“Wotcher want wiv me?” he demanded truculently. “I ain’t done nuffin’, not as yer can prove!”
“Not trying to, Squeaker,” Pitt replied. “Although I dare say I could if I put my mind to it.”
“Nah!” Squeaker dismissed the possibility, but there was anxiety in his quick little face. “Nah-never!”
“We won’t know, will we-if I don’t try?” Pitt pointed out.
“So wotcher want, then? Yer never came ter Devil’s Acre fer yer ’ealf!”
“Information of course.” Pitt looked at him with mild contempt. He should have known that; indeed the pretense was a waste of time.
“I dunno nuffin’ abaht no crimes!” Squeaker warned.
“Of course not,” Pitt said dryly. “You’re an upright citizen, making a few pence writing letters for those who haven’t the skill for themselves.”
“Vat’s right-yer got it in one!” Squeaker nodded vigorously.
“But you know the Devil’s Acre,” Pitt pursued.
“Course I do-I was bloody born ’ere!”
“Ever heard of a pimp named Max? And don’t lie to me, Squeaker, or I’ll arrest you for withholding information about a murder, and it’ll be the long drop for you! This is a bad one.”
“Oh, my Gawd! Yer mean vat poor sod as was-oh, Gawd!” Squeaker paled under the dirt on his face. “Oh, Gawd!” he said again.
“So?” Pitt prompted. “What do you know about Max?”
“I dunno ’oo killed ’im, I swear to yer, Mr. Pitt. Some kind o’ maniac! ‘Oo’d do vat ter any man? It ain’t decent.”
“Of course you don’t know who killed him,” Pitt conceded with a tolerant smile. “Or you’d have told us all about it, naturally.”
“Natcherly,” Squeaker agreed, glancing away nervously. He thought Pitt was laughing at him, but he did not want to put it to the test. “I swear,” he added for good measure.
“What about Max?” Pitt pressed. “What was he like?”
“Good at it,” Squeaker said grudgingly. Pimping was a lot more profitable than petty forgery, as well as probably more fun. “’Ad a natcheral talent, ’e ’ad-fer vat sort o’ fing!” He did not want to be too fulsome in his praise. After all, Max could not have made a good forgery to save himself. In fact, Squeaker was not sure if he could even write a legible hand! There was great skill in writing well, and it should not be undervalued.
Remembering the heavy, sensual face with its dark eyes, Pitt could well believe that Max had such a talent. “Yes,” he said. “So I heard. Had several houses, didn’t he?”
Squeaker looked at him cautiously. “Know vat, do yer?”
“I do. What sort of clients did he cater to?”
“Depends which ’ouse as yer talkin’ abaht,” Squeaker said. “If ’n yer means ve one in Partridge Lane-well, anyone as ’ad ve price. Real scrubbers, vey are. But if ’n yer means ve one up by George Street-well, nah, vat’s diff ’rent altergevver. Nah some o’ vem ’as real class. An’ I ’as ’eard say as ’e’ll provide a gentleman wiv enough money ter spend wiv some ladies o’ blood, as yer might say.” He leered knowingly, showing brown teeth. The idea obviously amused him, as a sort of obscene revenge upon the society that had excluded him completely.
“Ladies of blood, eh?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. That sounded promising. He fixed Squeaker with a look of suspicion. “Ladies of blood?” he repeated skeptically.
“Vat’s wot I said-take it or leave it.” Squeaker knew he had Pitt’s interest, and he enjoyed the sensation. “Mebbe vat’s w’ere yer murder comes from. Never mess wiv the Quality-golden rule. Vey ain’t used ter bein’ took, and vey feels it very ’ard-can get real nasty. Stick to yer own-ven yer won’t get someone as don’t know ve rules, comin’ all over spiteful and stickin’ a shiv in yer gut. Although wot vey done ter Max was uncalled for, Mr. Pitt-real uncalled for. I don’t know wot you rozzers is lettin’ the place come to!”
Pitt hid a smile. “Disgusting,” he agreed. “But a jealous man can get carried to extraordinary lengths if someone has taken his woman and then used her to sell to other men as a whore.”
Squeaker sighed. He had neither wife nor children, but he dreamed of them sometimes: a woman whose warmth would not have to be traded for or bought, someone who would become familiar with time, children who would treat him with respect-every man should have that, at least for a while.
“I reckon as yer right, Mr. Pitt,” he said slowly. “Never mess wiv a man’s family-vat’s anuvver rule as should be writ in gold. On the ’ole, I reckon as pimpin’ ain’t such an ’ealfy occupation after all. Women is a dangerous kind o’ goods ter deal in-not ter mention a man’s private needs, wot can be very odd in some o’ them gents from up west, so I’ve ’eard say. Some o’ them stories yer wouldn’t believe! Papers is much better fings ter sell. Knows w’ere yer is wiv papers. People don’t lose veir ’eads over paper.”
Pitt did not bother to argue with him. “And this more expensive house of Max’s is in George Street?”
“Ain’t vat wot I jus’ said?” Squeaker was patient, like a schoolmaster with an unnaturally dim pupil.
“Yes-thank you.” Pitt fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. He gave it to Squeaker, whose grimy hand closed over it quickly. He raised it to his mouth and bit it sharply. It met with his satisfaction and he pushed it into his pocket.
“Fanks, Mr. Pitt,” he said.
“Don’t leave the Acre,” Pitt warned. “If you’ve told me lies, I’ll be back here to take that out of your skin!”
Squeaker was taken aback. “I wouldn’t tell yer no lies, Mr. Pitt! Wouldn’t be worf me w’ile, nah, would it? Yer’d only come back and ruin me business. Ain’t good fer trade to ’ave crushers ‘angin’ around, beggin’ yer pardon. Gives the ’ouse a bad name!”
Pitt snorted and went out of the “’ouse,” past the rotting wood in the yard, a pile of refuse, and two drunks in the gutter. He made his way rapidly through the rain to George Street. This was a distinctly more salubrious part of the Acre, only a few moments’ walk from the Houses of Parliament.
Max did indeed have an unusual skill. If he had managed to acquire some “ladies of blood,” as Squeaker put it, and three or four thoroughly handsome whores accomplished in their art, he would have made himself a very rich man in a few years.
Pitt found the house without much difficulty. A man asking for such a place was not unusual, and those willing to give directions were often compensated for their trouble by the proprietors of the establishments.
This particular house was inconspicuous, even a little grubby, on the outside. It could easily have been taken for another one of the numerous common lodging houses; anonymity was a necessary part of the trade.
Inside, however, the style changed. The entrance hallway was discreetly elegant. Pitt was reminded of Max’s service in fine houses of men and women whose taste was nurtured by generations of money and breeding. These were people who knew the masters of painting and furniture design as instinctively as they knew how to construct a grammatical sentence, or to walk with head high and a very slight swagger to the hips.
Beyond the hallway in the main reception room there was nothing opulent, nothing vulgar. Its sensuality was one of quiet color, which belied the ease with which each piece of furniture and each painting complemented the others. The pleasure the room afforded was tactile as welclass="underline" soft velvets, a carpet that made the feet tread silently, almost as if upon grass. Indeed, Max possessed a veritable art!
A man in livery came forward, affecting to be something between a footman and a butler. He was obviously in charge of who would be permitted to become a customer and who would be discreetly redirected elsewhere.
“Good afternoon, sir.” He eyed Pitt’s clothes and, with an almost imperceptible change of expression, determined that he was unlikely to be able to pay the house charges. But he was too skilled to dismiss him immediately. Gentlemen of the most distinguished rank and fortune were known to assume the oddest of disguises at times.