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Wigtight's face changed in only the minutest of ways— a shadow, no more. Had Monk not been watching for it he would have missed it altogether.
"Joscelin Grey?" Wigtight repeated. Monk could see in his face the indecision whether to deny knowing him or admit it as a matter of common knowledge. He decided the wrong way.
"I know no such person, sir."
"YouVe never heard of him?" Monk tried not to press too hard. He hated moneylenders with far more anger than reason could tell him of. He meant to trap this soft, fat man in his own words, trap him and watch the bloated body struggle.
But Wigtight sensed a pitfall.
"I hear so many names," he added cautiously.
"Then you had better look in your books," Monk suggested. "And see if his is there, since you don't remember."
"I don't keep books, after debts are paid." Wigtight's wide, pale eyes assumed a blandness. "Matter of discretion, you know. People don't like to be reminded of their hard times."
"How civil of you," Monk said sarcastically. "How about looking through the lists of those who didn't repay you?"
"Mr. Grey is not among them."
"So he paid you." Monk allowed only a little of his triumph to creep through.
"I have not said I lent him anything."
"Then if you lent him nothing, why did you hire two men to deceive their way into his flat and ransack it? And incidentally, to steal his silver and small ornaments?" He saw with delight that Wigtight flinched. "Clumsy, that, Mr. Wigtight. You're hiring a very poor class of ruffian these days. A good man would never have helped himself on the side like that. Dangerous; brings, another charge into it—and those goods are so easy to trace."
"You're police!" Wigtight's understanding was sudden and venomous.
"That's right."
"I don't hire thieves." Now Wigtight was hedging, trying to gain time to think, and Monk knew it.
"You hire collectors, who turned out to be thieves as well," Monk said immediately. "The law doesn't see any difference."
"I hire people to do my collecting, of-course," Wigtight agreed. "Can't go out into the streets after everybody myself."
"How many do you call on with forged police papers, two months after you've murdered them?"
Every vestige of color drained out of Wigtight's face, leaving it gray, like a cold fish skin. Monk thought for a moment he was having some kind of a fit, and he felt no concern at all.
It was long seconds before Wigtight could speak, and Monk merely waited.
"Murdered!" The word when it came was hollow. "I swear on my mother's grave, I never had anything to do with that. Why should I? Why should I do that? It's insane. You're crazed."
"Because you're a usurer," Monk said bitterly, a well of anger and scalding contempt opening up inside him.
"And usurers don't allow people not to pay their debts, with all the interest when they're due.'' He leaned forward toward the man, threatening by his movement when Wig-tight was motionless in the chair. "Bad for business if you let them get away with it," he said almost between his teeth. "Encourages other people to do the same. Where would you be if everyone refused to pay you back? Bleed themselves white to satisfy your interest. Better one goose dead than the whole wretched flock running around free and fat, eh?"
"I never killed him!" Wigtight was frightened, not only by the facts, but by Monk's hatred. He knew unreason when he saw it; and Monk enjoyed his fear.
"But you sent someone—it comes to the same thing," Monk pursued.
"No! It wouldn't make sense!" Wigtight's voice was growing higher, a new, sharp note on it. The panic was sweet to Monk's ear. "All right." Wigtight raised his hands, soft and fat. "I sent them to see if Grey had kept any record of borrowing from me. I knew he'd been murdered and I thought he might have kept the cancelled IOU. I didn't want to have anything to do with him. That's all, I swear!" There was sweat on his face now, glistening in the gaslight. "He paid me back. Mother of God, it was only fifty pounds anyway! Do you think I'd send out men to murder a debtor for fifty pounds? It would be mad, insane. They'd have a hold over me for the rest of my life. They'd bleed me dry—or see me to the gibbet."
Monk stared at him. Painfully the truth of it conquered him. Wigtight was a parasite, but he was not a fool. He would not have hired such clumsy chance help to murder a man for a debt, of whatever size. If he had intended murder he would have been cleverer, more discreet about it. A little violence might well have been fruitful, but not this, and not in Grey's own house.
But he might well have wanted to be sure there was no trace of the association left, purely to avoid inconvenience.
"Why did you leave it so long?" Monk asked, his voice
