Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

lookin' fer a screever, a partic'lar one, like?"
    "That's right, Tommy. I want one who made some fake-ments for two rampsmen who robbed a house in Mecklenburg Square. Went in pretending to be Peelers."
    Tommy's face lit up with amusement.
    "I like that," he admitted. "It's a smart lay, vat is."
    "Providing you don't get caught."
    "Wot's it worf?" Tommy's eyes narrowed.
    "It's murder, Tommy. Whoever did it'll be topped, and whoever helps them stands a good chance of getting the boat."
    "Oh Gawd!" Tommy's face paled visibly. "I 'an't no fancy for Horstralia. Boats don't suit me at all, vey don't. Men wasn't meant ter go orf all over like vat! In't nat'ral. An' 'orrible stories IVe 'eard about vem parts." He shivered dramatically. "Full o' savages an' creatures wot weren't never made by no Christian Gawd. Fings wif dozens 'o legs, an' fings wi' no legs at all. Ugh!" He rolled his eyes. "Right 'eathen place, it is."
    "Then don't run any risk of being sent there," Monk advised without any sympathy. "Find me this screever."
    "Are yer sure it's murder?" Tommy was still not entirely convinced. Monk wondered how much it was a matter of loyalties, and how much simply a weighing of one advantage against another.
    "Of course I'm sure!" he said with a low, level voice. He knew the threat was implicit in it. "Murder and robbery. Silver and jade stolen. Know anything about a jade dancing lady, pink jade, about six inches high?"
    Tommy was defensive, a thin, nasal quality of fear in his tone.
    "Fencin's not my life, guv. Don't do none o' vat—don't yer try an'hike vat on me."
    "The screever?" Monk said flatly.
    "Yeah, well I'll take yer. Anyfink in it fer me?" Hope seldom died. If the fearful reality of the rookery did not kill it, Monk certainly could not.
    "If it's the right man," he grunted.
    Tommy took them through another labyrinth of alleys and stairways, but Monk wondered how much distance they had actually covered. He had a strong feeling it was more to lose their sense of direction than to travel above a few hundred yards. Eventually they stopped at another large door, and after a sharp knock, Blind Tommy disappeared and the door swung open in front of them.
    The room inside was bright and smelled of burning.
    Monk stepped in, then looked up involuntarily and saw glass skylights. He saw down the walls where there were large windows as well. Of course—light for a forger's careful pen.
    The man inside turned to look at the intruders. He was squat, with powerful shoulders and large spatulate hands. His face was pale-skinned but ingrained with the dirt of years, and his colorless hair stuck to his head in thin spikes.
    "Well?" he demanded irritably. When he spoke Monk saw his teeth were short and black; Monk fancied he could smell the stale odor of them, even from where he stood.
    "You wrote police identification papers for two men, purporting to come from the Lye Street station." He made a statement, not a question. "I don't want you for it; I want the men. It's a case of murder, so you'd do well to stay on the right side of it."
    The man leered, his thin lips stretching wide in some private amusement. "You Monk?"
    "And if I am?" He was surprised the man had heard of him. Was his reputation so wide? Apparently it was.
    "Your case they walked inter, was it?" The man's mirth bubbled over in a silent chuckle, shaking his mass of flesh.
    "It's my case now," Monk replied. He did not want to tell the man the robbery and the murder were separate; the threat of hanging was too useful.
    "Wotcher want?" the man asked. His voice was hoarse, as if from too much shouting or laughter, yet it was hard imagining him doing either.
    "Who are they?" Monk pressed.
    "Now Mr. Monk, 'ow should I know?" His massive shoulders were still twitching. "Do I ask people's names?"
    "Probably not, but you know who they are. Don't pretend to be stupid; it doesn't suit you."
    "I know some people," he conceded in little more than a whisper. " 'Course I do; but not every muck snipe 'oo tries 'is 'and at thievin'."
    "Muck snipe?" Monk looked at him with derision. "Since when did you hand out fekements for nothing? You don't do favors for down-and-outs. They paid you, or someone did. If they didn't pay you themselves, tell me who did; that'll do."
    The man's narrow eyes widened a fraction. "Oh clever, Mr. Monk, very clever." He clapped his broad, powerful hands together in soundless applause.
    "So who paid you?"
    "My business is confidential, Mr. Monk. Lose it