'Do you know where I can find Mr. Mamer now?'
'No, I am afraid not. I asked Imogen, but she had no knowledge.'
'Did she know his Christian name?'
Again she shook her head. 'No. You mentioned him only very briefly. I'm sorry. I wish I could help.'
'You have helped. At least now I know what I was doing before the accident. It is somewhere to begin.' That was a lie, but there was nothing to be gained in the truth.
'Do you think Joscelin Grey was killed over something to do with the business? Could he have known something about this Mr. Marner?' Her face was blank and sad with the sharpness of memory, but she did not evade the thought. 'Was the business fraudulent, and he discovered it?'
Again he could only lie.
'I don't know. I'll start again, from the beginning. Do you know what manner of business it was, or at least the names of some of the friends of your father who invested in it? They would be able to give me the details.'
She told him several names and he wrote them down, with addresses. He thanked her, feeling a little awkward, wanting her to know, without the embarrassment for both of them of his saying it, that he was grateful-for her candor, her understanding without pity, the moment's truce from all argument or social games.
He hesitated, trying to think of words. She put her hand very lightly on his sleeve and met his eyes for an instant. For a wild moment he thought of friendship, a closeness better than romance, cleaner and more honest; then it disappeared. There was the battered corpse of Joscelin Grey between him and everyone else.
'Thank you,' he said calmly. 'You have been very helpful. I appreciate your time and your frankness.' He smiled very slightly, looking straight into her eyes. 'Good afternoon, Miss Latterly.'
12
The name Marner meant nothing to Monk, and the following day, even after he had been to three of the addresses Hester had given him, he still had no more than a name and the nature of the business-importing. It seemed no one else had met the elusive Mr. Marner either. All inquiries and information had come from Latterly, through Joscelin Grey. The business was for the importing of tobacco from the United States of America, and a very profitable retailing of it was promised, in alliance with a certain Turkish house. No one knew more than that; except of course a large quantity of figures which indicated the amount of capital necessary to begin the venture and the projected increase to the fortunes of those who participated.
Monk did not leave the last house until well into the afternoon, but he could not afford time for leisure. He ate briefly, purchasing fresh sandwiches from a street seller, then went to the police station to seek the help of a man he had learned investigated business fraud. He might at least know the name of dealers in tobacco; perhaps he could find the Turkish house in question.
'Marner?' the man repeated agreeably, pushing his fingers through his scant hair. 'Can't say as I've ever heard of him. You don't know his first name, you say?'
'No, but he floated a company for importing tobacco from America, mixing it with Turkish, and selling it at a profit.'
The man pulled a face.
'Sounds unpleasant-can't stand Turkish myself-but then I prefer snuff anyway. Marner?' He shook his head. 'You don't mean old Zebedee Marner, by any chance? I suppose you've tried him, or you wouldn't ask. Very sly old bird, that. But I never knew him mixed up with importing.'
'What does he do?'
The man's eyebrows went up in surprise.
'Losing your grip, Monk? What's the matter with you?' He squinted a little. 'You must know Zebedee Marner. Never been able to charge him with anything because he always weasels his way out, but we all know he's behind half the pawnbrokers, sweatshops and brothels in the Limehouse area right down to the Isle of Dogs. Personally I think he takes a percentage from the child prostitutes and the opium as well, although he's far too downy to go anywhere near them himself.' He sighed in disgust. 'But then, of course, there's a few who wouldn't say as far as that.'
Monk hardly dared hope. If this were the same Marner, then here at last was something that could lead to motive. It was back to the underworld, to greed, fraud and vice. Reason why Joscelin Grey should have killed-but why should he have been the victim?
Was there something in all this evidence that could at last convict Zebedee Marner? Was Grey in collusion with Marner? But Grey had lost his own money-or had he?
'Where can I find Marner?' he asked urgently. 'I need him, and time is short.' There was no time to seek out addresses himself. If this man thought he was peculiar, incompetent at his job, he would just have to think it. Soon it would hardly matter anyway.
The man looked at Monk, interest suddenly sharpening in his face, his body coming upright.
'Do you know something about Marner that I don't, Monk? IVe been trying to catch that slimy bastard for years. Let me in on it?' His face was eager, a light in his eyes as if he had seen a sudden glimpse of an elusive happiness. 'I don't want any of the credit; I won't say anything. I just want to see his face when he's pinched.'
Monk understood. He was sorry not to be able to help.
'I don't have anything on Marner,' he answered. 'I don't even know if the business I'm investigating is fraudulent or not. Someone committed suicide, and I'd like to know the reasons.'
“Why?'' He was curious and his puzzlement was obvious. He cocked his head a little to one side. 'What do you care about a suicide? I thought you were on the Grey case. Don't tell me Runcorn's let you off it-without an arrest?'
So even this man knew of Runcorn's feelings about him. Did everyone? No wonder Runcorn knew he had lost his memory! He must have laughed at Monk's confusion, his fumbling.
'No.' He pulled a wry face. 'No, it's all part of the same thing. Grey was involved in the business.'
'Importing?' His voice rose an octave. 'Don't tell me he was killed over a shipment of tobacco!'
'Not over tobacco; but there was a lot of money invested, and apparently the company failed.'
'Oh yes? That's a new departure for Marner-'
'If it's the same man,' Monk said cautiously. 'I don't know that it is. I don't know anything about him but his name, and only part of that. Where do I find him?'
'Thirteen Gun Lane, Limehouse.' He hesitated. 'If you get anything, Monk, will you tell me, as long as it isn't the actual murder? Is that what you're after?'
'No. No, I just want some information. If I find evidence of fraud I'll bring it back for you.' He smiled bleakly. 'You have my word.'
The man's face eased into a smile. 'Thank you.'
Monk went early in the morning and was in Limehouse by nine o'clock. He would have been there sooner had there been any purpose. He had spent much of the time since he woke at six planning what he would say.
It was a long way from Grafton Street and he took a hansom eastward through Clerkenwell, Whitechapel and down towards the cramped and crowded docks and Limehouse. It was a still morning and the sun was gleaming on the river, making white sparkles on the water between the black barges coming up from the Pool of London. Across on the far side were Bermondsey-the Venice of the Drains-and Rotherhithe, and ahead of him the Surrey Docks, and along the shining Reach the Isle of Dogs, and on the far side Deptford and then the beautiful Greenwich with its green park and trees and the exquisite architecture of the naval college.
But his duty lay hi the squalid alleys of Limehouse with beggars, usurers and thieves of every degree-and Zebe-dee Marner.
Gun Lane was a byway off the West India Dock Road, and he found Number 13 without difficulty. He passed an evil-looking idler on the pavement and another lounging in the doorway, but neither troubled him, perhaps
