endured until it can be dealt with? He winced at the thought.
The river was cold, the incoming tide swift and choppy, and he was kept very fully occupied dealing with a warehouse theft. At half past six it was solved and he stood alone on an old pier beyond King Edward's Stairs. It was totally dark in the shelter of a half-burned warehouse. Across the water the shore lights glittered as the wind blurred them. Lightermen were calling out to each other below him on the river, gusts of wind snatching their voices and distorting their words.
He heard the boat bump against the steps and someone's feet climbing up, then Orme's solid figure was silhouetted against the faint light on the water.
Monk moved forward. 'Found the cargo,' he said quietly. 'Did you get the boat they used?'
'Yes, sir. Butterworth's gone to assist 'em now.' Orme paused, then said, 'I 'ear as the Mets arrested Sixsmith. That true?' At Monk's nod, he sighed. 'Must say I believed it were Argyll. Not as clever as I thought I were.' His voice was rueful.
'I thought it was Argyll too,' Monk agreed. 'I still do.' He told Orme briefly of his intention to find the assassin.
Orme was dubious. 'Yer'll be lucky ter see 'ide or 'air of 'im, Mr. Monk. But I'll 'elp you all I can. If anyone'd know 'im, it'd be river men, or folks that live in the tunnels, or Jacob's Island. 'E could be just a passing seaman, off to Burma, the fever jungles o' Panama, or the Cape o' Good 'Ope by now.'
'He wasn't a seaman,' Monk said with conviction. 'Pale face, thin, and he used a gun. In fact, he used Havilland's own gun. There was a good deal of careful planning in this. I think he kills for a living.'
'There's 'im as do,' Orme agreed.
The subject turned to the careful laying of the trap that would not only catch the actual thieves on the passenger boats, but would lead, with proof, to the hand behind them. Monk and Orme sincerely hoped that that was the Fat Man.
'It'll be dangerous,' Orme warned. 'It could turn ugly.'
Monk smiled. 'Yes, I'm sure it could. There's been something ugly about it from the beginning.'
Monk expected Orme to respond, perhaps to deny it, but he remained silent. Why? Did he not understand what Monk was alluding to, or did he already know the answer? Why should he trust Monk, a newcomer to the river police? He barely knew him. They had never faced a real danger together-nothing more than choppy weather, the odd barge out of control, or night work, when a ship in the dark could be lethal. It was not enough to test a man's courage or loyalty to his fellows. Trust needed to be earned, and only a fool placed his life in another man's hands blindly.
Or was he protecting someone? Could he want Monk to fail, spectacularly, so Orme could take his place? Orme deserved it. The men trusted him. Durban had. Which brought Monk back to the old question: Why had Durban recommended Monk for the post? It made no sense, and standing here in the dark on the windy embankment with the constant slap of the water against the stones, he felt as exposed as if he had been naked in the lights.
Still he asked the question. 'Who put out the word that we are corrupt? It came from someone.'
'I dunno, sir.' Orme's voice was low and hard. 'But certain as death, I mean ter find out.'
They heard the boat bump against the steps. It was time to go on patrol. Neither said anything more. The plan would begin the following afternoon. There was much to go over and prepare before then.
In order to catch the Fat Man himself they needed the thieves to steal one article of such value that they could neither divide it, as they would a haul of money, nor break it up, as they would a piece of jewelry, selling the separate stones. It had to be something that was of worth only if it remained whole, yet too specialized and too valuable to sell themselves.
Monk and Orme had obtained Farnham's permission to borrow an exquisite carving of ivory and gold. Intact, it was worth a fortune; broken, its only value was in the weight of the gold, which wasn't much. Even at a glance, a pickpocket would know that such a carving, in good condition, was worth enough to keep him for a decade, if fenced successfully.
Farnham had insisted that Monk himself carry it.
'You can look the part,' he said with a curl of his mouth as he passed over the figure, wrapped in a soft chamois leather cloth. He surveyed Monk's beautifully cut jacket and white shirt with its silk cravat, and then his trousers and polished boots. Such clothes were a legacy from Monk's earlier years, before the accident, when most of his money went to his tailor. They were not the fashion of a season, as a woman's gown would have been, but timeless elegance. They spoke of old money, the kind of taste that is innate, not put on to impress others. Farnham might not have been able to describe it, but he knew what it meant. It was inappropriate in a subordinate, which was why Farnham's smile troubled Monk. He remembered how Runcorn had hated his attire, and it made him even more uneasy.
'Thank you, sir.' He took the carving and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. It made a slight bump, pulling it out of shape.
'Take care of it, Monk,' Farnham warned. 'The River Police will go out of business if you lose that! With the word going around now, no one will believe we didn't take it ourselves.'
Monk felt odd. Was he walking straight into a trap, knowing it and yet still stupid enough to step in? Or caught tightly enough to have no choice?
'Yes, sir.' His voice was rasping, as if the night air off the river had caught in his throat already.
'Orme will give you a cutlass later,' Farnham added. 'Can't let you have a weapon yet. Even a knife a thief would feel and know there was something wrong. It's a shame. Leaves you a bit vulnerable, but can't be helped.' He was still smiling, thin-lipped, barely showing his teeth. 'Good luck.'
'Thank you.' Monk turned and left, going to the outer room where the other men were waiting. Two of them were dressed as passengers, in order to keep a firsthand watch on the thieves. The rest were to remain in their own police boats close at hand, so they could follow anyone easily if they were to escape by water.
Orme nodded and signaled the men to go. Monk noticed with a chill and an anxious dryness in his mouth that they all carried cutlasses in their belts. Three of them carried extra weapons as well, to arm those who were disguised, should the whole operation end in violence. Monk had no idea if he had ever fought hand to hand in his years before the accident, and certainly he had not since then. He was a detective, not a uniformed officer. It was too late now to wonder if he was up to it-strong enough, quick enough, even if he had any skill with a cutlass.
He followed the men out into the hard, cold wind. Each was prepared, knowing his duty, the main plan, and the contingency. There was nothing more to say.
Outside on the quay, Orme divided his armed men into three boats, and they pulled out and headed upriver. Monk and the two others who were dressed as passengers took a hansom up to Westminster, where they boarded the next ferry down towards Greenwich.
The tide was slack, but the wind was raw. As they pulled out into the river, Monk was glad to go with the other passengers below deck into the cramped cabin, where there was some shelter. There were at least fifty other people on board: men and women and several children. Everyone was wrapped up in winter coats that offered a host of places easy enough to hide the proceeds from picked pockets. One obese gentleman wore a fur-collared coat that flapped as he walked. He could have hidden half a dozen one-pound bags of sugar without causing any further bulges on his person.
A thin woman with voluminous shawls scolded three children who trailed after her. She looked like an ordinary housewife, but Monk knew perfectly well that she could also be a passer of stolen goods, one to whom the pickpocket gave them until he was safely free of suspicion and could take them back. She would get her cut, in time.
The plan was that if no one robbed him on the way down to Greenwich, he was to meet with one of the other policemen who was dressed as a passenger and show him the carving, as if intending to sell it to him. The policeman would pretend to decline and Monk would return to Westminster. He refused even to imagine the possibility of the thieves taking it and not being caught. On the other hand, if they were arrested too soon, then the whole operation was abortive. The police would have the thief-the fingers of the crime-but not the brain or the heart.
A man bumped against him, apologized, and moved on.
Monk's hands went to his pocket. The carving was still there.
It happened again, and again. He was so nervous his fingers were stiff and trembling.
Butterworth bumped into him and apologized, using the password to let him know that he had been robbed.
