Dodger

away the cutlery, but apart from that it seemed to be a pretty decent crib, although there had been a certain amount of what you might call
words
from the missus of Mister Henry to her husband on the subject of bringing home waifs and strays at this time of night. It seemed to Dodger, who paid a great deal of forensic attention to all he could see and hear, that this was by no means the first time that she had cause for complaint; she sounded like someone trying hard to conceal that they were really fed up, and trying to put a brave face on it. But nevertheless, Dodger had certainly had his meal (and that was the important thing), the wife and a maid had bustled off with the girl, and now . . . someone was coming down the stairs to the kitchen.
    It was Charlie, and Charlie bothered Dodger. Henry seemed like one of them do-gooders who felt guilty about having money and food when other people did not; Dodger knew the type. He, personally , was not bothered about having money when other people didn’t, but when you lived a life like his, Dodger found that being generous when in funds, and being a cheerful giver, was a definite insurance. You needed friends – friends were the kind of people who would say: ‘Dodger? Never heard of ’im, never clapped eyes on ’im, guv’nor! You must be thinking of some other cove’ – because you had to live as best you could in the city, and you had to be sharp and wary and on your toes every moment of the day if you wanted to stay alive.
    He stayed alive because he was the Dodger, smart and fast. He knew everybody and everybody knew him. He had never, ever, been before the beak, he could outrun the fastest Bow Street runner and, now that they had all been found out and replaced, he could outrun every peeler as well. They couldn’t arrest you unless they put a hand on you, and nobody ever managed to touch Dodger.
    No, Henry was no problem, but Charlie – now, oh yes, Charlie – he looked the type who would look at a body and see right inside you. Charlie, Dodger considered, might well be a dangerous cove, a gentleman who knew the ins and outs of the world and could see through flannel and soft words to what you were thinking, which was dangerous indeed. Here he was now, the man himself, coming downstairs escorted by the jingling of coins.
    Charlie nodded at the cook, who was cleaning up, and sat down on the bench by Dodger, who had to slide up a bit to make room.
    ‘Well now, Dodger, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘I am sure you will be very happy to know that the young lady you helped us with is safe and sleeping in a warm bed after some stitches and some physic from the doctor. Alas, I wish I could say the same for her unborn child, which did not survive this dreadful escapade.’
    Child! The word hit Dodger like a blackjack, and unlike a blackjack it kept on going. A child – and for the rest of the conversation the word was there, hanging at the edge of his sight and not letting him go. Aloud he said, ‘I didn’t know.’
    ‘Indeed, I’m sure you didn’t,’ said Charlie. ‘In the dark it was just one more dreadful crime, which without doubt was only one among many this night; you know that, Dodger, and so do I. But this one had the temerity to take place in front of me, and so I feel I would like to do a little police work, without, as it were, involving the police, who I suspect in this case would not have very much success.’
    Charlie’s face was unreadable, even to Dodger, who was very, very good at reading faces. Solemnly, the man went on, ‘I wonder if those gentlemen you met who were harassing her knew about the child; perhaps we shall never find out, or perhaps we shall.’ And there it was; that little word ‘shall’ was a knife, straining to cut away until it hit enlightenment. Charlie’s face stayed totally blank. ‘I wonder if any other gentleman was aware of the fact, and therefore, sir, here for you are your two shillings – plus one more, if you were to answer a few questions for me in the hope of getting to the bottom of this strange occurrence.’
    Dodger looked at the coins. ‘What sort of questions would they be, then?’ Dodger lived in a world where
nobody
asked questions apart from: ‘How much?’ and ‘What’s in it for me?’ And he knew, actually
knew
, that Charlie knew this too.
    Charlie continued. ‘Can you read and write, Mister Dodger?’
    Dodger put his head on one side. ‘Is this a question that gets me a