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“I dunno, sir.” Orme’s voice was low and hard. “But certain as death, I mean ter find out.”
They heard the boat bump against the steps. It was time to go on patrol. Neither said anything more. The plan would begin the following afternoon. There was much to go over and prepare before then.
In order to catch the Fat Man himself they needed the thieves to steal one article of such value that they could neither divide it, as they would a haul of money, nor break it up, as they would a piece of jewelry, selling the separate stones. It had to be something that was of worth only if it remained whole, yet too specialized and too valuable to sell themselves.
Monk and Orme had obtained Farnham’s permission to borrow an exquisite carving of ivory and gold. Intact, it was worth a fortune; broken, its only value was in the weight of the gold, which wasn’t much. Even at a glance, a pickpocket would know that such a carving, in good condition, was worth enough to keep him for a decade, if fenced successfully.
Farnham had insisted that Monk himself carry it.
“You can look the part,” he said with a curl of his mouth as he passed over the figure, wrapped in a soft chamois leather cloth. He surveyed Monk’s beautifully cut jacket and white shirt with its silk cravat, and then his trousers and polished boots. Such clothes were a legacy from Monk’s earlier years, before the accident, when most of his money went to his tailor. They were not the fashion of a season, as a woman’s gown would have been, but timeless elegance. They spoke of old money, the kind of taste that is innate, not put on to impress others. Farnham might not have been able to describe it, but he knew what it meant. It was inappropriate in a subordinate, which was why Farnham’s smile troubled Monk. He remembered how Runcorn had hated his attire, and it made him even more uneasy.
“Thank you, sir.” He took the carving and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. It made a slight bump, pulling it out of shape.
“Take care of it, Monk,” Farnham warned. “The River Police will go out of business if you lose that! With the word going around now, no one will believe we didn’t take it ourselves.”
Monk felt odd. Was he walking straight into a trap, knowing it and yet still stupid enough to step in? Or caught tightly enough to have no choice?
“Yes, sir.” His voice was rasping, as if the night air off the river had caught in his throat already.
“Orme will give you a cutlass later,” Farnham added. “Can’t let you have a weapon yet. Even a knife a thief would feel and know there was something wrong. It’s a shame. Leaves you a bit vulnerable, but can’t be helped.” He was still smiling, thin-lipped, barely showing his teeth.
“Good luck.”
“Thank you.” Monk turned and left, going to the outer room where the other men were waiting. Two of them were dressed as passengers, in order to keep a firsthand watch on the thieves. The rest were to remain in their own police boats close at hand, so they could follow anyone easily if they were to escape by water.
Orme nodded and signaled the men to go. Monk noticed with a chill and an anxious dryness in his mouth that they all carried cutlasses in their belts. Three of them carried extra weapons as well, to arm those who were disguised, should the whole operation end in violence. Monk had no idea if he had ever fought hand to hand in his years before the accident, and certainly he had not since then. He was a detective, not a uniformed officer. It was too late now to wonder if he was up to it—strong enough, quick enough, even if he had any skill with a cutlass.
He followed the men out into the hard, cold wind. Each was prepared, knowing his duty, the main plan, and the contingency. There was nothing more to say.
Outside on the quay, Orme divided his armed men into three boats, and they pulled out and headed upriver. Monk and the two others who were dressed as passengers took a hansom up to Westminster, where they boarded the next ferry down towards Greenwich.
The tide was slack, but the wind was raw. As they pulled out into the river, Monk was glad to go with the other passengers below deck into the cramped cabin, where there was some shelter. There were at least fifty other people on board: men and women and several children. Everyone was wrapped up in winter coats that offered a host of places easy enough to hide the proceeds from picked pockets. One obese gentleman wore a fur-collared coat that flapped as he walked. He could have hidden half a dozen one-pound bags of sugar without causing any further bulges on his person.
A thin woman with voluminous shawls scolded three
children who trailed after her. She looked like an ordinary housewife, but Monk knew perfectly well that she could also be a passer of stolen goods, one to whom the pickpocket gave them until he was safely free of suspicion and could take them back. She would get her cut, in time.
The plan was that if no one robbed him on the way down to Greenwich, he was to meet with one of the other policemen who was dressed as a passenger and show him the carving, as if intending to sell it to him. The policeman would pretend to decline and Monk would return to Westminster. He refused even to imagine the possibility of the thieves taking it and not being caught. On the other hand, if they were arrested too soon, then the whole operation was abortive. The police would have the thief—the fingers of the crime—but not the brain or the heart.
A man bumped against him, apologized, and moved on.
Monk’s hands went to his pocket. The carving was still there.
It happened again, and again. He was so nervous his fingers were stiff and trembling.
Butterworth bumped into him and apologized, using the password to let him know that he had been robbed. Why was the carving not gone? Without the theft they would not need to find the Fat Man.
They were past the Surrey Docks and heading down the Limehouse Reach.
Ten minutes later Monk’s pocket was empty, and he had not even felt it. Panic broke over him in a wave, the sweat hot and then cold on his skin. He had no idea who had taken it, not even whether it was man or woman. He spun around. Where was Butterworth?
“Thin man, mustache, sad face like a rat,” Constable Jones said almost at his elbow. “Over there, by the way up to the deck.”
Monk found himself gasping with relief, barely able to draw enough air into his lungs. Should he say he knew who had taken the statue? The lie died on his lips. Jones would see in his reaction that he had not. “Thank you,” he said instead. “He’s the one we have to watch, never mind the others.”
Butterworth was almost six feet from the man with the mustache. He was pretending to look for something in his coat pocket, but his eyes were on the man. He had seen, too. He and Jones were good, quicker than Monk.
The boat reached the Dog and Duck Stairs, and the man with the carving got off. Monk, Jones, and Butterworth got off behind him, as did half a dozen others.
