as I know, you keep a lodging house. Good day.”
He spent two more days going from one place to another in the haunts of the demimonde, the theaters and restaurants where such women plied their trade, and he heard occasional mention of Cerise or someone who might have been her or might not, but he learned nothing that added to what he already knew. No one remembered who she had been with, whether it was several men or only a few, although it was certainly more than one in every account. No one knew her name nor where she came from. She was tolerated because she came very seldom and robbed them of little business. It was a hard world and they expected competition. If a man preferred one woman to another there was nothing to be done about it except in extreme cases; usually it was better to take defeat gracefully. Scenes embarrassed the clientele.
Whether any of the men with her had been Robert York it was impossible to say. She frequented places where he was likely to have been, but then so had half London Society, at least among the men. The descriptions of her companions were general enough to have fit him, or Julian Danver, or Garrard Danver, or even Felix Asherson—or just about anyone else with elegance and money.
In the early evening of the second day, a little after six, as the fog cleared at last, leaving only a few dark pockets, Pitt took a cab to Hanover Close, this time not to the York house but further along, to where Felix Asherson lived. Pitt had chosen to see him at home in order to form a more complete impression of the man, to make some judgment as to his circumstances and possibly his character. Away from the formal and rather intimidating atmosphere of the Foreign Office he might be more inclined to relax his caution. In his own home he would feel safer and could be certain none of his colleagues would interrupt, perhaps suspecting him of indiscreet disclosures to the police. Also, inside the house Pitt might form a more precise picture of his financial situation. There was still the possibility that Robert York had surprised a friend burgling his house and his recognition had sparked a murder. Pitt had not forgotten that possibility.
He knocked on the front door and waited till a footman came.
“Yes, sir?” There was no expression in the polite inquiry.
Pitt produced one of his cards.
“Thomas Pitt. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with Mr. Asherson, if he is free. It concerns one of his colleagues at the Foreign Office.” That was literally true, if not true in its implication.
“Yes, sir. Will you come in, sir, and I will inform Mr. Asherson you are here.” He looked at Pitt dubiously. His boots were not Emily’s new ones; those were too good for all the walking he had been doing lately, and he did not want to wear them out. His jacket was serviceable but no more; only his hat was of quality. He was not library material; the morning room was good enough for him. “If you will come this way, sir?”
The fire had died to a few embers but the room was still warm, at least compared with the cab Pitt had just taken. He found the room pleasant enough, modest compared with the Yorks’, but agreeably furnished, and with at least one good picture on the wall. If Asherson were short of money he could have sold it for enough to keep a housemaid for several years. So much for debt.
The door opened and Asherson came in, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. It was a handsome face, but too volatile. There was something uncertain about it. Pitt would not want to rely on this man in a crisis.
“Good evening, Mr. Asherson,” he said pleasantly. “Sorry to disturb you at home, but the matter is delicate, so I thought it would be more private here than at the Foreign Office.”
“Oh damn!” Asherson pushed the door closed behind him. “Are you still ferreting around after poor old York’s killer? I told you before I didn’t know anything remotely useful. I still don’t.”
“I’m sure you aren’t aware of knowing anything,” Pitt agreed.
“And what do you mean by that?” Asherson was plainly annoyed. “I wasn’t there that night, and nobody’s told me anything.”
“I know a great deal more than when I first spoke to you, sir,” Pitt said, watching Asherson’s face. The gas lamps threw shadows in the room, exaggerating his expression as a yellow gleam highlighted the planes of his cheeks and nose and created darkness where sunlight would have eliminated it. “There was a woman who seems to have had a role in it.”
Asherson’s eyes widened. “In York’s death? You don’t mean it was a woman burglar? I didn’t know there were such things.” There was nothing but surprise in his face.
“The burglary may be incidental, Mr. Asherson. Possibly even the murder was too. Perhaps the only thing that really mattered was the treason.”
Asherson stood absolutely motionless; not a muscle moved in his face or his body. It was an unnatural stillness, a silence that hung too long. Pitt could hear the hiss of the gas in the lamps on the wall and a slight sound as the coals settled in the hearth.
“Treason?” Asherson said at last.
Pitt did not know how far he dared stretch the truth. He decided to evade an answer. “What was Robert York working on before he was killed?” he asked.
Again Asherson hesitated. If he said he did not know, Pitt would have to believe him.
“Africa,” he answered finally. “The, er . . .” He bit bis lower lip gently. “The partition of Africa between Germany and Britain. Or perhaps it would be more fortunate to phrase it as the division of spheres of influence.”
