The trail that the investigation had been following had ended — decisively — with Mrs de Courcey, and they would never be able to pick it up again. The killer — or killers — had got away with murdering an outstanding police officer. And Mrs O’Brien, struggling to bring up three children alone, would be left with the bitter knowledge that she would never find justice for her husband.
The smithy in his head appeared to have closed for the day, and even the tannery was not quite as active as it had formerly been. Blackstone slowly swung his legs off the bed, and placed his feet gingerly on the floor. When nothing disastrous happened, he stood up, and was pleased to find that he did not immediately fall over again.
He would live, he told himself — though he was still not entirely sure whether that was good or bad.
‘Detective Sergeant Meade hasn’t reported for duty yet,’ said the desk sergeant at Mulberry Street, in an uncharacteristically cheery voice which made Blackstone really hate him. ‘It seems that he’s come down with a case of food poisoning.’
Blackstone nodded — carefully. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘If it is food poisoning that he’s suffering from, then he probably caught it from the same bottle that you did,’ the sergeant said, after looking at Blackstone more closely.
And then he chuckled.
‘What a wonderful sense of humour you Americans do seem to have,’ Blackstone said sourly.
The sergeant didn’t seem to notice the barb. ‘Would you like to see the girl now?’ he asked. ‘Or don’t you feel up to it yet?’
‘What girl?’
‘The one who came in over an hour ago, and said that she wanted to speak to you.’
‘To speak to me? Or to speak to Sergeant Meade?’
‘She said she wanted to see the Limey.’
Who could she be? Blackstone wondered.
Jenny the little housemaid?
There was no logical reason he could think why it should be her. But then there was no logical reason why she should have made an appearance in his dream, either!
‘Did she look like a domestic servant?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the desk sergeant replied. ‘She looked like a whore.’
Not Jenny then, but Trixie, Blackstone thought, and was surprised to find that he felt strangely disappointed.
‘Like I said, she’s been waitin’ for over an hour,’ the desk sergeant told Blackstone. ‘Do you want to see her? Or should I tell her to get her ass the hell out of here?’
‘I’ll see her,’ Blackstone said. ‘Where is she?’
‘In the interview room, third door on the left,’ the desk sergeant replied, jerking his thumb in roughly the right direction.
Trixie was wearing even more powder and rouge than she had been the day before, but Blackstone suspected there was good reason for that.
‘I’ve come to return this,’ she said, sliding the ten-dollar bill quickly across the table.
‘Why?’
‘Because. . because I lied.’
‘Lied about what?’
‘I lied about that policeman coming into the club on Tuesday. He never did.’
‘Then why did you say he did?’
‘Because I wanted the reward.’
‘And now you don’t want it?’ Blackstone asked.
Trixie shrugged. ‘I still want it,’ she admitted, ‘but my conscience won’t let me keep it.’
Or somebody wouldn’t let her keep it, Blackstone thought.
‘So Inspector O’Brien was never in the brothel?’ he asked.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘So how was it that you were able to describe the ring he was wearing so accurately?’
For a moment, Trixie was lost for an answer. Then she said, ‘I didn’t say I hadn’t seen him — I only said I hadn’t seen him in the club.’
‘Then where did you see him?’
‘Out on the street.’
‘On the street?’
‘That’s right, I was out shopping, one day last week, when he stopped me and said he wanted to know about the club. It was when he was showing me his shield that I noticed the ring.’
It was more than obvious to Blackstone that the girl was lying.
Inspector O’Brien had stopped her in the street and asked her about the brothel!
O’Brien had shown no curiosity about the place at all until after he’d had his conversation with Senator Plunkitt. And even then, he’d known so little about the establishment — and this according to what Trixie herself had said the day before — that he hadn’t been able to ask for the madam by name, and had felt distinctly uncomfortable even being there.
But though Blackstone knew that Trixie was lying — and though she knew that he knew she was lying — they both also knew that it would be almost impossible for him to ever prove it.
‘Shall I tell you what I think happened?’ Blackstone suggested.
Trixie shrugged again. ‘Tell me if you want to. I don’t mind — one way or the other.’
‘I think that after we left last night, your madam started to ask herself where we could have got our information from. And being a smart woman, it didn’t take her too long to work out that it could only have come from one of three people — you, Imre or the other girl.’
‘Lucy.’
‘Lucy. But she trusts Imre, so it had to be one of you two girls who’d been talking. Did Imre beat both of you up to get a confession or were you the only one who got the pounding?’
‘Nobody got beaten up.’
‘So if I was to scrape all that paint off your face, I wouldn’t find any bruising?’
‘You might find a couple of bruises,’ Trixie admitted. ‘But that’s only because I walked into a door.’
‘If you stick to your original story — the true one — we’ll protect you,’ Blackstone promised.
‘Like you did last night?’ Trixie asked bitterly.
She had a point, Blackstone thought.
‘We made a mistake by showing your madam that we knew too much of what had gone on,’ Blackstone said — although the mistake had been all Meade’s, because he himself would have never have been anything like as explicit. ‘I’m sorry for that, but it won’t happen again. We’ll put you in a hotel, somewhere they won’t be able to get at you.’
But his heart was only half in it, because he knew even if she did stick to her original story, it would do very little to help the investigation now.
‘And how would I earn a living if you were hiding me away?’ Trixie asked.
‘We’d give you some money.’
‘But nothing like as much as I earn by doing what I do now,’ Trixie pointed out.
‘Probably not,’ Blackstone agreed.
‘Do you know why I asked to see you instead of the boy who gave me the money?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘It was because you were older — and maybe wiser — and I thought you’d understand the position I’m in.’
I do, Blackstone thought sadly. I understand it only too well.
But still, he heard himself say, ‘The position you’re in?’
‘I don’t exactly like being a whore,’ Trixie said seriously, ‘but it’s the only job that’s open to a girl like me where you can make a decent living. And I want to get on in the business. By the time I’m Madam’s age, I want to own a place like hers. And I won’t get that by taking money off the police — I’ll get it because I’ll be earning enough to give the police money.’
‘Listen, Trixie, things will change — things will get better,’ Blackstone said. ‘The world won’t always be as corrupt as it is now.’
But again, his heart was not in it, because he knew there had been corruption — and prostitution — for over five thousand years before he’d been born, and he was sure they’d still be around five thousand years after he died.
‘Take the money back, Trixie,’ he urged, sliding the ten-dollar bill back across the table.