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“That depends on whether this is Abel Smith’s house or not,” she replied, glad she was not out of breath as well as reasons. “If it is, then I am where I mean to be.”
He shook his head. “I’m willin’ ter try most things, luv, but yer in’t right fer ’ere.” He looked her up and down. “If yer desperate, I’ll give yer a bed for the night, but find yerself somew’ere else fer tomorrer. Yer in’t my trade.”
“No, I’m not,” she agreed. “But I know a few girls who are. I have the house in Coldbath that takes care of some of your sick and injured.”
His eyes narrowed, and he whistled his breath out between the gaps in his teeth. “I in’t got no one sick ’ere, an’ I din’t ask fer no ’ouse calls!”
“I’m not here about illness,” she replied. Now she decided to stretch the truth a little. “I’m here about getting the police to move out of the area so we can all get back to business as usual.”
“Oh, yeah? An’ ’ow d’yer reckon on doin’ that, then?” He eyed her slim, straight body and direct eyes with heavy skepticism. “They’re sayin’ as that toff wot got done was ’ere in me ’ouse . . . which ’e never were, ’ceptin’ w’en ’e were dead!” He sniffed. “I never topped a customer in me life! Bloody stupid thing ter do, all ways ’round. But d’yer think them stupid sods believe me?”
“Where is the staircase he is supposed to have fallen down?” she asked.
“W’y? Wot diff’rence does it make ter you?” he demanded.
“Why do you want to hide it?” she countered.
“Go on! Git outa ’ere!” He flapped his hands at her. “Yer jus’ trouble. Go on!”
Somewhere behind her a rat overbalanced an empty crate and it fell with a damp thud.
She stood still. “I’m trying to help, you fool!” she said fiercely. “If he didn’t die here, then he died somewhere else! It didn’t have anything to do with women at all, and if I can prove that, then the police will stop harassing us and we can all get back to the way it used to be! Do you want that, or not?”
His eyes were little more than slits in his pink face. “W’y?” he said carefully. “I thought as yer was just a do-gooder wot tries ter save souls o’ fallen women. Yer got summink else goin’ on—in’t yer?” He nodded several times. “Wot is it, then? Wot yer doin’ in that ’ouse up Coldbath?”
“That is none of your business!” she snapped, seizing the chance. “Do we have to do this standing on the steps for anyone to hear?”
Reluctantly, he moved back and swung the door open for her to follow. She went in after him and found herself on a narrow landing with half a dozen doors leading off it. He walked ahead of her with a curious, rolling gait, as if he had been long at sea. He stopped at the fourth door along, opened it and led the way in. She went after him and found herself in a sitting room whose furnishings had once been green and red but were now faded and soiled to shades of brown, like old leaves. A desk against the back wall was covered with papers. There was a soft chair ahead of her, and a very small fireplace, presently filled with dead ash. The odor of stale air was oppressive. Warmth would only have made it worse.
“I would like to speak to some of your girls,” she asked.
“They don’t know nothin’,” he said flatly.
“I don’t care about your miserable trade!” She knew her voice was rising but she could not help it. “They may have seen this man in the street. Somebody brought him here. You say he didn’t walk in . . . then who brought him? Haven’t you even wondered who did this to you?”
“Yer bleedin’ right I ’ave!” he spat, his face suddenly losing its pink, innocent look and burning instead like that of a malevolent baby, curiously evil because it was so ludicrous. He suddenly raised his voice. “Ada!” he yelled with startling volume.
There was a slight sound downstairs, but no one appeared.
“Ada!” he screamed.
The door flew open and a fat woman almost his own height burst into the room, her black ringlets clustered around her red face, her eyes blazing with indignation. She looked at him, then at Hester.
“No good,” she said without being asked. “Too thin. Wot yer call me fer, yer daft a’porth? Don’t yer know nothin’? Sorry for ’er, are yer?” She jabbed a short, fat finger toward Hester. “Well, not in this ’ouse, yer great soft ’eap o’ . . .” She stopped, sensing his lack of self-justification. She realized her error and swung around to face Hester. “Well, wot are yer ’ere fer then? Cat got yer tongue?”
Hester pulled out the drawing of Nolan Baltimore and showed it to her.
Ada barely glanced at it. “ ’E’s dead,” she said flatly. “Some ’eap o’ dung left ’ere on our floor, but ’e in’t nuffin’ ter do wi’ us. Never see’d’im afore, an’ no one can prove we ’ave!”
“It’s your word against theirs,” Hester said reasonably.
Ada was hugely practical. She was too much of a survivor to quarrel for the sake of it. “So wot der yer want, then? W’y’d yer care ’oo put’im ’ere?”
“Because I wish to find out who killed him so the police will go away and leave us alone. And I wish to find out who is lending money to women and making them pay it back by going on the streets,” Hester replied. She took a wild chance, feeling her flesh prickle at the risk.
Ada’s black eyes opened even more widely. “Do yer, then? W’y?” Her question was shot out like a missile.
“Because as long as there are police all over the place there’s no trade,” Hester replied. “And people can’t pay their debts. Temper
