William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

she had seen? Or simply another brothel owner with a rather-better-than-average establishment?
    He was nervous about something. The way his long, thin fingers constantly moved, the pallor of his face, his rigid body, all betrayed anxiety. Or was it simply that he was unwell, or preoccupied with something quite different? Perhaps he never went out in daylight anyway, and his pallor was part of the way of his life.
    She had learned little. If she was to accomplish anything she must take more risk. “You must be losing money,” she stated boldly.
    Something in him changed. It was so subtle she could not have described it, but it was as if some hidden fear had clamped a tighter hold on him. Her heart sank. She must be in the wrong place. Squeaky Robinson had not the nerve or the intelligence to plan something as bold or complicated as the scheme Alice had described. It would take planning with long-term profit in view, a steady mind and a cool head to carry out such a thing. Squeaky Robinson did not impress her as having any of those qualities. The panic in him was too close beneath the surface now as they sat staring at each other.
    But it could not be she whom he feared. She had posed no threat at all, open or implicit. She had no power to hurt him, and had not suggested that she wished to.
    Was it his partner he was afraid of? The man who had set this up, and relied on him to run it profitably and without attracting the law? Was that it?
    “Perhaps you should consult your partner before you reach any decision?” she said aloud.
    Squeaky stiffened so violently he poked himself with the paper knife and gave a sharp yelp. He started to say something, then abruptly changed his mind. “I don’t have a partner!” He glared at the red mark on his hand, then resentfully at her, as if it were her fault he had hurt himself.
    She smiled disbelievingly.
    “You looking for other premises?” he said guardedly.
    “I could be,” she replied. “But I would want very good rates, and no chopping and changing them when it suited you—a proper business arrangement. If you have no one else to consult, then consider what I have said and see if you can be of assistance. It is in your interest.”
    Squeaky chewed his lip. He was only too obviously in a quandary, and the pressure of a decision was taking him ever closer to panic.
    Hester leaned forward a little. “It is going to get worse, Mr. Robinson. The longer the police are here, the more likely it is that your clients will be obliged to find other places in which to entertain themselves, and then . . .”
    “What can I do?” he burst out, and now his voice was high and sharp enough to have given him his nickname. “I don’t know who killed him, do I?”
    “I don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps you do. I’m sure a man with the skill to run a house like this must have his ear to the ground. You could not succeed if you did not—” She stopped. He looked so acutely uncomfortable she was afraid he was actually in physical pain. There was a sheen of sweat over his skin and his knuckles were white.
    “. . . if you did not have an excellent knowledge of the area and everything that goes on in it,” she finished. There was such a tension in the man a few feet from her that suddenly she wanted to escape. The emotion in his face, the desperation, had a physical presence almost at odds with the sly knowledge of his mind. It was as if he had been robbed of a safety he had known for so long he was still only half aware of his new nakedness and had had no time to shield himself or deal with it.
    “Yes!” he said sharply. “Of course I have!” He was defensive now, as if he needed to assure her. “I’ll think about it, Mrs. Monk. We need to get back to business as usual. If I hear from anyone what happened to this Baltimore I’ll see if we can’t . . . arrange something.” He spread his hands, indicating the piles of paper. “Now I’ve got things to see to. I can’t spare any more time to . . . to talk . . . when there’s nothing to say.”
    She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Robinson. And you will not forget to mention to your partner the matter of a property to rent . . . very reasonably, seeing as it is in all our interests?”
    He jerked up again. “I don’t have . . .” he began, then his face ironed out and he smiled. It was a ghastly gesture, all teeth and rigid muscles. “I’ll tell him. Ha, ha!” He laughed violently. “See what he