“The murder must have happened just as Wilkiewas gettin’ back on his patch. The killer knew we weren’t gonnacatch him in the act.”
“And you certainly didn’t.”
“That place is such a maze, sir. If thekiller knows his way around, he could murder someone right underour noses.”
“But surely you know your way around bynow.”
“Not really. Wilkie still bumped into meearlier.”
“Are you saying my patrols are useless?”
“I’m sayin’ I think I need to investigatesome more, that’s all.”
Bagshaw sat back and grinned nastily. “WhatI’m going to do is add a fourth constable to the night-patrolthere, and have you investigate in the daytime, if you think itwill help. But I don’t want to have any complaints from gentlemenyou’ve disturbed. I’ve already got the mayor and three aldermen onmy case. Now go home and get some sleep. You’ve got a long nightand a day ahead of you.”
Cobb slunk out, exhausted and not a littlepeeved.
***
Even Dora was sympathetic.
“Why don’t that man try ploddin’ in the coldfer a night in Devil’s Acre,” she said, pouring Cobb a cup of hottea.
“He wants me to investigate,” Cobb said,sipping at the tea, “but he won’t give me any leeway. And I gottapatrol to boot.”
“You got any new leads?” Dora said.
“I’m gonna talk to Pugh and Clough again.They were both there last night.”
Dora put out a plate of biscuits. “Youremember tellin’ me about a laundry woman on Church Street, afterSally Butts was killed?”
“That’s right. She might’ve got a close lookat our killer and doesn’t know it.”
“Why don’t you try and find her?”
“But she could be anybody takin’ laundry into any of them dives or brothels.”
“There’s somebody who might know, though,isn’t there?”
“Itchy Quick,” Cobb said, and Doragrinned.
***
After a cold, fruitless night patrolling Devil’sAcre, Cobb decided to have a morning’s sleep and then go back tohis detective work. First up, about two o’clock that afternoon wasa visit to one of his old haunts, the Cock and Bull. In a farcorner, in a shadowy alcove, sat his current snitch, Itchy Quick.(Nestor Peck, his long-time snitch now had a regular job in achicken hatchery and no longer needed the occasional boost to hisincome that a little tattling would supply.) Itchy was anything butquick. His several hundred pounds saw to that. His movements wereslow as a sloth in hibernation and his thought processes onlymarginally speedier. But he spent a lot of time in taverns, cadgingpennies for a drink and selling information he picked up in histravels.
“How’s it goin’, Itchy?” Cobb said, sittingdown.
“My flagon is empty, Mister Cobb,” Itchy saidsorrowfully. “Like my life.”
“Would a fresh ale improve yer spiritsany?”
Itchy thought about the offer for severalseconds, rubbing the back of his scalp. “It just might.”
Cobb waved at the barkeeper, who, seeing itwas Cobb, hustled over.
“A flagon of your finest,” Cobb said.
“You payin’?” the barkeeper said.
“I’m payin’,” Cobb said.
“Thanks, Cobb.”
“Now that I’ve done you a favour,” Cobb said,“how about doin’ me one?”
“You want some information?”
“I do.”
“On the murders we been havin’ the pastweek?”
“Somethin’ to do with them, yes. You beenhearin’ anythin’ on the street or in here?”
Itchy scratched his scalp again. “What I beenhearin’, it ain’t the fault of any of the regulars of Devil’sAcre.”
“That’s been my feelin’, too.”
Itchy took hold of the flagon that had justarrived and downed half of it, slowly but surely. “They tell meit’s terrible fer business. They need respectable folk to feel safein there. They wouldn’t do anythin’ to ruin their ownprospects.”
“So it’s got to be somebody from outside,doesn’t it?” Cobb said, more to himself than to Itchy, who was inthe midst of a second swig.
“Some crazy person, that’s fer sure.”
“But what I wanted to ask you, Itchy, isabout the laundry women who might go into Devil’s Acre.”
Itchy looked at the empty part of his flagonlongingly. “Well, the big brothel, Madame LaFrance’s, does its ownlaundry. But there’s a smaller brothel, Mrs. Purdy’s, up nearChurch Street that uses somebody from the outside.”
“And you know who?”
“I believe I do, yes.”
Itchy drained his ale with a meaningfulslurp. Cobb sighed and waved at the barkeeper.
“Gracie Fitchett. She lives on BerkeleyStreet, this side, two houses up from King.
Cobb tossed a coin on the table and got up.“That’s what I needed to know,” he said, and hurried out.
***
Cobb found the house on Berkeley Street. It was aramshackle cottage, unpainted, with a roof that sagged, andtired-looking oil-paper windows. A wreath of black smoke poured outof its single chimney. Cobb rapped on the door.
“Who’s there?” The voice was female, butsharp and low, like a witch’s cackle.
“Constable Cobb, with the Torontopolice.”
“Go away! I’m busy workin’.”
“I need to talk to you — about the murders inDevil’s Acre.”
“I didn’t do it, so go off and leave mealone.”
“I insist you open up, madam!”
The door squealed open and a large womanfilled the doorway. She was flushed and sweating, the beads ofsweat rolling down her plump cheeks and settling in the folds ofher multiple chins. Her blue eyes were round as buttons and staredout at the world with sustained belligerence.
“I told you, I ain’t no murderer!”
“I didn’t say you were, ma’am. But I believeyou may have seen the killer on the night when Sally Butts waskilled.”
“I remember the night that poor lass had herthroat cut, but you can’t get round me with that ‘ma’am’ business.I’m no ‘ma’am,’ just plain Gracie.”
“May I come in for a minute, then?”
“You gonna help me with my laundry? I got atubful ready to come out.”
Cobb glanced at the far side of the room ashe walked in, spotting several steaming tubs, a pair of washboardsand a mangle. Gracie Fitchett was indeed hard at work.
“I just need to ask you one question,” Cobbsaid, shutting the door behind him.
“Since when do bobbies ask people questions?I thought you bashed in the heads of drunks and robbers.”
“I’m a detective,” Cobb said, as if thatexplained all.
“What in hell is a detective?”
Cobb winced, but said evenly, “I investigateserious crimes like murder and robbery. My job is to go around andask people questions.”
“And they pay you fer that?”
“They do, and I’d appreciate it if you’danswer one fer me.”
“All right, then. But I’ve got to get themsheets out of the tub before they boil to death.”
Cobb waited patiently until Gracie wasfinished and came back to him, puffing and panting.
“Were you in Devil’s Acre the night thatSally Butts died?”
Gracie thought about the question, then said,“I was. What’s it to ya? I told you I didn’t stab that poor girl.Why would I?”
“What time were you there?”
“I don’t know fer sure. Between nine and teno’clock. I had a load of laundry to pick up at Purdy’s place.”
“Purdy’s is over near Church Street, isn’tit?”
“Yeah, that’s right. What of it?”
“You left Devil’s Acre by Church Street?”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s the nearest exit.”
“Did you see anyone else come out of Devil’sAcre at that time?”
“Say, you’re way past yer one question.”
“Please, just answer me.”
“I didn’t see a soul — that time ofnight.”
Cobb was hugely disappointed. Surely this wasthe figure the watchman had seen that night. But she herself hadseen nothing.
“Thank you fer yer help,” Cobb said.
Gracie’s expression softened as she said, “Ihope you catch the bugger.”
***
Cobb went to Bartholomew Pugh’s house once more, andwas once more snubbed by the butler. He found Pugh in his billiardroom, practising his bank shots.