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MONK FOUND CLIVE IN his offices on the riverbank, just short of the place where Owen had escaped, and Pettifer had died. It was a beautiful room, more like a gentleman’s study than a place of business. The furniture was heavy, polished teak and cherrywood, the chairs covered with leather. The pictures were unobtrusive landscapes, beautifully framed.
“Good morning, Commander,” Clive said courteously. He was a man of reserved charm. The warmth was easy, but never did he seem to court favor. Had he been English, Monk would have taken him for an aristocrat of considerable power, the sort of old blood that comes with the centuries of privilege, and obligation, and almost certainly thousands of acres of land somewhere in the Home Counties. It said much for Clive that within one generation of land with gold in it he could assume that power with such grace.
“Good morning, Mr. Clive,” Monk replied with equal assurance, although it was far from what he felt. “I am sorry to trouble you again, but the matter is a slightly different one this time. I have been conferring with Mr. McNab, of the Customs service. If you recall, it was one of his men who drowned….”
Clive indicated one of the leather-padded seats by the fire for Monk to sit, and he took the other.
“I remember,” he said with interest. “Does this appear to be a smuggling matter? I thought the man who escaped was an explosives expert? Owen?”
Monk chose his words carefully, watching Clive’s reaction. “There have been four escapes by prisoners in the last half year or so. The first I knew about was the forger I mentioned to you before—Blount. He had been forging ships’ documents when he was caught. Which is why Customs wanted to question him further about a whole lot of things.”
“I’m as certain as one can be that none of my cargoes could have been affected,” Clive said.
“No, sir. It’s not just his past crimes that concern me. It is his death. That’s why McNab sent for me,” Monk replied.
Clive froze, but it was for so short a time that it could have been an illusion created by the quiet room, the light on the windows, the silence.
“Of course…McNab,” Clive responded. “I remember now you mentioned a bullet wound, so his man’s death is under investigation by the River Police?”
“Yes.”
Clive sat still for several moments, clearly turning it over in his mind.
Monk studied him. Since he was waiting for his reply, he could do so without it being in any way unusual. Clive was quite a big man, well built, and yet at the same time elegant. The sense of power in him was not physical but sprang from his deep-seated confidence in himself. Monk wondered if he had ever been truly afraid. If he had, it had left no mark on him.
“A warning to someone?” Clive suggested at last. “?‘This is what happens to those who betray me’?”
Monk was surprised. Clive looked so much the gentleman, so unacquainted with any kind of violence or brutality. And yet of course he must be. No man would have survived and profited superbly from the gold rush without skill, luck, courage, and a certain steel in his soul.
As if reading his thoughts, Clive smiled. It lit his face, making him seem much younger, as if a layer of responsibility had slipped off his shoulders.
“If you knew the goldfields of ’49, you wouldn’t imagine me so very civilized, Commander. Our veneer of sophistication was thinner than a coat of varnish, I assure you. San Francisco grew almost overnight.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I apologize.”
“Do you think Blount was killed for having betrayed his employees?” Clive asked.
“Possibly,” Monk conceded. “But to his rivals, not to the police, or the Customs.”
A flash of humor lit Clive’s eyes, quick and vivid. “Are you sure? Even if you trust McNab himself, do you equally trust all his men? Or for that matter, all your own men?”
Monk looked straight at Clive and met his gaze boldly. “Yes, I trust all my men. Would you put your life or your career in the hands of men you didn’t trust?”
Clive dropped all the pretense of courtesy. “I might use men I didn’t trust,” he answered. “But I’d make damned sure they couldn’t use me.”
“Exactly.” Monk smiled back at him, quite genuinely. He respected Clive, and could even like him. “I don’t know who shot Blount, or who drowned him. I think the drowning could have been an accident….”
“And the shooting?” Clive was openly amused now, even if there was a bitter edge to it.
“I think that might have been to make it a police matter, and take it out of McNab’s hands.”
“Because you are better equipped to solve it? Or simply for Customs to be rid of it themselves?” Clive asked. “Or to distract you?”
“Very possibly the last,” Monk answered. “Or again, to draw me in. There have been two more escapes of interest in the last half year: Seager, who is a first-class safecracker, and Applewood, who is a chemist, working on gases, particularly those that blind or suffocate.” He waited a moment, watching Clive’s sudden awareness of what more that might involve, the meaning far beyond the words.
“All four escapees worked together before,” Monk went on quietly. “On a major gold robbery. There might be something else, but they specialize in highly valuable cargo, heavy but not large. We are afraid that something in your warehouse might be a possible target, once they find someone to replace Blount.”
Clive weighed this for quite some time before he answered.
