The Face of a Stranger

colleagues. If Runcorn hated him, it was more than likely many of them did too and he had no idea which; and to show such vulnerability would invite a coup de grace. Runcorn knew he had lost his memory, of that he was perfectly sure now, although nothing had been said completely beyond ambiguity. There was a chance, a good chance he could fend off one man until he had regained at least enough mixture of memory and skill to do his job well enough to defy them all. If he solved the Grey case he would be unassailable; then let Runcorn say what he pleased.

But it was an unpleasant knowledge that he was so deeply and consistently hated, and with what he increasingly realized was good reason.

And was he fighting for survival? Or was there also an instinct in him to attack Runcorn; not only to find the truth, to be right, but also to be there before Runcorn was and make sure he knew it? Perhaps if he had been an onlooker at this, watching two other men, at least some of his sympathy would have been with Runcorn. There was a cruelty in himself he was seeing for the first time, a pleasure in winning that he did not admire.

Had he always been like this-or was it born of his fear?

How to start finding the thieves? Much as he liked Evan-and he did like him increasingly every day; the man had enthusiasm and gentleness, humor, and a purity of intention Monk envied-even so, he dare not place himself in Evan's hands by telling him the truth. And if he were honest (there was a little vanity in it also), Evan was the only person, apart from Beth, who seemed unaffectedly to think well of him, even to like him. He could not bear to forfeit that.

So he could not ask Evan to tell him the names of informers and fences. He would just have to find them for himself. But if he had been as good a detective as everything indicated, he must know many. They would recognize him.

He was late and Evan had been waiting for him. He apologized, somewhat to Evan's surprise, and only afterward realized that as a superior it was not expected of him. He must be more careful, especially if he were to conceal his purpose, and his inability, from Evan. He wanted to go to an underworld eating house for luncheon, and hoped that if he left word with the potman someone would approach him. He would have to do it in several places, but within three or four days at most he should find a beginning.

He could not bring back to memory any names or faces, but the smell of the back taverns was sharply familiar. Without thinking, he knew how to behave; to alter color like a chameleon, to drop his shoulders, loosen his gait, keep his eyes down and wary. It is not clothes that make the man; a cardsharp, a dragsman, a superior pickpocket or a thief from the Swell Mob could dress as well as most- indeed the nurse at the hospital had taken him for one of the Swell Mob himself.

Evan, with his fair face and wide, humorous eyes, looked too clean to be dishonest. There was none of the wiliness of a survivor in him; yet some of the best survivors of all were those most skilled in deception and the most innocent of face. The underworld was big enough for any variation of lie and fraud, and no weakness was left unexploited.

They began a little to the west of Mecklenburg Square, going to the King's Cross Road. When the first tavern produced nothing immediate, they moved north to the Pen-tonville Road, then south and east again into Clerkenwell.

In spite of all that logic could tell him, by the following day Monk was beginning to feel as if he were on a fool's errand, and Runcorn would have the last laugh. Then, in a congested public house by the name of the Grinning Rat, a scruffy little man, smiling, showing yellow teeth, slid into the seat beside them, looking warily at Evan. The room was full of noise, the strong smell of ale, sweat, the dirt of clothes and bodies long unwashed, and the heavy steam of food. The floor was covered with sawdust and there was a constant chink of glass.

' 'Ello, Mr. Monk; I hain't seen you for a long time. Were yer bin?'

Monk felt a leap of excitement and studied hard to hide it.

'Had an accident,' he answered, keeping his voice level.

The man looked him up and down critically and grunted, dismissing it.

'I 'ears as yer after som'un as'll blow a little?'

'That's right,' Monk agreed. He must not be too precipitate, or the price would be high, and he could not afford the time to bargain; he must be right first time, or he would appear green. He knew from the air, the smell of it, that haggling was part of the game.

'Worf anyfink?' the man asked.

'Could be.'

'Well,' the man said, thinking it over. 'Yer always bin fair, that's why I comes to yer 'stead o' some 'o them other jacks. Proper mean, some o' them; yer'd be right ashamed if yer knew.' He shook his head and sniffed hard, pulling a face of disgust.

Monk smiled.

'Wotcher want, then?' the man asked.

'Several things.' Monk lowered his voice even further, still looking across the table and not at the man. 'Some stolen goods-a fence, and a good screever.'

The man also looked at the table, studying the stain ring marks of mugs.

'Plenty o' fences, guv; and a fair few screevers. Special goods, these?'

'Not very.'

'W'y yer want 'em ven? Som'one done over bad?'

'Yes.'

'O'right, so wot are vey ven?'

Monk began to describe them as well as he could; he had only memory to go on.

'Table silver-'

The man looked at him witheringly.

Monk abandoned the silver. 'A jade ornament,' he continued. 'About six inches high, of a dancing lady with her arms up in front of her, bent at die elbows. It was pinky-colored jade-'

'Aw, nar vat's better.' The man's voice lifted; Monk avoided looking at his face. 'Hain't a lot o' pink jade abaht,' he went on. 'Anyfink else?'

'A silver scuttle, about four or five inches, I think, and a couple of inlaid snuffboxes.'

'Wot kind o' snuffboxes, guv: siller, gold, enamel? Yer gotta give me mor'n vat!'

'I can't remember.'

'Yer wot? Don't ve geezer wot lorst 'em know?' His face darkened with suspicion and for the first time he looked at Monk. ' 'Ere! 'E croaked, or suffink?'

'Yes,' Monk said levelly, still staring at the wall. 'But no reason to suppose the thief did it. He was dead long before the robbery.''

'Yer sure o' vat? 'Ow d'yer know 'e were gorn afore?'

'He was dead two months before.' Monk smiled acidly. 'Even I couldn't mistake that. His empty house was robbed.'

The man thought this over for several minutes before delivering his opinion.

Somewhere over near the bar there was a roar of laughter.

'Robbin' a deadlurk?' he said with heavy condescension. 'Bit chancy to find anyfink, in' it? Wot did yer say abaht a screever? Wot yer want a screever fer ven?'

'Because the thieves used forged police papers to get in,' Monk replied.

The man's face lit up with delight and he chuckled richly.

'A proper downy geezer, vat one. I like it!' He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and laughed again. 'It'd be a sin ter shop a feller wiv vat kind o' class.'

Monk took a gold half sovereign out of his pocket and put it on the table. The man's eyes fastened onto it as if it mesmerized him.

'I want the screever who made those fakements for them,' Monk repeated. He put out his hand and took the gold coin back again. He put it into his inside pocket. The man's eyes followed it. 'And no sly faking,' Monk warned. 'I'll feel your hands in my pockets, and you remember that, unless you fancy picking oakum for a while. Not do your sensitive fingers any good, picking oakum!' He winced inwardly as a flash of memory returned of men's fingers bleeding from the endless unraveling of rope ends, day in, day out, while years of their lives slid by.