working for that evil old woman.
Which left the question that had been burning at the back of his mind, inching its way forward till it came into sharp, clear focus. Had Jerome and Arthur Wayboume ever been there at all?
The only reason to suppose they had was Abigail's word. Jerome had denied it, Arthur was dead; and no one else had seen them.
But why should she lie? She had appeared out of nowhere; she had nothing to defend. If Jerome had not been there, then
210
she had had to share with the old woman a good portion of money that she had never received.
Unless, of course, she had received it for something else. For what? And from whom?
For the lie, of course. For saying that Jerome and Arthur Way bourne had been there. But who had wanted her to say that?
The answer would be the name of Arthur's murderer. Which Pitt now clearly thought was not Maurice Jerome.
But all this conjecture was still not proof. For even a doubt reasonable enough to reopen the case, he must have the name of someone besides Jerome who might have paid Abigail. And of course he would also have to see Albie Frobisher and look a good deal more closely into his testimony.
In fact, he thought, that would be a good thing to do now.
He walked past the omnibus stop, turned the comer, and hurried down the long, drab street. He hailed a hansom and climbed in, shouting directions.
Albie's rooming house was familiar: the wet matting just past the door, then the bright red beyond, the dim stairs. He knocked on the door, aware that there might be a customer already there. But his sense of urgency would not let him wait to make a more convenient arrangement.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, harder, as if he meant to force it if he were not admitted.
Still there was no reply.
'Albie!' he said sharply. 'I'll push this door in if you don't answer!''
Silence. He put his ear to the door and there was no sound of movement inside.
'Albie!' he shouted.
Nothing. Pitt turned and ran down the stairs, along the red-carpeted hallway to the back where the landlord had his quarters. This establishment was different from the brothel where Abigail worked. Here there was no procurer guarding the door. Albie paid a high rent for his room; customers came and went in privacy. But then it was a richer, different class of clientele, far more guarded with their secrets. To visit a woman prostitute
211
was an understandable lapse, a little indiscretion that a man of the world turned a blind eye to. To pay for the services of a boy was not only a deviation too disgusting to be condoned, it was also a crime, opening one to all the nightmares of blackmail.
He knocked sharply on the door.
It opened a crack and a bilious eye looked out at him.
' 'Oo are yer? Wot d'yer want?'
'Where's Albie?'
'Why d'yer want ter know? If 'e owes yer, it's nuffin ter do wiv me!'
'I want to talk to him. Now where is he?'
'Wot's it worf?'
'It's worth not being run in for keeping a brothel and aiding and abetting in homosexual acts, which
