Revenge in a Cold River (18 page)

“Not really.”

“Name?”

He shook his head. “I don't ask no names. You know better than that, Mr. Monk. They was real. That's all I care about.”

Gillander? Not Piers Astley. Monk stayed only a short time further, but as he was leaving, his mind was not on which man it might have been, but on the clarity with which he could remember the carved animals. How did he know?

A
SECOND DAY LOOKING, AND
he had found nothing definitive about Piers Astley. However, he had definitely learned more about the dead man, Blount, and the other two men who had escaped earlier: the safecracker, Seager, and the chemist, Applewood.

“Worst mistake we ever made,” one policeman said ruefully, when Monk visited the station in Bethnal Green where Applewood had been arrested. The man's face colored with embarrassment. “Looked so ordinary, could 'ave been your postman or a bank clerk behind the counter. Sort of…shortsighted, harmless. Kind o' man who could trip over 'is own bootlaces. But clever. 'E were like a weasel, always thinking. Knew what everything was made of. Even knew what smells they were. Wore them dark glasses, an' when 'e took them off, 'is eyes were enough ter give yer nightmares.”

According to the sergeant in nearby Hoxton, where Seager had lived, he was a different matter altogether. He seemed merely a quiet man who was obsessive about his fingers. He always wore gloves to protect them, even in the summer, and would never shake hands with anyone. Curiously, he liked to play the piano, and did it well.

Blount, it seemed from the customs man Worth, was less individual, but nevertheless highly thought of in his profession, if you could call it such. He would be hard to replace. Was that what was holding up the robbery of Aaron Clive? Or was the victim someone else, and perhaps it was already begun? It was time, Monk thought, that he reported to McNab, before McNab came to him.

Should he be honest? He could not afford to be seen as dishonest. He might well have to justify himself if the robbery, whatever it was, succeeded.

McNab looked up when Monk went up the stairs from Worth's room to McNab's. Monk was not used to such easy access. McNab was almost civil.

“Ah! Morning, Monk,” McNab said with something like cordiality. He nodded his thanks to the man who had shown Monk in, and gave him permission to leave them.

Monk sat down in the chair opposite the tidy, polished desk and gave McNab an edited version of Miriam Clive's assertions about Piers Astley. “If he's alive and he's here, then he's keeping well low,” he finished. “But I found an opulent receiver who bought some American Indian art from a man answering Gillander's description, over a year ago.”

“Not our gold baron, Mr. Clive?”

“No. Besides, I don't see Aaron Clive importing bits and pieces and selling them through a receiver, opulent or not. No, this was someone who wished to make a nice sum of money, but quickly, without drawing any attention to himself.”

“Interesting,” McNab agreed, nodding his head slowly. Then his face grew more earnest. “Fits with what I learned. Looks more and more like Clive is the target. Can't wonder at that. He's a very rich man indeed. Daresay he got himself a few enemies out there in San Francisco. Can't get that rich without treading on people now and then. Might be as honest as the day now, but was he always that way?”

“I don't think we can find out in time for it to be any use to us,” Monk replied. “It can take months to get to California, and the same back. Otherwise one can either sail to New York, or Panama, and then go overland, but that's both hard and dangerous. Or sail round the Horn and up the other side of the country all the way north again to San Francisco. And that's long and dangerous, too.”

McNab looked doubtful. “Too long,” he agreed. “But safer. Stay on your ship, just wait…”

“Ever been around the Horn?” Monk said sharply. McNab's ignorance and contempt angered him. “The South Atlantic has seas a hundred feet high, and more, in bad weather.”

McNab looked at him with fascination, his eyes wide, suddenly the color in them clear hazel. “Really?” His voice lifted with interest.

“Yes!” Monk replied with the force of memory.

“Been there, have you?” McNab showed his teeth in a rare, wide smile.

Monk felt the coldness run through him again. He was looking straight into the face of the wolf. His slightest tremor would be seen. That hesitation would be like the smell of fear that a predator gets, a shark at sea smelling blood half a mile away.

“Long time ago,” Monk replied. “All I can remember is the fear, and the cold. But if you really want to know about it, you should listen to some of the seamen you deal with who have brought cargoes from the West, and the Pacific beyond.”

“Oh, I do listen, Monk. Hear all kinds of things I don't expect to. You'd be surprised.” He nodded several times. “But you're right. It's another world out there, and we know very little about it. We've no time to find out any more. We'd better assume that this Piers Astley could be here, and keep an eye on Clive's warehouse. Wish we could find Owen, but I've asked the Metropolitan Police to keep an eye out for him, or for any other first-rate forger they might get hold of instead. Perhaps I'd better go and have another word with Mr. Clive? What do you think? He seems to have a remarkable memory….”

Monk waited, watching McNab.

McNab looked back at him, studying him slowly, quite openly.

“Find anything about the other escapees?” McNab said at last, an edge to his voice now.

“Only what you already know,” Monk replied. “The best at their jobs. Dangerous, clever.”

McNab pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hope we didn't get caught out,” he said, staring at Monk. “Clive wouldn't be a good man to cross. He knows about the threat. Pity about that…” He let the implication hang in the air.

Monk wanted to think of a retort, but nothing came to mind. He was always aware that McNab knew him better than he knew himself. He was fighting with one hand tied behind his back.

He stood up. “Pity you didn't get anything useful out of Blount,” he said. “Or Owen, for that matter.”

McNab's eyes narrowed. “Might have, if Pettifer'd lived,” he said between his teeth.

Monk went back to Wapping to find out what Hooper had learned about the raid on the gun smugglers that had gone so disastrously wrong. McNab's face haunted him in the short cab ride from the customs office to his own station. Was he imagining the jubilation in McNab's eyes, the knowledge that he was playing with Monk as a cat does with a mouse? The hunger was for the game, not the prize at the end. Well-fed domestic cats did just the same. Eating it was merely tidying up afterward.

He had slipped up over his reference to Cape Horn. His own fears were causing him to make mistakes. He was vulnerable, and McNab knew it, with his senses if not his brain.

It must stop. Monk must take the offensive, move McNab's attention to something else. He found Hooper waiting for him when he went in. He looked pleased with himself. It was discreet, but there was an energy in him as he stood up and walked over to meet Monk.

Monk looked at him expectantly.

“Found a lot more about Pettifer,” Hooper said quietly. “He's been working for Customs most of his life. Taken down a lot of smugglers of all kinds of things, particularly guns. I can't prove that he set us up on the gunrunners' raid, but I certainly can confirm that he knew enough to sell us out completely. Did very nicely for himself, did Mr. Pettifer. He drank at the Dog and Duck, down by Shadwell way. Found out he owned it, on the quiet, like. You get all sorts drinking there and Pettifer liked to keep his customers happy. Don't think I could prove it, but I'm satisfied Pettifer set up both sides against the middle on that one.”

“Thank you,” Monk said slowly. “Thank you very much.”

“Nothing to tie in McNab,” Hooper went on a little ruefully. “But quite a lot to add into these escapes. It seems Pettifer was the one who actually found Blount, but gave the credit to someone else.”

“Really? That's interesting.” Monk told Hooper what he had learned about someone selling Californian artifacts to Velvet Boy. He repeated the description Velvet had given.

“It sounds like Gillander,” Hooper said with quiet conviction. “That means he's part of it.”

“I know,” Monk conceded reluctantly. He had liked the man, but personal regard had nothing to do with innocence or guilt. There had been outwardly good men, virtuous and upright, whom he had disliked for their speed and relish to judge others, even at times for their total lack of humor. And there had been villains who had made him laugh, whom still he had admired, whose love of life he had enjoyed.

“I'm going to see him now,” he added.

“I'll come with you,” Hooper stated, straightening up.

“That's not—” Monk began.

“I'm coming with you,” Hooper repeated, squaring his shoulders and turning toward the door.

T
HEY FOUND
G
ILLANDER ON
board the
Summer Wind,
anchored opposite Aaron Clive's warehouses again, and he welcomed them with the same easy grace as when Monk had met him before.

“What can I do now? Still looking for Owen?” He led the way across the deck and down the steep wooden stairs to the main cabin. It was surprisingly warm, as before, and there was a pleasant odor coming from the galley. Everything was still impressively tidy, brass fixtures polished.

“Got no tea,” Gillander said with a smile. “Got some very good soup. Won't tell you what's in it. Like a mugful? It's a devil of a day.”

Monk was inclined to agree with him. The water was choppy and the wind scythed in over its rough surface like the edge of a blade.

“Thanks,” he accepted.

Hooper was staring around the cabin with appreciation. He tended to make a first judgment of a man by the way he cared for his boat, and his tools. He accepted also that perhaps he would judge a man by how he cooked.

Gillander disappeared into the galley, and a few moments later returned with three tin mugs of soup, clearly hot from the steam that rose from them.

Monk thanked him and waited a moment before he took a sip. It was almost too hot to drink, but it was delicious: a beef broth of some sort, with a generous dash of brandy in it.

“Good,” Hooper said appreciatively.

Monk nodded his agreement. He had already decided how he was going to approach the subject of their visit with Gillander.

“No sign of Owen,” he observed. “We think he might have been involved in a pretty big plan, which could have included the other man that escaped: Blount.”

Gillander looked puzzled, but Monk had not expected him to reveal himself, even if he knew all about it. Monk was by no means certain that Gillander was the mastermind, just the one who could be present without causing suspicion. He still thought it could be Piers Astley behind any planned raid on Clive's premises.

“Blount was a forger,” he continued. “There've been a couple of other escapees in the last half year or so. Altogether four men who worked together on a major robbery before.”

“Interesting,” Gillander agreed. “Robin Hood and his merry men…or not so merry. Who killed Blount, then? Was he going to betray them to Customs?”

“It's a thought,” Monk said.

There was a silence. Gillander looked from Monk to Hooper, and back again.

“About what? Another big robbery?” Then he laughed loudly. “From Aaron Clive! Of course. That's why Owen came here. And you think I have something to do with it? Because I fished Owen out of the water?”

“It's one possibility.” Monk nodded, keeping the smile on his face also. “You're perfectly placed. Why do you anchor here, anyway? It's a long way up the river, and there are few conveniences.”

“Which is why it's cheap.” Gillander shrugged. “Surely you understand that, Mr. Monk? You've run your own boat. You save money where you can, but never save on equipment, right, Mr. Hooper?”

Hooper nodded his agreement, but did not take his eyes off Gillander. He was sitting sideways to the small table, always keeping the way open across the floor if Gillander moved suddenly. Nothing would be in the way to stop Hooper going for him.

“Right,” Hooper said.

Monk nodded also, as naturally as if there were complete understanding between them, but he could feel his muscles aching from the tension of what Gillander had just said about him running his own boat.

Hooper was picking up the thread. “Where'd you come from?” he asked Gillander. “And if you're not waiting for Owen and his friends, who are you waiting for?”

For the first time Gillander hesitated.

Monk was surprised. He would have expected him to have a smooth, easy answer ready. Now he looked even a little uncomfortable.

“I have a service to perform for Mrs. Clive,” he said after a moment. “As soon as I've done that, I'll…consider moving on. Maybe the China Seas. Ever been that far east, Mr. Monk?”

Monk had no idea and he was distracted by Gillander's mention of Miriam Clive. He couldn't be looking for Piers Astley as well, could he? “No,” he said with conviction. “It's the West that used to interest me. Now I'm happy here on the Thames. Sooner or later all the world comes here.”

Gillander smiled widely. It was a charming gesture, full of humor.

“I love the arrogance of the English; it's so totally unconscious. You are not even trying to impress. You are too secure in your pride to care what the rest of the world think of you. I've been watching, and trying to copy it.”

“I would say you're doing rather well,” Monk answered just a fraction too quickly. “Is that Irish I hear in your voice?”