The thought flickered through Pitt’s mind that Louisa Crabbe was an invention, but Ambrose’s face was too secure, too satisfied.
“Indeed,” Pitt said with as little expression as he could. “And where do I find this Albert Crabbe?”
Ambrose smiled. “My dear Inspector, are you completely incapable? How in God’s name do I know? Look through Max’s books-there’s bound to be some record of how he contacted her. He suited the women to the client, you know. This is not a merely haphazard business. One has to have a certain flair! We at this end of the market are not common, take-your-chance whorehouses!”
“Thank you,” Pitt said sarcastically. “I confess I had not fully appreciated your entrepreneurial art.”
“What?”
Pitt did not bother to explain. He felt a flicker of satisfaction, but it was a poor victory, and he knew it. The aftertaste was thin.
“I imagine Louisa Crabbe was not the only one-simply the only one whose name you care to give me,” Pitt said.
“I told you, Inspector, Max Burton was of no importance to me.” Ambrose’s face was smooth again, unconcerned. “I didn’t bother to keep up with his comings and goings. Why should I? I have a steady clientele and I do very nicely. Naturally there were those he hurt in the way of taking their business. If I were you, I’d ask the Daltons. They’re in the cheap end of the trade. I dare say they had cause to be upset with Max.”
Pitt could go back to the police station and find out about the Daltons, but he could not be bothered to pretend. His pride was not worth it. “Where are they?” he asked.
A smile of superiority touched Ambrose’s mouth. “Crossgate Street. Really, Inspector, what would you do without me?”
“Ask someone else,” Pitt replied. “Don’t tempt me to think. If the Devil’s Acre were not such a cesspit, I’d be inclined to work for one whorehouse the fewer.” He glanced round the pale room. “But what difference would it make? Have you ever read of the labors of Hercules?”
Ambrose knew he was being insulted both directly and obscurely. He resented the one he did not understand the more.
“No, perhaps not,” Pitt answered his own question. “Look up the Augean Stables sometime. We might consider diverting the Thames!”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about!” Ambrose snapped. “Hadn’t you better get on with your job? It doesn’t strike me you’ve made so much progress that you can afford to stand around here wasting your time-and mine!”
It was hurtfully true. And with Hubert Pinchin and Bertie Astley also dead, the motive for the murder of Max was becoming less and less important anyway.
“Was Sir Bertram Astley ever a customer of yours?” Pitt asked as a parting shot from the doorway.
Ambrose raised his thready eyebrows. “Really, Inspector, do you imagine I ask gentlemen for their names? Don’t be naive!”
“No, I didn’t imagine you asked them, Ambrose,” Pitt replied levelly. “But I most certainly imagined you knew!”
Ambrose smiled. In an obscure way it was an admission of his competence, of his professional skill. Indecision wavered for a moment in his face, then disappeared. “No,” he said at last. “Not Bertram Astley-nor Dr. Pinchin either.” His smile widened. “Sorry.”
Pitt believed him. The indecision he judged not to be whether to admit to it but whether to brag a little and pad out the importance of his clientele-and by implication the fact that he had nothing to fear from Max.
“No.” Pitt glanced around the room again and allowed a faint curl to his lip. “No-I imagine not.” He closed the door on Ambrose’s hot eyes and the flare of sudden anger on his face.
Crossgate Street was dirty and cold, but Pitt had no difficulty locating the Daltons’ establishment. It was large and seemed to be cheerful, full of gaudy red and pink furnishings, and there was a fire in the main receiving room, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. Apparently the Daltons catered to clients around the clock. The place did not have the stale, acrid smell of a public house in off-business hours; it seemed they kept maids, like any domestic establishment.
He was met by a plump round-faced girl, ordinary enough, with a country-fresh complexion. Pitt felt a twinge of pity that she should be engaged in such an occupation. Still, she was far better off in a bawdy house such as this, with a roof over her head and regular meals, than many another woman who walked the streets looking for any man who would buy her body for the price of a day’s food for her child, or a piece of clothing for its back.
He saved her the indignity of importuning him. “I’m here from the police,” he said immediately. “I want to speak to Mr. Dalton. He may be able to help me with some information.”
“Mr.-oh!” Comprehension and amusement flooded her face. “You mean Miss Dalton. Would that be Miss Mary or Miss Victoria, sir? Although I’m not rightly sure as they’ll want to be seein’ the police!”
“Miss-” It had not occurred to him that the Daltons would be women, although there was no reason why not. There was an air of femininity about the place, a simple sensuality that was less self-conscious and infinitely less effete than the house of either Max or Ambrose Mercutt. Somehow he found it less offensive, although he could not think why.
“Either Miss Dalton will do,” he answered. “And I am sorry, but I insist upon seeing them. It is a matter of murder. If they make it necessary, I shall return with other officers, and things may become unpleasant. I cannot imagine that anyone will wish that. It is bad for business.”
The girl looked startled. His manner was courteous, his voice so very civilized, and yet what he said jarred. “If you’ll wait here-” She scuttled away, and immediately Pitt was sorry. He had had no need to be so harsh, but it was impossible to undo it now.
Barely moments later, a slightly older woman appeared, perhaps in her early thirties, buxomly built, with a blunt, handsome face and a dusting of freckles on her skin. She looked like a competent parlormaid on her day off. Her dress was high to her neck and of plain lavender color; there was no paint on her face that Pitt could see.
“I am Victoria Dalton,” she said civilly. “Violet says you are from the police and you wish to speak to me. Would you like to come into the parlor at the back? Violet will bring us tea.”
Feeling ludicrous, as if he had made a wild error of judgment, Pitt silently followed her trim back as she walked out of the big red and pink hall, with its sofas and cushions, along a corridor and into a small, more intimate room where there was another fire burning. From somewhere upstairs he heard the peal of woman’s laughter, followed by a shriek of delight and a fit of giggles. He did not hear any man. Apparently it was two women recounting exploits to each other-not a matter of trade.
Victoria Dalton sat down on a large green sofa and invited Pitt to make himself comfortable on a similar one opposite her. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at him pleasantly.
“Well, what is it you wish of us?”
He was a little taken aback; she was so composed, so totally different from Max, or Ambrose Mercutt. This place was like a middle-class house, comfortable, with an air of family about it. He felt impelled to use euphemisms, which was ridiculous.
“I am investigating a murder, ma’am,” he began, not as he had intended. Somehow she had put him out of ease. “In fact, three murders.”
“How unpleasant.” She spoke as if he had remarked upon the weather.
She continued to regard him candidly, like an obedient child, waiting for him to continue. It was disconcerting. Either she had not fully understood him, or else death was so commonplace it held no power to shock her. Meeting her steady gray eyes, he believed it was the latter.
The maid brought the tea and left it on a tray for them. Victoria Dalton poured and handed him a cup. He accepted it with thanks.