Was there something in all this evidence that could at last convict Zebedee Marner? Was Grey in collusion with Marner? But Grey had lost his own money-or had he?
"Where can I find Marner?" he asked urgently. "I need him, and time is short." There was no time to seek out addresses himself. If this man thought he was peculiar, incompetent at his job, he would just have to think it. Soon it would hardly matter anyway.
The man looked at Monk, interest suddenly sharpening in his face, his body coming upright.
"Do you know something about Marner that I don't, Monk? IVe been trying to catch that slimy bastard for years. Let me in on it?" His face was eager, a light in his eyes as if he had seen a sudden glimpse of an elusive happiness. "I don't want any of the credit; I won't say anything. I just want to see his face when he's pinched."
Monk understood. He was sorry not to be able to help.
"I don't have anything on Marner," he answered. "I don't even know if the business I'm investigating is fraudulent or not. Someone committed suicide, and I'd like to know the reasons."
“Why?'' He was curious and his puzzlement was obvious. He cocked his head a little to one side. "What do you care about a suicide? I thought you were on the Grey case. Don't tell me Runcorn's let you off it-without an arrest?"
So even this man knew of Runcorn's feelings about him. Did everyone? No wonder Runcorn knew he had lost his memory! He must have laughed at Monk's confusion, his fumbling.
"No." He pulled a wry face. "No, it's all part of the same thing. Grey was involved in the business."
"Importing?" His voice rose an octave. "Don't tell me he was killed over a shipment of tobacco!"
"Not over tobacco; but there was a lot of money invested, and apparently the company failed."
"Oh yes? That's a new departure for Marner-"
"If it's the same man," Monk said cautiously. "I don't know that it is. I don't know anything about him but his name, and only part of that. Where do I find him?"
"Thirteen Gun Lane, Limehouse." He hesitated. "If you get anything, Monk, will you tell me, as long as it isn't the actual murder? Is that what you're after?"
"No. No, I just want some information. If I find evidence of fraud I'll bring it back for you." He smiled bleakly. "You have my word."
The man's face eased into a smile. "Thank you."
Monk went early in the morning and was in Limehouse by nine o'clock. He would have been there sooner had there been any purpose. He had spent much of the time since he woke at six planning what he would say.
It was a long way from Grafton Street and he took a hansom eastward through Clerkenwell, Whitechapel and down towards the cramped and crowded docks and Limehouse. It was a still morning and the sun was gleaming on the river, making white sparkles on the water between the black barges coming up from the Pool of London. Across on the far side were Bermondsey-the Venice of the Drains-and Rotherhithe, and ahead of him the Surrey Docks, and along the shining Reach the Isle of Dogs, and on the far side Deptford and then the beautiful Greenwich with its green park and trees and the exquisite architecture of the naval college.
But his duty lay hi the squalid alleys of Limehouse with beggars, usurers and thieves of every degree-and Zebe-dee Marner.
Gun Lane was a byway off the West India Dock Road, and he found Number 13 without difficulty. He passed an evil-looking idler on the pavement and another lounging in the doorway, but neither troubled him, perhaps considering him unlikely to give to a beggar and too crisp of gait to be wise to rob. There was other, easier prey. He despised them, and understood them at the same time.
Good fortune was with him: Zebedee Marner was in, and after a discreet inquiry, the clerk showed Monk into the upper office.
"Good morning, Mr.-Monk." Marner sat behind a large, important desk, his white hair curled over his ears and his white hands spread on the leather-inlaid surface in front of him. "What can I do for you?"
"You come recommended as a man of many businesses, Mr. Marner," Monk started smoothly, gliding over the hatred in his voice. "With a knowledge of all kinds of things."
"And so I am, Mr. Monk, so I am. Have you money to invest?"
“What could you offer me?''
"All manner of things. How much money?" Marner was watching him narrowly, but it was well disguised as a casual cheerfulness.
"I am interested also in safety, rather than quick profit," Monk said, ignoring the question. "I wouldn't care to lose what I have."
"Of course not, who would?" Marner spread his hands wide and shrugged expressively, but his eyes were fixed and blinkless as a snake's. "You want your money invested safely?"
"Oh, quite definitely," Monk agreed. "And since I know of many other gentlemen who are also interested in investment, I should wish to be certain that any recommendation I made was secure."
Manner's eyes flickered, then the lids came down to hide his thoughts. "Excellent," he said calmly. "I quite understand, Mr. Monk. Have you considered importing and exporting? Very nourishing trade; never fails."
"So I've heard." Monk nodded. "But is it safe?"
"Some is, some isn't. It is the skill of people like me to know the difference." His eyes were wide again, his hands folded across his paunch. "That is why you came here, instead of investing it yourself.''
"Tobacco?"
Marner's face did not change in the slightest.
"An excellent commodity." He nodded. "Excellent. I cannot see gentlemen giving up their pleasures, whatever the economic turns of life. As long as there are gentlemen, there will be a market for tobacco. And unless our climate changes beyond our wit to imagine"-he grinned and his body rocked with silent mirth at his own humor-"we will be unable to grow it, so must need import it. Have you any special company in mind?"
"Are you familiar with the market?" Monk asked, swallowing hard to contain his loathing of this man sitting here like a fat white spider in his well-furnished office, safe in his gray web of lies and facades. Only the poor flies like Latterly got caught-a«d perhaps Joscelin Grey.
"Of course," Marner replied complacently. "I know it well."
"You have dealt in it?"
"I have, frequently. I assure you, Mr. Monk, I know very well what I am doing."
"You would not be taken unaware and find yourself faced with a collapse?"
"Most certainly not." Marner looked at him as if he had let fall some vulgarity at the table.
"You are sure?" Monk pressed him.
"I am more than sure, my dear sir." Now he was quite pained. "I am positive."
"Good." Monk at last allowed the venom to flood into his voice. “That is what I thought. Then you will no doubt be able to tell me how the disaster occurred that ruined Major Joscelin Grey's investment in the same commodity. You were connected with it."
Marner's face paled and for a moment he was confused to find words.
"I-er-assure you, you need have no anxiety as to its happening again," he said, avoiding Monk's eyes, then looking very directly at him, to cover the lie of intent.
"That is good," Monk answered him coolly. "But hardly of more than the barest comfort now. It has cost two lives already. Was there much of your own money lost, Mr. Marner?"
"Much of mine?" Marner looked startled.
"I understand Major Grey lost a considerable sum?"
"Oh-no. No, you are misinformed." Marner shook his head and his white hair bounced over his ears. "The company did not precisely fail. Oh dear me no. It simply transferred its operation; it was taken over. If you are not a man of affairs, you could not be expected to understand. Business is highly complicated these days, Mr. Monk."
"It would seem so. And you say Major Grey did not lose a great deal of his own money? Can you substantiate that in any way?"