William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

In the end, roughly the middle of the previous summer, he had been taken in by the master of a male brothel.
    “Yeah, poor devil,” he said to Monk. “On ’is last legs, ’e were. Thin as a rake an’ pale as death. I could see as ’e were dyin’.” His scarred face was pinched with pity as he sat in the overstuffed chair in his crowded parlor. He was an extraordinarily ugly man with a humpbacked, misshapen body, but with beautiful hands. Who or what he might have been in other circumstances Monk would never know, but it crossed his mind to wonder. Had he been drawn to this, or taken it up out of greed? He chose to think it was the former.
    “Did he tell you anything about himself?” Monk enquired.
    The man looked at him narrowly. Monk had not asked his name. “A bit,” he answered. “What’s it to you?”
    “Did he work for you?”
    “When ’e was well enough … which weren’t often.”
    Monk could understand it, but he was still disappointed.
    “ ’E did the laundry,” the man said wryly. “Wot was you thinking?”
    To his amazement Monk was blushing.
    The man laughed. “ ’E weren’t o’ that nature,” he said firmly. “Yer can turn boys, but ’is age it’s ’arder, an’ beside that, the way ’e looked like death, an’ coughed blood, no one’d fancy ’im anyway. Whether you believe it or not, I took ’im in because I was sorry for ’im. I could see it wouldn’t be for long. ’E’d bin ’ard enough used as it was.”
    “Any idea who knocked him around?” Monk tried to keep the anger out of his voice, and failed.
    The man looked at him with a slight squint. “Why? Wot yer goin’ ter do about it?”
    There was no point in being less than honest. The man had already seen his feelings. “Depends upon who it is,” he replied. “There are several people who would be happy to make life very difficult for whoever it was.”
    “Startin’ wi’ you, eh?”
    “No, I’m not the first. I’m several steps along the line. He quarreled with many of the artists he worked for. Was it one of them?”
    “I reckon so.” The man nodded slowly. “But ’e didn’t rightly quarrel with them. The first one just got bored and threw him out. Found it more profitable ter paint women for a while. The second couldn’t afford to keep him. The third and fourth both asked favors of him like wot I sell—at an ’igh price. ’E weren’t willing—that’s why they threw ’im out. an’ by then ’e were losing ’is looks an ’e got iller an’ iller.”
    “Was it one of them?”
    The man sized up Monk carefully, the dark face, the lean bones, broad-bridged nose, unblinking eyes.
    “Why? Yer gonna kill ’im?”
    “Nothing so quick,” Monk replied. “There’s a policesergeant who would like to exact a slow vengeance … through the law.”
    “An’ you’d tell ’im so ’e could?”
    “I would. If I were sure it was the right one.”
    “Customer o’ mine took a fancy to ’im an’ weren’t minded ter take no fer an answer. I’d ’ave ’ad ’im beat ter within an inch of ’is life, meself, but I can’t afford ter. Get a name fer that, an’ I’ll be out o’ business, an’ all me boys wi’ me.”
    “Name?”
    “Garson Dalgetty. A gent, but a right sod underneath it. Told me ’e’d ruin me if I laid an ’and on ’im. And ’e could!”
    “Thank you. I’ll not say where I got this information. But I want a favor in return.”
    “Yeah? Why don’t that surprise me none?”
    “Because you’re not a fool.”
    “Wot’s yer favor?”
    Monk grinned. “Not your trade! I want to know if Gilmer told you of anyone giving him money to pay his debts, and I mean giving, not paying.”
    The man was surprised. “So you know about that, do yer?”
    “The man who gave it told me. I wondered if it was the truth.”
    “Oh, yeah. Very generous, ’e were.” He rocked a little in his red chair. “I never asked why. But ’e kept it up till Gilmer come ’ere, an’ after. Stopped when ’e died.”
    Monk realized with a jolt what the man had said.
    “He went on incurring debts?”
    “Medicine, poor sod. I couldn’t afford that.”
    “Who was it?”
    “Yer said yer knew.”
    “I do. But do you?”
    The man’s ugly face lit with bitter amusement. “Blackmail, is it? No, I don’t. Gilmer would never tell me, an’ I never asked.”
    “Who did know?”
    “God … and the devil! How do I know? Don’t suppose itwould be that ’ard ter find out, if yer