The Dark Assassin (26 page)

"I was
thinkin', sir"-Orme was still talking-"that if we get rid of the Fat
Man, 'oo's the best opulent receiver on the river, then someone else'll take
'is place. I reckon that someone'll be Toes. An' Toes is someone we can keep
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!"

"I mean
what reason would Argyll give for meeting in the stables at midnight? And why
did Havilland agree?"

Runcorn took the
point immediately. "We need to find that letter! Or learn at the very
least who sent it."

Monk took one of
the chestnuts and ate it. It was sweet and hot. "The maid said Havilland
burnt it."

"Maybe he
didn't burn the envelope." Runcorn was still hopeful.

Monk ate the
last chestnut. "Come on." He turned and started to walk.

Cardman was
surprised to see them again, but he invited them in. "What can I do for you,
gentlemen?"

The hall had a
bare look. The black crepe had been taken down along with the wreaths, but the
clock was still stopped and there was no heating.

It was Monk who
spoke first this time. "I know the maid said that Mr. Havilland destroyed
the note that took him to the stables the night he was killed, but it is
extremely important that we learn everything about it that we can-even the
envelope, if it still exists."

Cardman's eyes
widened. He had heard the one word that had mattered to him. His voice trembled
a little. "You said he was killed, sir. Did you mean that someone else was
responsible after all? Miss Mary was right?"

"Yes, Mr.
Cardman, it looks very like it," Monk replied.

Cardman's face
tightened. "And if you can't find the envelope, sir, does that mean you
won't be able to prove who did it?"

"Somebody
lured him to the stable," Monk told him gravely. "We are certain it
was someone else who actually killed him. Whether we can catch the second
person I don't know, but it's the first we want most."

"I'm afraid
we've long ago disposed of all the rubbish in the study," Cardman said.
"There are only Mr. Havilland's papers there now, and of course household
bills and receipts. Miss Mary took care of everything like that. No one has
been here yet to ... to see to . . ." He trailed off, swamped by the small
realities of loss again.

"I'm sure
Mr. Argyll will appoint someone," Monk said. Then the moment the words
were spoken he realized the appalling urgency of searching the study.

"Which is
the study?" Runcorn asked.

Cardman showed
them. "Would you like a pot of tea, sir?" he offered. "I'm
afraid the room is extremely cold."

They both
accepted, speaking together.

Two hours later
they knew a great deal about both Havilland's domestic arrangements and how
efficiently Mary had continued with them. Everything had been precisely and
carefully dealt with. The bills had been checked and paid on time. There were
also no unnecessary papers kept, no unanswered letters, no notes made on
envelopes or scraps of paper.

"Perhaps it
was always going to be a waste of time," Runcorn said wearily.
"Damn!" He swore with sudden fury. "I'd stake my life it was
Argyll! How the hell do we catch him? Come on, Monk! You're so clever you could
tie an eel in knots. How do we get the bastard?"

Monk's mind was
racing. "There'd have been a lot of blood on his clothes," he began,
thinking aloud.

Runcorn did not
see the point. The irritation flickered across his face. "So there would.
What does it matter now?"

"Probably
too much to clean off. Anyway, who'd want the clothes a man was wearing when he
committed suicide?"

"No one-
Oh! You mean they're still somewhere! There might be something in the
pockets!" Runcorn stood up as if suddenly regaining energy. He walked
towards the door, then remembered that there was a bell in the room for
summoning servants. Avoiding Monk's eyes, he turned back, reached for it, and
pulled.