better under control. 'E's greedy, but that's all. At least fer now. The Fat Man is different, 'e 'as streaks of cruelty we need to get rid of. 'E isn't above gettin' people cut up slow if they really cross 'im up. Clever with a knife, 'e is. Knows 'ow to 'urt without killin'.'
Monk looked at Orme's grave, pinched face and read the pain in it again.
'Very well, let's get rid of him,' he agreed.
Orme looked at him steadily. 'Yes, Mr. Monk. An' no private scores settled. No favors and no revenge, that's what Mr. Durban used to say.' He turned away quickly, his breath catching in his throat, and Monk knew that the ghost of Durban was always going to be there.
So he would use it. He would spend the day going through all Durban 's records until he had worked out what Durban would have done to trap the kidsmen and trace the goods to the Fat Man legitimately. No favors, no revenge. He also wanted to know why Orme had not been made commander. Perhaps he would be better off in ignorance, but he had to find out. It might matter one day; his life might even depend upon it.
Most of the cases that he studied were routine crimes exactly like those he had dealt with since he came. The only unusual thing in Durban 's notes was that they were briefer than Monk would have expected, and more personal. His handwriting was strong but occasionally untidy, as if written hastily or when he was tired. There were flashes of humor, and discreet asides that suggested to Monk that Durban had not been especially fond of Clacton either. The difference was that Durban had known how to keep him under control, largely because the other men would not tolerate Clacton 's disloyalty.
Monk smiled. At least he had found that solution, if he could work out how to use it.
He read carefully the reports of thefts from passenger boats. They seemed to vary, but in no particular pattern that he could detect. There were various other crimes, some very serious. One Durban had written on for many pages, and it had apparently disturbed him greatly. The writing was sprawling and many of the letters only half formed. There was a kind of jaggedness to it.
Monk read it because the urgency in it held him. It had nothing to do with theft or with passenger boats at all. It concerned the murder of a prosperous man in his early forties. His body had been found in the river, apparently shot to death some time the night before and dumped into the water. He was identified as Roger Thorwood, of Chelsea, a barber of considerable wealth and influence. He was mourned by his wife, Beatrice, and three surviving children.
Durban had put a great deal of time and energy into the investigation and followed every lead. His hope and frustration were clearly marked in his notes. But after nearly three months he had learned nothing of value and been obliged to abandon his concentration on it and turn his entire attention to other duties. The death of Roger Thorwood remained a mystery. Durban 's last entry on the subject was scribbled and in places almost illegible.
I have spoken to Mrs. Thorwood for the last time. There is nothing more I can do. All trails are closed. They had either nowhere or into a hopeless morass. I never thought I would say of any murder that it is better left, but I do of this. And it is wrong to expect Orme to carry the responsibility here any longer. It is not even as if one day he might be justly rewarded for his work or his loyalty. He owes it not to me, but because that is his nature, nonetheless I am profoundly grateful to him. There is no more to say.
Monk stared at the page. It was oddly difficult to turn over and continue with the murders, robberies, fights, and accidents that occurred later. There was something painfully unfinished about it, not only the mystery of Roger Thorwood s death but Durban 's obvious involvement. His anger and disappointment were there, and something else less obvious, which he was too guarded to name. Guarding someone else, or himself?
There was also his oblique reference to Orme never receiving appropriate recompense for his work. It seemed he had covered for Durban as well as for Monk. It raised the question again as to why he had not received the promotion his skill had earned him. It seemed that Durban knew the reason. Monk realized that perhaps he ought to, in order to make a better judgment of Orme. But he was glad there was no time to search now.
What he needed was a plan to catch the thieves on the passenger boats. More important, he wanted to trace them back to the opulent receiver who was organizing them, and probably the kidsmen as well.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon when Orme returned. Together, without mentioning Durban at all, they carefully constructed their strategy.
Orme looked nervous, but he did not argue with Monk's intention to be present.
'And Clacton,' Monk added.
Orme looked at him quickly.
Monk smiled, but he did not explain himself.
Orme's mouth tightened, and he nodded.
Monk met Runcorn by the hot-chestnut stand just off Westminster Bridge Road. It was four in the afternoon and already dark. A heavy cloud hung like a pall over the city. There was the smell of chimney smoke in the air, and the wind held the sting of snow to come. Downriver on the incoming tide was a drift of fog, and Monk, standing within sight of the dark, flat water, could hear the boom of foghorns drifting up. Although there were several of them, it was an eerie sound of utter desolation. Now it echoed vaguely. When the fog came in it would be swallowed, cut off half finished, like a cry strangled in the throat.
'Found the cabbie,' Runcorn said, blowing on a hot chestnut before putting it into his mouth. 'Took the man as far as Piccadilly. Remembers him quite well because he did an odd thing. He got out of his cab and crossed the Circus, which was pretty quiet at that time in the morning, all the theaters on Haymarket and Shaftesbury Avenue being out long since. Then he got straight into another cab and disappeared east along Coventry Street, towards Leicester Square.' He looked up from his chestnut, watching for Monk's reaction. 'Why would a man change cabs when there's nothing wrong with the one he's in?'
'Because he wants to disappear,' Monk replied. 'I expect he changed again, maybe twice, before he got where he wanted to be.'
'Exactly,' Runcorn agreed, taking another chestnut and smiling. 'He wasn't drunk, he wasn't a beggar, he certainly wasn't anyone's groom…'
'He could have been,' Monk started.
Runcorn's eyebrows rose. 'With the price of a cab fare from Westminster Bridge Road to the East End?'
Monk could have bitten his tongue. He looked away from Runcorn. 'No, of course not. Whoever he was, he had money.'
'Exactly!' Runcorn repeated. 'I think Mrs. Ewart saw the man who shot James Havilland. She gave us quite a good description of him, and the cab driver added a bit. Seems he has black hair, rather long onto his collar, and at least at that time he was clean-shaven. The cabbie had the impression of a hollow sort of face and long nose, thin between the eyes.'
'A very observant cab driver,' Monk remarked, a little skeptically. 'You sure he wasn't just trying to get on the good side of the police?'
'No, that's accurate,' Runcorn replied, looking down and concentrating on the few pieces of chestnut he had left in his hand. 'What we have to do is find out who hired him. It'll be the same person who wrote to Havilland to get him out of the house and into the stables in the middle of the night.'
Havilland had not been afraid of whomever he expected to meet. And whoever it was had not taken advantage of his opportunity to rob the house. Either he had panicked-which did not seem to be the case-or he was compensated for what he did in some other way. Monk said as much to Runcorn.
'Money,' Runcorn replied bitterly. 'Someone paid him to kill Havilland.'
'That sort of arrangement's usually handed over in two halves,' Monk pointed out. 'First before the deed, second after. We might be able to trace the money. It's a risk to commit murder in an area like this. It can't have come cheap.'
'Who sent that letter, that's what I want to know. That's who's guilty, who really betrayed him.' Runcorn looked at Monk, searching his face for agreement. 'That's whom he was expecting to meet!'
Neither of them said it aloud, but Monk knew Runcorn was thinking of Alan Argyll, just as he was himself. Alan was married to one of Havilland's daughters, and Toby was betrothed to the other. Havilland might disagree with them, distrust their engineering skills or business practices, but he would not fear personal violence from them.
'Why midnight? And why the stables?' he asked.
Runcorn's eyebrows rose. 'Could hardly shoot him much earlier! And obviously he wouldn't want to do it in the house!'
