“Yeah. But I don’t let just anybody in. Mebbe she’ll see yer, an’ mebbe she won’t. She might already ’ave company, like.”
“Naturally. I don’t expect something for nothing. What does she look like, this woman in pink of yours?”
“Wot does she look like?” His pale eyebrows rose up to his nonexistent hairline. “Geez! Wot do you care? You must ’ave a lot more money than yer look like if yer can afford ter care!”
“I care,” Pitt said between his teeth. “That’s what matters to me.” A good lie came to his mind. “I’m an artist. Now, tell me!”
“All right, all right.” He shrugged genially. “If you say so. But I don’t know why yer want ter paint ’er; she’s as thin as a washboard, don’t ’ave no bosom and no ’ips. But she ’as got a face, I’ll give ’er that. She ’as a curious fine face, an’ black ’air. Now make up yer mind an’ don’t stand ’ere on the doorstep like a fool. I ’an’t got the time, even if you ’ave!”
“I’ll see her,” Pitt said instantly. “I owe Black Sam. Let me go and pay him, then I’ll be back to pay you for your trouble.”
“Then get on wiv it!” Fred urged. “I got work ter do.”
Ten minutes later Pitt, debts discharged, stood in a red-carpeted passageway with faded, dirty footmarks along the center and a gas lamp hissing gently on the wall. He knocked on the door at the end of the passage. Nothing happened. He knocked again, more loudly. Fred had assured him she was there, and he had described her too closely not to know who she was. He had spoken of characteristics Pitt had not even mentioned.
A door opened behind him and a large woman with a cascade of blond hair came out, a shawl wrapped round her more than ample figure, her bare shoulders smooth, rippling with fat.
“Leave off that racket, mister!” she said curtly. “Yer want in, then go in! Door’s not locked. Don’t stand there disturbin’ everyone! I got customers. You sound like a raid, put people off!”
“Yes ma’am,” he said with a lift of excitement. So Cerise was actually in there. In a moment he would see her, and perhaps know the secret of Robert York’s death. He turned away from the blonde, already returning to her customer, and twisted the handle of the door. She was right, it was not locked. It opened easily under his hand and he went in.
The room was more or less what he had expected: comfortable but messy, overfurnished, smelling of perfume, fine dust, and stale sheets. There were too many cushions and too much red. The bed was large and rumpled, two quilts thrown carelessly so he could not see at a glance whether there was anyone lying under them or not. He closed the door behind him.
When he was standing beside the bed he recognized the human outline of the form, and saw a flash of magenta satin, a strand of black hair like a loose band of silk. The woman’s face was turned away.
He was about to address her, then realized he had no idea what her name was. He had thought of her as Cerise. When he knew of her, she had been on the crest of the wave. In three years she had fallen to this. She was hardly the same person. His excitement on the point of discovery was suddenly shot through with pity. The more dashing, the more reckless she had been, the deeper this reduction cut with its tawdry intimacy. She might have been an instrument of treason, a murderess or accessory to murder; still he felt intrusive now.
“Madam,” he said inadequately.
She did not move. She must be very heavily asleep, perhaps even drunk. He leaned forward and touched her shoulder under the quilt, then shook her very slightly.
Still she did not move. He pulled her more strongly, turning her over, revealing the vivid magenta silk bodice with its low neck and slash of fuchsia. She had drunk herself insensible. He leant forward, taking both his hands to her shoulders, and shook her. Her hair fell back off her face and the quilt slipped.
At first he could not believe it. The head lolled a little sideways, unnaturally, not with the unresponsiveness of sleep but the limp finality of death. Her neck was broken. It must have been a single blow of great force. She was thin; he could see now the fragility of her bones. It was hard to tell if she had been beautiful. Without vitality there was only a certain grace of proportion left.
“Oh Gawd!”
For a moment he thought he had spoken himself, then he realized there was someone in the room.
“You bloody fool! Wot yer go an’ do that fer? Poor little bleeder, she never done you no ’arm!”
Pitt straightened up slowly and turned to look at Fred; white-faced, he blocked the door.
“I didn’t kill her,” Pitt said impatiently. “She was dead when I got here. You’d better go out and find a constable. Who came in here before I did?”
“Oh, I’ll send for a rozzer—yer can be sure o’ that!” Fred said savagely. “But I can’t leave you ’ere. Gawd knows ’oo else I might find dead if I did!”
“I didn’t kill her!” Pitt said between his teeth, holding his temper with difficulty. “I found her dead. Go and get the police!”
Fred remained motionless. “And o’ course you’ll wait ’ere for me to come back wiv ’em. You must take me fer a fool!”
Pitt stood up and moved towards him. Instantly Fred stiffened and his fists came up. For the first time Pitt realized that for all his apparent civility, Fred had every intention of stopping him with violence if necessary, and he was built to succeed with it.
“I am the police,” he said abruptly. “We’ve been looking for this woman in connection with a murder, maybe treason.”
“Yeah? An’ I’m the Duke o’ Wellington!” Fred was wedged massively in the doorway, his arms hanging, loosely, in case Pitt should attempt any sudden attack. “Rosie!” he shouted without taking his eyes off Pitt. “Rosie! Come ’ere! Quick!”
Pitt began again, “I am—”
