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One man squeaked half a word, then stifled it instantly.
The Fat Man ignored him. “Discipline, discipline.” He shook his head and his massive jowls wobbled. “Without order we perish. How many times have I told you that? If you had given that to me, open
ly and honestly as we agreed, I would have sold it and given you half.” His mouth hardened. He stood motionless. “But as I have had to take the trouble of coming for it myself, and bringing my men with me, I shall have to keep all of it. Expenses, you see?”
No one moved.
“And discipline…always discipline. Can’t have things getting out of control. No!” He barked the last word as one of the thieves made to stand up, his hand going to his waist for a weapon. “Very foolish, Doyle. Very foolish indeed. Do you imagine I have come unarmed? Now, you know me better than that! Or perhaps you don’t, or you would not have tried such a stupid piece of duplicity.”
But the man was too angry to heed a warning. He drew a dagger out of his belt and lunged forward.
The Fat Man shouted, and the next moment the shadows came alive. There was a melee of heaving bodies, flying arms and legs, and the candlelight on the sudden, bright arcs of knives and cutlasses. It took less than a minute to realize that the Fat Man’s followers were getting the better of it. There were more of them and they were better armed.
Orme was staring at Monk, waiting for the word.
For a sick, blinding instant Monk wanted to escape. How many men could he lose in a swordfight in the candlelight, with the thieves and the Fat Man’s men against them?
Then his mind cleared. What were the odds to do with anything? They were policemen. They wore the queen’s uniform. The Fat Man would take the carving and the police would have stood by like cowards and watched. Monk knew exactly how many men he would lose then—all of them.
“Forward!” he said, and charged, heading for the Fat Man.
The next moments were violent, painful, and terrifying. Monk was in the thick of it, and at first the cutlass felt strange in his hand. He was not sure whether to stab with it or hack. A thin man, scrawny but surprisingly powerful, swung at him with a cudgel and caught him a glancing blow on the arm. The pain of it jerked him into reality and hot anger. He swung back with the cutlass and missed. A knife tore the flesh of his right shoulder, and he felt the hot blood. This time his cutlass did not miss and the jar of its blade on bone rocked him.
But beyond the first taste of bile in his mouth, there was no time to think what he might have done. Orme was to his right, in trouble, and Clacton beyond was struggling. Jones came to his rescue. Where was the Fat Man?
Monk turned and slashed at Orme’s attacker, catching only his sleeve. Then again and again the metallic clash of steel, the smells of sweat and blood fresh over the stink of slime.
He was hit from behind and fell forward, managing at the last moment to hold his blade clear. He rolled over and scrambled up again. He lashed back and this time struck flesh. There was a yell, and curses all around him. At least his own men were easier to recognize by the outline of their uniform tunics, although most of their hats had been lost in the battle.
Some memory within his own muscles brought back the skill to balance and lunge, to duck, keep upright, push forward and strike. His blood was hot and in some wild way he was almost enjoying it. He barely felt his own pain.
Then suddenly he was backed into a corner. There were two men in front of him, not one, and then a third. Fear was sick and real. He could not fight three men. How had he been so careless?
A blade arced up. He saw it gleam in the candlelight, and beyond it, for an instant, Clacton’s face a couple of yards away, smiling. He could see him, and Clacton was not going to help.
There was nowhere for Monk to run, no room to step left or right. He’d take on one of them at least, two if possible. He dared not raise his arm to slash. There was no space to swing. He checked and lunged forward, skewering the man to his left, expecting any second to feel the blade through his own chest and then darkness, oblivion.
He tried to yank his blade out but there was someone on top of it, heavy, lifeless, pinning his arm down. Then he saw Orme pulling his own blade free, and understood what had happened.
“Better be quick, sir,” Orme said urgently. “We’ve done a good job. One of the Fat Man’s men killed the thief with the carving and now the Fat Man’s got it himself. We’ve got to get back to the boats.”
Monk responded without hesitation. The thieves could fight it out among themselves. He must get the Fat Man and the carving. They could still win, perhaps more swiftly and completely than in the original plan. He snatched up the thief’s cutlass that moments ago would have meant his own death. Shuddering and stumbling, he went back through the wreckage of the building after Orme. He blundered into wreckage and tripped, falling headlong more than once, but when he emerged into the winter night, which was clear-mooned and stinging with frost, Orme was a couple of yards in front of him. Twenty feet beyond, the Fat Man floundered, coat waving like broken wings, his right fist held high with something clenched in it. It had to be the carving.
Orme was gaining on him. Monk forced himself to run faster. He almost caught up with them just as they reached the edge of the rotted pier jutting twenty feet out into the river. The boat was already waiting for the Fat Man, and Orme’s men were beyond sight.
The Fat Man turned with a wave of triumph. “Good night, gentlemen!” he said with glee, his voice rich and soft with laughter. “Thank you for the ivory!” He pushed it into his pocket and swiveled. There was a crack as the last whole piece of timber snapped under his vast weight. For a hideous instant he did not understand what had happened. Then, as it caved in, he screamed and flailed his arms wildly. But there was nothing to grasp, only rotting, crumbling edges. The black water sucked and squelched below, swallowing him with one immense gulp. The moment after there was only the rhythmic slurp again, as if he had never existed. His heavy boots and his immense body weight had dragged him down, and the mud beneath had held him, as if in cement.
Orme and Monk both stopped abruptly.
The Fat Man’s boatman saw them and scrabbled for the oars, sending the craft back into the night. In the moon’s glow, the water was silver-flecked, and they were easily visible. One of the police boats appeared from around the stakes of the next pier and went after them. A second came for Monk and Orme, and then a third.
“He’s got the ivory,” Monk said. It made the victory hollow. Farnham would consider it too high a price to pay for the evening’s triumph, and he would not let Monk forget it.
“We’ll get ’im up,” Orme assured him quietly.
“Up? How? We can’t go down there. A diver would be lost in minutes. It’s mud!”
“Grapples,” Orme answered. “Get ’em this tide, we’ll find ’im. ’E’s got it in ’is pocket. It’ll be safe enough.” He looked Monk up and down with concern. “You got a nasty cut, sir. Best get it attended to. You know a doctor?”
