Hammersmith wondered if he could live for a month on nothing but recycled copper-tasting tea.
He fell into bed without removing his trousers and followed the darkness down into sleep.
60
Charles Shaw waited until Hammersmith got off the bus and it started rolling again. When Hammersmith had crossed the road, Shaw hollered at the driver and hopped down before the horses had stopped moving. Hammersmith didn’t turn around, but Shaw had to wait in the shadows of an awning while his quarry stared into a shop window across the street from him. He didn’t know if Hammersmith could see him reflected in the glass, but he felt reasonably secure in the dying light of the day.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Shaw turned to see two women standing behind him. Their dresses were shabby and had been inexpertly dyed in bright Easter colors. Their faces were thickly painted and their hair hung in ropes from loose buns at the backs of their heads. The taller one had a scar across her face.
“Not interested,” he said. “Get along now.”
“Weren’t asking.”
“What is it, then? I’m very busy.”
“Well, obviously, sir. Any time we sees a man standing about on the street, we know right away there’s big business afoot, right?”
“Ah, sarcasm,” Shaw said. “The lowest form of humor unless you count limericks.”
“Well, I like a good limerick,” one of the ladies said.
“Of course you do.”
He turned back in time to see Hammersmith enter through a green door across the road.
“We was just wondering about that lovely beard you’ve got, sir.”
“My beard?”
“Yes, sir. It’s impressive, is all we wanted to say.”
Shaw turned and smiled. He had Hammersmith cornered. There was time enough to be polite.
“It is impressive, isn’t it?” he said.
“Oh, very. It must take you some time to get those beautiful curls just so.”
“Would you believe it takes me four hours? Four hours, twice a week.”
“Cor, I don’t doubt it, but what an awful gob of time to spend,” the first lady said.
“Not that it ain’t worth every minute,” said the other.
“Oh, of course, of course,” the first one said.
“Well, I’m glad you appreciate it.”
“You wouldn’t let us touch it, would you?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m sure you understand.”
The second, friendlier whore frowned and sighed. She reached out and touched his chest with her fingertips.
“Well, of course we understand. Just disappointin’, is all.”
“There’s other things we might touch,” the first one said. She winked at him.
“Wouldn’t cost a thing for a man with a beard like that one neither, would it, Esme?”
The second one, whose name was apparently Esme, moved her hand down Shaw’s chest and stomach.
“Not a thing,” she said. “For either one of us. Or both at once, if the gentleman prefers.”
Shaw felt his face redden and he swallowed hard. He glanced once more at the green door across from him and then back at the ladies. They looked more attractive than he’d first thought, and he wondered whether he’d misjudged them or if it was merely a trick of the shadows.
“Where do you live?” Esme said.
“I’m afraid I’m rather far from home at the moment.”
“Well, that’s no problem for us. We know a place.”
“Unless he ain’t interested.”
“Oh, no, I’m … I assure you, I’m interested.”
“Of course you are, aren’t you?” Esme said. “I’ve got the evidence in my hand.”
She did. Shaw looked around, up and down the street, but few people were about and nobody was looking their way.
“Come with us,” Esme said.
Charles Shaw allowed himself to be led away.
61
Hello, Sergeant,” Claire said.
It took a moment for Constable Jones to look up, but when he did he smiled at her and stood up from his seat behind the desk.
“Ma’am,” he said. “Thank you, but Sergeant Kett’s out tonight and I’m sittin’ the desk for a bit. I’m Jones.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Jones, I should have realized. My husband’s only just started on the Murder Squad and I haven’t had a chance to meet everyone yet.”
“You’d be Mrs Day, then? If you’re here to see yer mister, I’m afraid he’s out and about, same as Sergeant Kett. It’s been a bit of a day round here but I’ll tell him you stopped in.”
“Please do. But, if I may impose, I’d like to ask a question of you.”
“It’s no imposition at all.”
“Is there, by chance, an Inspector Bentley working with my husband?”
Jones frowned. “Bentley, did you say?”
“Yes, Inspector Richard Bentley.”
“No, ma’am, there’s no Bentley here. Never since I been here.”
“I see.”
Claire felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise and pinpricks of sweat bead her upper lip. So the friendly bald man who had come to the house was not a detective at all. He’d been playacting. But why?
“There’s a Benton, though,” Jones said, “if that’s who you mean.”
“Is he a part of the Murder Squad?”
“No, ma’am, he’s helping keep the peace on the docks. Good fellow. I can see if he’s in.”
“Oh, would you?”
Jones nodded and smiled and walked away down the short passageway behind him. He turned to his right and passed out of Claire’s line of sight.
Perhaps, Claire thought, she’d been mistaken about his name. Perhaps he’d said Benton and she’d heard Bentley, and all that time cooped up in the house with nothing to do and nobody to talk to had made her suspicious and fidgety. Now Constable Jones would tell Walter that she’d come visiting and he would worry about her.
She skirted the desk and hurried down the hall. She just needed a glimpse of Inspector Benton to be able to tell if he was the same man. If he was, then she would apologize and be on her way.
And if he wasn’t? What then?
She saw Jones at the other side of a massive room, talking to an old man with a long droopy handlebar mustache and a fringe of grey hair at the back of his head. Jones turned and came to her. “That’s him. You can go on over if you like.”
Claire shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve changed my mind.”
The old man was not her visitor. Claire’s stomach turned over and her vision blurred. She stumbled against the rail behind her and through a cloud of bright floating specks she saw the young constable rush toward her.
“Ma’am? Mrs Day, are you all right?”
She waved him off. “Of course, thank you. I’ll be fine, Mr Jones. Just a momentary spell.”
“Constable!”
A tall man stood up from a desk behind Claire, in the area behind the railing where she knew Walter worked. The man was square-jawed, handsome in a vague way, with an impressive mane of dark hair.
“Constable Jones,” he said, “can we please have some peace in here? We can’t accomplish anything with the public coming through on these asinine tours and banging into the fixtures.”
“I beg your pardon,” Claire said. “I can’t have disturbed you as much as all that.”
“Inspector Tiffany, sir,” Jones said, “may I introduce Inspector Day’s lovely wife.”
Inspector Tiffany sniffed and smoothed his necktie. “Ah,” he said. “I hadn’t realized. I’m a bit distracted with work, I suppose.”
“That’s hardly an apology,” Claire said. “You’ve been quite rude.”
Tiffany raised an eyebrow at her and almost smiled. “Then I do apologize.”
“Apology accepted, Mr Tiffany. I’m sure I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She held out her hand and he stepped to the rail and took it.
“And I yours,” he said. “Please, call me James. But I’m afraid if you’re here to see your husband he’s stepped out. It’s just me and Boring here right now.”