Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

their revolting trade. "At least not pressing enough to come to you. I have a matter of business to discuss with Mr. Wigtight."
    "Quite." The man nodded with a smirk of understanding. "Quite so. All matters of business are referred to Mr. Wigtight, ultimately, Mr.—er?" He raised his eyebrows.
    “I do not want to borrow any money,'' Monk said rather more tartly. "Tell Mr. Wigtight it is about something he has mislaid, and very badly wishes to have returned to him."
    "Mislaid?" The man screwed up his pallid face. "Mislaid? What are you talking about, sir? Mr. Wigtight does not mislay things." He snifled in offended disapproval.
    Monk leaned forward and put both hands on the counter, and the man was obliged to face him.
    "Are you going to show me to Mr. Wigtight?" Monk
    said very clearly. "Or do I take my information elsewhere?" He did not want to tell the man who he was, or Wigtight would be forewarned, and he needed the slight advantage of surprise.
    "Ah—" The man made up his mind rapidly. "Ah— yes; yes sir. I'll take you to Mr. Wigtight, sir. If you'll come this way." He closed his ledger with a snap and slid it into a drawer. With one eye still on Monk he took a key from his waistcoat pocket and locked the drawer, then straightened up. "Yes sir, this way."
    The inner office of Josiah Wigtight was quite a different affair from the drab attempt at anonymous respectability of the entrance. It was frankly lush, everything chosen for comfort, almost hedonism. The big armchairs were covered in velvet and the cushions were deep in both color and texture; the carpet muffled sound and the gas lamps hissing softly on the walls were mantled in rose-colored glass which shed a glow over the room, obscuring outlines and dulling glare. The curtains were heavy and drawn in folds to keep out the intrusion and the reality of daylight. It was not a matter of taste, not even of vulgarity, but purely the uses of pleasure. After a moment or two the effect was curiously soporific. Immediately Monk's respect for Wigtight rose. It was clever.
    "Ah." Wigtight breathed out deeply. He was a portly man, swelling out like a giant toad behind his desk, wide mouth split into a smile that died long before it reached his bulbous eyes. "Ah," he repeated. "A matter of business somewhat delicate, Mr.—er?"
    "Somewhat," Monk agreed. He decided not to sit down in the soft, dark chair; he was almost afraid it would swallow him, like a mire, smother his judgment. He felt he would be at a disadvantage in it and not able to move if he should need to.
    "Sit down, sit down!" Wigtight waved. "Let us talk about it. I'm sure some accommodation can be arrived at."
    "I hope so." Monk perched on the arm of the chair. It
    was uncomfortable, but in this room he preferred to be uncomfortable.
    "You are temporarily embarrassed?" Wigtight began. "You wish to take advantage of an excellent investment? You have expectations of a relative, in poor health, who favors you—"
    "Thank you, I have employment which is quite sufficient for my needs."
    "You are a fortunate man." There was no belief in his smooth, expressionless voice; he had heard every lie and excuse human ingenuity could come up with.
    "More fortunate than Joscelin Grey!" Monk said baldly.
    Wigtight's face changed in only the minutest of ways— a shadow, no more. Had Monk not been watching for it he would have missed it altogether.
    "Joscelin Grey?" Wigtight repeated. Monk could see in his face the indecision whether to deny knowing him or admit it as a matter of common knowledge. He decided the wrong way.
    "I know no such person, sir."
    "YouVe never heard of him?" Monk tried not to press too hard. He hated moneylenders with far more anger than reason could tell him of. He meant to trap this soft, fat man in his own words, trap him and watch the bloated body struggle.
    But Wigtight sensed a pitfall.
    "I hear so many names," he added cautiously.
    "Then you had better look in your books," Monk suggested. "And see if his is there, since you don't remember."
    "I don't keep books, after debts are paid." Wigtight's wide, pale eyes assumed a blandness. "Matter of discretion, you know. People don't like to be reminded of their hard times."
    "How civil of you," Monk said sarcastically. "How about looking through the lists of those who didn't repay you?"
    "Mr. Grey is not among them."
    "So he paid you." Monk allowed only a little of his triumph to creep through.
    "I have not said I lent him anything."
    "Then if