Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

into the afternoon, but he could not afford time for leisure. He ate briefly, purchasing fresh sandwiches from a street seller, then went to the police station to seek the help of a man he had learned investigated business fraud. He might at least know the name of dealers in tobacco; perhaps he could find the Turkish house in question.
    "Marner?" the man repeated agreeably, pushing his
    fingers through his scant hair. "Can't say as I've ever heard of him. You don't know his first name, you say?"
    "No, but he floated a company for importing tobacco from America, mixing it with Turkish, and selling it at a profit."
    The man pulled a face.
    "Sounds unpleasant—can't stand Turkish myself—but then I prefer snuff anyway. Marner?" He shook his head. "You don't mean old Zebedee Marner, by any chance? I suppose you've tried him, or you wouldn't ask. Very sly old bird, that. But I never knew him mixed up with importing."
    "What does he do?"
    The man's eyebrows went up in surprise.
    "Losing your grip, Monk? What's the matter with you?" He squinted a little. "You must know Zebedee Marner. Never been able to charge him with anything because he always weasels his way out, but we all know he's behind half the pawnbrokers, sweatshops and brothels in the Limehouse area right down to the Isle of Dogs. Personally I think he takes a percentage from the child prostitutes and the opium as well, although he's far too downy to go anywhere near them himself." He sighed in disgust. "But then, of course, there's a few who wouldn't say as far as that."
    Monk hardly dared hope. If this were the same Marner, then here at last was something that could lead to motive. It was back to the underworld, to greed, fraud and vice. Reason why Joscelin Grey should have killed—but why should he have been the victim?
    Was there something in all this evidence that could at last convict Zebedee Marner? Was Grey in collusion with Marner? But Grey had lost his own money—or had he?
    "Where can I find Marner?" he asked urgently. "I need him, and time is short." There was no time to seek out addresses himself. If this man thought he was peculiar, incompetent at his job, he would just have to think it. Soon it would hardly matter anyway.
    The man looked at Monk, interest suddenly sharpening in his face, his body coming upright.
    "Do you know something about Marner that I don't, Monk? IVe been trying to catch that slimy bastard for years. Let me in on it?" His face was eager, a light in his eyes as if he had seen a sudden glimpse of an elusive happiness. "I don't want any of the credit; I won't say anything. I just want to see his face when he's pinched."
    Monk understood. He was sorry not to be able to help.
    "I don't have anything on Marner," he answered. "I don't even know if the business I'm investigating is fraudulent or not. Someone committed suicide, and I'd like to know the reasons."
    “Why?'' He was curious and his puzzlement was obvious. He cocked his head a little to one side. "What do you care about a suicide? I thought you were on the Grey case. Don't tell me Runcorn's let you off it—without an arrest?"
    So even this man knew of Runcorn's feelings about him. Did everyone? No wonder Runcorn knew he had lost his memory! He must have laughed at Monk's confusion, his fumbling.
    "No." He pulled a wry face. "No, it's all part of the same thing. Grey was involved in the business."
    "Importing?" His voice rose an octave. "Don't tell me he was killed over a shipment of tobacco!"
    "Not over tobacco; but there was a lot of money invested, and apparently the company failed."
    "Oh yes? That's a new departure for Marner—"
    "If it's the same man," Monk said cautiously. "I don't know that it is. I don't know anything about him but his name, and only part of that. Where do I find him?"
    "Thirteen Gun Lane, Limehouse." He hesitated. "If you get anything, Monk, will you tell me, as long as it isn't the actual murder? Is that what you're after?"
    "No. No, I just want some information. If I find evidence of fraud I'll bring it back for you." He smiled bleakly. "You have my word."
    The man's face eased into a smile. "Thank you."
    * * * * *
    Monk went early in the morning and was in Limehouse by nine o'clock. He would have been there sooner had there been any purpose. He had spent much of the time since he woke at six planning what he would say.
    It was a long way from Grafton Street and he took a hansom eastward through Clerkenwell, Whitechapel and down towards the