William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

brutally.
    “Quite so. I see that you understand entirely.”
    “And were you able to help him?”
    The man shrugged. “I gave him names and instances, but I have no proof.”
    “What names?” Monk said urgently.
    “Certain harbormasters, revenue men, the owner of a brothel, a merchant who is also a receiver, although very few know it. Anothername he looked for was the master of a ship who came ashore and set up his own importing business. Friend of a revenue man, so Mr. Durban said.”
    “That sounds more like corruption of the revenue than anything to do with Phillips,” Monk answered.
    “Oh, it was about Phillips,” the seaman insisted. “Mr. Durban almost had ‘im, two or three times. Then the evidence just vanished away like mist when the sun comes up. You can see it happen, but you can never put your hand on it, do you see?” He shook his head. “Mr. Phillips's goods are not cheap to buy, at least not the ones he sells on his dirty little boat. The men who buy them have money, and power comes from money. That's why Mr. Phillips is very difficult to catch in the hangman's noose.”
    Monk asked more questions, and the man answered him, but when Monk rose to leave, closely followed by Scuff, he was not certain how much more he knew. All kinds of men were involved, and at least some of them had the power to protect Phillips from the River Police.
    “Yer better be careful,” Scuff said, his voice tight and a little high with anxiety. He had abandoned even trying to look as if he were not frightened. He kept pace with Monk now, putting in an extra little step every so often to make up for his shorter stride. “Them revenue men is summink wicked. Get them on yer tail an’ yer might never get out o’ trouble. Mebbe that's why Mr. Durban backed off, like?”
    “Maybe,” Monk agreed.
    The day after that Scuff accompanied Orme, and Monk went alone to pursue the few friends or informants he had gained in the short time he had been on the river. He began with Smiler Hobbs, a dour north countryman whose lugubrious face had earned him his nickname.
    “Wot are yer after now?” Smiler asked when Monk walked into his pawnshop and closed the door behind him. “I got nothin’ stolen, an’ don't yer stand there like the judgment o’ the Almighty. Yer put off me customers. Worse than buildin’ next to a garbage dump, yer are.”
    “Good morning to you also, Smiler,” Monk replied, making hisway through the piles of pots and pans, musical instruments, flat irons, several chairs, and an endless variety of odd china. “I'll go as soon as I learn what I want to know.”
    “Then yer in fer a long wait, ‘cause I in't got nowt stolen an’ I don't know nowt about owt.” Smiler glared at him.
    “Of course you don't. And as to what you haven't got, I don't care,” Monk responded.
    Smiler looked surprised, then his eyes narrowed.
    Monk remained exactly where he was. “But I could always become interested,” he observed. “Nice sextant you have there. Pity it isn't at sea, doing some good.”
    Smiler's expression became even more dismal, as if he were staring at the ultimate disaster.
    “When Mr. Durban was trying to prove that Jericho Phillips was responsible for the boy's death, did he speak to you about it?” Monk asked.
    “Which boy's death?” Smiler retorted.
    Monk was about to snap back with Fig's name, then he saw the wider opportunity and seized it. “Reilly,” he replied. “Or any of the others?”
    “‘E asked everyone,” Smiler told him. “Like I said, I know nowt about it, or anythin’ else. I buy things as people need ter sell, an’ I sell things they need ter buy. Public service, it is.”
    “I know you do. I need to buy information.”
    “I don't give away nowt.”
    “Neither do I,” Monk agreed. “At least not often. You tell me what I want to know, and I'll pay you by not coming back here to keep on asking.”
    Smiler pulled down the corners of his mouth until his face was a mask of tragedy. “No better than Durban, yer aren't. Pick on the easy ones an’ twist them, an’ all the while creatures like Phillips, Pearly Boy, an’ the Fat Man cut people's throats like they was rats, an’ wot do yer lot do about it? Nowt! Absolutely, bloody nowt!”
    “The Fat Man's dead,” Monk told him.
    “Yeah? Maybe.” Smiler was skeptical.
    “For certain,” Monk responded truthfully. “I saw him go down, and I know for sure he never came up. I was there.”
    Smiler gave a