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"What does he do?"
The man's eyebrows went up in surprise.
"Losing your grip, Monk? What's the matter with you?" He squinted a little. "You must know Zebedee Marner. Never been able to charge him with anything because he always weasels his way out, but we all know he's behind half the pawnbrokers, sweatshops and brothels in the Limehouse area right down to the Isle of Dogs. Personally I think he takes a percentage from the child prostitutes and the opium as well, although he's far too downy to go anywhere near them himself." He sighed in disgust. "But then, of course, there's a few who wouldn't say as far as that."
Monk hardly dared hope. If this were the same Marner, then here at last was something that could lead to motive. It was back to the underworld, to greed, fraud and vice. Reason why Joscelin Grey should have killed—but why should he have been the victim?
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?"
