William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

to save a thief?
    Because the man might not be a murderer, and no one else would bother to help him.
    “Someone beat his head in,” he said aloud. “If it wasn’t you, then it was somebody else on the
Maude Idris
.”
    “I dunno!” Gould was desperate. “Yer can’t . . . oh, geez!” He said nothing more.
    They stood on the damp, sour earth and waited. Neither Louvain nor any of his men passed them. They had found another route to take the ivory away, swiftly and unseen, no doubt expecting Durban to come from this side.
    Five minutes later Monk heard Gould gasp as if he were choking, and his breath caught in a sob. He looked around and saw Durban’s distinctive walk as he came out of the shadow of the building ahead, Sergeant Orme and a constable behind him.
    “Go with him,” Monk said quietly to Gould. “I’ll do what I can.”
    “Good day, Mr. Monk,” Durban said curiously, stopping a couple of yards away. “What are you doing here?”
    “Stolen goods,” Monk replied. “One very handsome ivory tusk, but the point is that the night watchman on the
Maude Idris
was killed in the theft.”
    Durban’s face was comical with understanding and skepticism. “That why they took only one tusk, is it?”
    Monk knew without question that Durban did not believe it. He knew exactly what Monk had done. “I imagine so,” Monk said smoothly. “Maybe there was a bit of double-crossing going on. Gould says he didn’t kill Hodge, but somebody did. I’ll show you where the tusk is.”
    Durban signaled for his man to take Gould, who let out a cry and swiveled to look at Monk, and was jerked sharply to face forward as manacles were put on his wrists.
    Monk turned and led Durban back into the far building, going slowly, partly because he was uncertain of the way, but mostly because he wanted to be sure that Louvain had had sufficient time to move all the tusks and leave no trace for Durban to find. It also crossed his mind to wonder if now that he had his ivory back he would cheat on the payment, but Monk refused to dwell on that. If Louvain did, then Monk would open up the Hodge murder case in such a way that Durban would plague Louvain until he’d wish he had not paid Monk to retrieve the ivory in the beginning. But even as he thought that, he knew what a dangerous thing it would be to do. It would be a last resort, only to be adopted in order to save his own reputation; not for the money, but for all future work.
    They were inside the long corridor again, and the gloom closed in on them. Monk walked slowly, picking his way by touch as well as sight, stepping carefully to avoid the rotted boards, the refuse, and the weeds which had grown up through the floor and died, their stems slimy.
    He found the place where he had left the one tusk, recognizing it by the newly broken wood. He pointed to it, and allowed Durban to dislodge the ivory and pull it out.
    “I see,” Durban said expressionlessly. “So who does it belong to then, when we’ve finished with it? I assume he’s going to press charges, apart from the murder of the watchman?”
    “Clement Louvain,” Monk replied. He wished he could be more open with Durban. Every lie scraped at him like an abrasion to the skin, but he had left himself no room to maneuver.
    At Durban’s instruction, Sergeant Orme hoisted the tusk onto his shoulder, and Durban turned to walk back again. Monk followed him, wanting to say something, anything to let Durban understand, and knowing he could not.
             
    He found Louvain in his office after dark that evening. The room was warm. A fire was burning briskly in the grate under the ornate mantel, the light of the flames dancing on the polished wood of the desk. Louvain was standing by the window with his back to the somber view of the river. It was too dark to see anything but the yellow eyes of other windows and the riding lights of ships at anchor.
    He was smiling. He had a decanter of brandy on the small table—and two glasses out, polished to burn like crystals in the reflected fire. A small leather purse sat beside them, its soft fabric distorted out of shape by the weight of coins inside.
    “Sit down,” he invited as soon as Monk had closed the door. “Have some brandy. You’ve done well, Monk. I admit, I had doubts at times; I thought you weren’t up to it. But this is excellent. I have my ivory back, bar one tusk for evidence.” He nodded, smiling, and there was no curb or evasion in it. “You