Hammersmith said nothing. He stared at the old lady and the three police, and he tried to remember why he had felt so safe with a sheet over his head.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Kett said. “We was worried perhaps you’d been done in, too.”
Hammersmith shook his head. He didn’t step back from the door, didn’t make way for anyone to enter the flat. Day and Blacker appeared uncomfortable, and Kett was red in the cheeks.
“He’s dead, lad. Little’s killer done him.”
Hammersmith found his voice. “What time is it?”
“It’s not late,” Blacker said. “Did we wake you?”
“No,” Hammersmith said. “Of course not. Who’s died?”
But somehow he already knew.
DAY THREE
63
FORTY-ONE HOURS SINCE THE DISCOVERY OF MR LITTLE.
The sun was beginning to rise, but its rays had not yet reached the alley where Sam Pizer waited. He mashed the lit end of his cigar between his thumb and forefinger and put it in his pocket to enjoy again later. The rattle of wheels on stone grew louder, echoing up and down the alley, then slowed and stopped.
Pizer leaned against the alley wall and waited. After a long moment, a voice came from atop the hansom cab.
“You the sweep?”
Pizer spat on the stones and nodded, realized the coachman couldn’t see him in the shadows, and cleared his throat.
“Aye, I does chimneys.”
“Heard you was in the market for a climber.”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“Round and about.”
“Maybe I is and maybe I ain’t.”
“Well, make up your mind about it.”
“I’ll think on it while you climb down here so’s I can see you ain’t got a pistol aimed at me bean.”
The coachman grunted. “I ain’t got a pistol on you.”
“How do I know it?”
“I’m tellin’ you.”
“Your word, eh?”
“Aye, my word.”
“Don’t mean nothin’ if I don’t know your name even.”
Another grunt and then, after an extended silence, Pizer heard the other man shift his weight. The coachman’s cloak rustled as he swung out onto the side of the cab and hopped down with a clatter of boot heels to the alley floor. He stepped forward, his hands held out to show they were empty. The coachman’s face was hidden in the murk.
“Have a cigarette?” Pizer said.
The coachman hesitated, then reached into his cloak, pulled a dull silver case from the blackness, and opened it. Pizer took a cigarette and waited for a light, the stub of his old cigar heavy in his breast pocket. In the flare of the match, he caught sight of a prominent nose, ungroomed muttonchops, and a high hat before the orange flame sputtered and the two men were once again swallowed in shadow.
“Thanks,” Pizer said.
“So is you?” the coachman said.
“What, in the market for help? Might be.”
“What’re you payin’?”
“Tell me … you know a fella name of Blackleg?”
“Blackleg? Ain’t heard of him.”
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Who’s he to you?”
“Just heard he’s been nosin’ round about me.”
“That might be why you’re such a hard man to find?”
“You found me.”
“Took some work, though, I’ll tell ya.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna be found by this fella Blackleg. And neither do you. I heard stories.”
“Why’s he want you?”
“Got no notion and don’t wanna find out.”
The coachman said nothing. Pizer took a drag of the cigarette. He blew the smoke up and watched it shimmer away.
“So you gots a climber for me, then?” he said.
“Might have.”
“You the child’s parent?”
“No. I work for a gentleman who done recently acquired a boy what ain’t his.”
“Ah, and he’s ready to dispose of the kid, that it?”
“Wrong again. He’ll keep this one for a good while, I’m guessin’.”
“Then what?”
“I get paid to procure them poor wee children for the gentleman.”
“So you sell the boy to me for my climber and then you get another payday when you replaces ’im.”
“Could be.”
Pizer nodded even though he knew the other man couldn’t see him. At least this made sense. He understood the coachman’s motives here, which made him trustworthy as far as this particular arrangement went. The coachman was entirely motivated by profit. He made money by locating and helping to procure a child for his employer. Eventually, the coachman would make sure the child disappeared. His employer would pay him to help look for the child. And then he would pay him again to help find a new child. And the cycle would repeat.
Whatever money he could chisel from Pizer in the process was nothing but gravy, and that gave Pizer the upper hand in this negotiation.
“How big is he? The kid?”
“Smallish, I’d say. Maybe half the size of a man and big around as my leg. Skinny thing, he is.”
“Hmm. What’ya want for him, then?”
“Ten quid’ll do it.”
Pizer snorted. “Ain’t worth ten. I’ll find me own climber.”
“You will, eh? You’ll do that while you’re hidin’ from this Blackleg fellow? You’ll rummage about the neighborhood for a child to snatch? Take a young person from the bosom of his family and none the wiser?”
“I get around all right.”
“Good night, then.”
Pizer heard the coachman’s cloak rustling again as he turned away.
“Wait. I gives ya two and eleven.”
“You’ll give me five.”
“I’ll gives ya two an’ eleven.”
“You need this boy or you don’t work.”
“But you need to get loose of the boy more ’n I need ’im.”
“An’ how’s that?”
“You got another kid lined up already, don’t ya? Don’t bother to say no. You got another kid, but ya can’t put the finger on ’im till you shake loose the one you already got. You could kill the kid you got already, but that might cause you some problems. You need a patsy, and that’s where I comes in.”
“You’re not a-”
“No, you don’t got to pretend anything ain’t what it is. I got no problem bein’ the patsy in this here case, long as you don’t bring the law round.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“’Course you wouldn’t. Too much to answer fer yerself.”
“Four pounds.”
“To do you a favor? Yer already makin’ a bundle, I’m guessin’, offa findin’ yer master a new boy to do … well, to do whatever he does to them boys you grab.”
“He is a perfect gentleman.”
“’Course he is. Listen, sir, once you and me finishes up this fascinatin’ conversation, I can toddle on down to any embankment in this here city, sidle up under a bridge, and find me at least a half a dozen starvin’ urchins be only too happy to go wiff me fer the price of a hot meal or a biscuit even.”
“Might also find this fella you’re worried about, this Blackleg fella, under there.”
“Aye, an’ I might at that. But ol’ Blackleg caint be everywhere, can he?”
“Three pounds, then.”
“Tell ya what, two an’ eleven an’ I’ll take the next boy offa you, too, when the time comes.”
“You think you’ll have need of another climber?”
“Risky business, climbin’ up the flue. Bound to get stuck sooner or later. ’Specially if you take it upon yerself to keep growin’ alla time.”
“That’s-”
“’Tis what it is. An’ yer in no position to go castin’ stones.”
The coachman was silent, but Pizer knew he had him.
“Done,” the coachman said.
“Good. Bring ’im round here tomorrow mornin’, this time.”
Without another word, the coachman sprang to the top of his hansom cab and flicked the reins. The cab lurched forward and rolled down the alley, turned left at the mouth, and was gone. Pizer fished the remains of the old cigar from his pocket and lit it from the dying embers of his cigarette. He took a drag of the stale cigar and leaned back against the alley wall.
Two pounds eleven was still a lot to pay for a new climber, but the coachman had been right. Sam couldn’t do his own scouting when there was Blackleg to think about. All things considered, he was getting off lucky. No question about it, things were looking up for Sam Pizer.