William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

men trusted him. Durban had. Which brought Monk back to the old question: Why had Durban recommended Monk for the post? It made no sense, and standing here in the dark on the windy embankment with the constant slap of the water against the stones, he felt as exposed as if he had been naked in the lights.
    Still he asked the question. “Who put out the word that we are corrupt? It came from someone.”
    “I dunno, sir.” Orme’s voice was low and hard. “But certain as death, I mean ter find out.”
    They heard the boat bump against the steps. It was time to go on patrol. Neither said anything more. The plan would begin the following afternoon. There was much to go over and prepare before then.
     
    In order to catch the Fat Man himself they needed the thieves to steal one article of such value that they could neither divide it, as they would a haul of money, nor break it up, as they would a piece of jewelry, selling the separate stones. It had to be something that was of worth only if it remained whole, yet too specialized and too valuable to sell themselves.
    Monk and Orme had obtained Farnham’s permission to borrow an exquisite carving of ivory and gold. Intact, it was worth a fortune; broken, its only value was in the weight of the gold, which wasn’t much. Even at a glance, a pickpocket would know that such a carving, in good condition, was worth enough to keep him for a decade, if fenced successfully.
    Farnham had insisted that Monk himself carry it.
    “You can look the part,” he said with a curl of his mouth as he passed over the figure, wrapped in a soft chamois leather cloth. He surveyed Monk’s beautifully cut jacket and white shirt with its silk cravat, and then his trousers and polished boots. Such clothes were a legacy from Monk’s earlier years, before the accident, when most of his money went to his tailor. They were not the fashion of a season, as a woman’s gown would have been, but timeless elegance. They spoke of old money, the kind of taste that is innate, not put on to impress others. Farnham might not have been able to describe it, but he knew what it meant. It was inappropriate in a subordinate, which was why Farnham’s smile troubled Monk. He remembered how Runcorn had hated his attire, and it made him even more uneasy.
    “Thank you, sir.” He took the carving and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. It made a slight bump, pulling it out of shape.
    “Take care of it, Monk,” Farnham warned. “The River Police will go out of business if you lose that! With the word going around now, no one will believe we didn’t take it ourselves.”
    Monk felt odd. Was he walking straight into a trap, knowing it and yet still stupid enough to step in? Or caught tightly enough to have no choice?
    “Yes, sir.” His voice was rasping, as if the night air off the river had caught in his throat already.
    “Orme will give you a cutlass later,” Farnham added. “Can’t let you have a weapon yet. Even a knife a thief would feel and know there was something wrong. It’s a shame. Leaves you a bit vulnerable, but can’t be helped.” He was still smiling, thin-lipped, barely showing his teeth.
    “Good luck.”
    “Thank you.” Monk turned and left, going to the outer room where the other men were waiting. Two of them were dressed as passengers, in order to keep a firsthand watch on the thieves. The rest were to remain in their own police boats close at hand, so they could follow anyone easily if they were to escape by water.
    Orme nodded and signaled the men to go. Monk noticed with a chill and an anxious dryness in his mouth that they all carried cutlasses in their belts. Three of them carried extra weapons as well, to arm those who were disguised, should the whole operation end in violence. Monk had no idea if he had ever fought hand to hand in his years before the accident, and certainly he had not since then. He was a detective, not a uniformed officer. It was too late now to wonder if he was up to it—strong enough, quick enough, even if he had any skill with a cutlass.
    He followed the men out into the hard, cold wind. Each was prepared, knowing his duty, the main plan, and the contingency. There was nothing more to say.
    Outside on the quay, Orme divided his armed men into three boats, and they pulled out and headed upriver. Monk and the two others who were dressed as passengers took a hansom up to Westminster, where they boarded the next ferry down towards Greenwich.
    The