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Rathbone started to say that it was not a legal matter, then realized that of course Monk knew that. He had not yet come to the worst.
Monk told him quickly, sparing nothing. “Claudine Burroughs dressed as a match woman and went to try to find where they were selling Phillips's photographs. She succeeded in finding at least one shop. The photographs were appalling, but what matters is that she recognized one of the purchasers, because she knew him socially. She is afraid that he also recognized her, and that is why Phillips has attacked.”
Rathbone frowned. “I don't follow your logic. Why would Phillips do that? He won't care about individual customers, even if Mrs. Burroughs was right.”
Monk hesitated for the first time. He loathed doing this. “It was Arthur Ballinger,” he said quietly. “I think he warned Phillips that we are closing in on him, and this is Phillips's retaliation. I'm sorry.”
Rathbone stared at him, the blood draining from his face. He looked as if he had been struck such a blow as to rob him momentarily of thought, or the power to respond.
Monk wanted to apologize again, but he knew it was futile.
“It is the only thing that has changed,” he said aloud. “Before that, Phillips was winning, and he knew it. He had no need to do anything but wait us out. Now we have seen Ballinger, and that must matter to him.”
Rathbone moved to the chair and sat down slowly. “I'll do what I can.” His voice was hoarse.
“I'll do what I can to help you rescue Scuff,” he said, his voice strained. He stood up and swayed very slightly. “Sullivan is the weak link. He will know where Phillips's boat is, and I can force him to take us. He'll know the times and places because he goes there. I don't think we have time to waste.” He moved to the door.
Monk followed him. He wanted to ask about Ballinger's involvement, but the wound was too raw, and too deep to probe yet. He could barely imagine how it must hurt Rathbone, not for Ballinger, but for Margaret. He thought of Hester, whose father had taken his own life after a financial scandal that had ruined him. He had believed it to be the only decent way out, and he had had no fault but faith in a man who was beneath honor of any kind.
They took a cab and rode in silence to Sullivan's chambers. The hot air was sharp with the smells of horse dung, the leather inside the cab, and stale sweat.
Monk's imagination was crowded with fear for Scuff. How had he managed to get caught? How terrified he must have been when he recognized Phillips, knowing what lay ahead of him. Was he already burned, bleeding? Where would Phillips begin, slowly, delicately, or straight into the maximum pain? The sweat broke out and ran cold on his own skin as he tried to force the images out of his mind.
They reached Sullivan's chambers still without speaking again. It was understood that Rathbone would address the subject for both of them.
As expected, they were told to wait, and possibly Lord Justice Sullivan would see them. Rathbone replied that it was a police emergency, concerning a matter of the utmost personal importance to Sullivan, and that the man would rue the day he did so if he attempted to block their way.
Within half an hour they stood in Sullivan's rooms, facing a man who was both angry and frightened. His big body was clenched and shivering, sweat shining on his skin in the heat as the sun shone in through the long windows.
“What is it you want?” He ignored Monk and look
ed only at Rathbone, as if expecting the details from him.
He was not disappointed. Rathbone came immediately to the point.
“We wish you to take us to Jericho Phillips's boat tonight, secretly. If you do not, innocent people will die, so there is no bargain to be made, no equivocation or denial possible.”
“I have no idea where his boat is!” Sullivan protested, even before Rathbone had finished speaking. “If the police wish to board it, that is up to them. I am sure they have informants whom they can ask.”
“There are all sorts of people we could speak to,” Rathbone replied icily. “With all sorts of information to give or to trade. I am sure you already understand that, in all its shades of meaning. We must do it tonight, and without Phillips receiving any warning so he could move the child he has kidnapped.”
“I can't!” Sullivan protested, his hands white-knuckled, the sweat running down his face.
“For a man who thrives on the thrill of danger, you seem to singularly lack courage,” Rathbone said with disgust. “You told me you loved the danger of risking being caught. Well, you are about to have the greatest excitement of your life.”
Monk stepped forward, not out of pity for Sullivan—who appeared to be about to choke—but because he was afraid they would lose his usefulness if he had a stroke. “You can leave once we are there,” he said raspingly “If we find the boy alive. If not, believe me, I will expose you to the whole of London—more important, to the judiciary who presently admire you so much. You may well have friends there, but they will not be able to help you, and unless they are suicidal, they will not try to. Ballinger will not get Sir Oliver to help you, and I will not make the mistakes I made with Phillips.”
“Monk!” Rathbone said urgently, his voice sharp, like a lash.
Monk swung around and stared at him, ready to accuse him of cowardice, or even complicity.
“He is no use to us a gibbering wreck,” Rathbone said gently. “Don't frighten him witless.” He looked at Sullivan. “Nevertheless, what Monk says is true. Are you with us? You wanted danger—this should be full of it. Weigh the risks. Phillips might get you, and he might not. We certainly will, no shadow of a doubt. I personally will ruin you, I swear it.”
Sullivan was almost beyond speech. He nodded and mumbled something, but the words were unintelligible.
Monk wondered if the excitement for which he had risked so much had only ever been an idea to him, and being caught, exposed, and torn apart never a reality. There must be a streak of sadism in him as well. There had never been chance, or excitement, or a hope of escape for the boys. Disgust welling up inside him, cold and sour, he turned away. “Rathbone will tell you what to do,” he said. “Perhaps he'd better bring you.”
“Of course I'll bring him,” Rathbone retorted with a sting in his voice. “Do you think I'm not coming?”
