Текст книги "The Cadaver Client"

Автор книги: Frank Tuttle

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 5 страниц)

Chapter Three

The bathhouse attendant, a blind old man named Waters, gathered up Stick’s clothes with the end of his cane and without a word hurled them into the furnace.

“That there man stinks,” offered Waters. “Use all that soap. I’ll go fetch more.”

And off he went grimacing and muttering.

I gave Stick a couple of good hard slaps, which roused him to mutter but not open his eyes.

So I hauled him up by the scruff of his neck and simply tossed his ugly, naked butt into the big, hot, copper bathtub.

Three-leg Cat couldn’t have put on a better show of flailing and howling and sputtering. I put my right hand on his head and pushed him back under briefly.

“Good morning, Mr. Stick.” I had him by the hair, and though he punched and struggled all he did was splash. “It’s bath day. If you behave yourself, it’ll also be breakfast day. If you keep making a ruckus, well…”

I put him under again. The water, I noted, was turning muddy.

At least it was cutting down the smell. Waters arrived as I let Stick back up for air and dumped a bowl of something fragrant into the tub.

“Gonna need more of that,” he opined before shuffling off again.

Stick was furious, but beginning to wake up. He quit trying to punch me, and a ghost of recognition flashed across his face.

“You.”

“Me,” I agreed. “The finder? The one with the coin? The one who wants to know all about Cawling Street and a woman named Marris Sellway? Ring any bells, Stick?”

“You said you pay.”

“I did. And I will. But first you’re going to get yourself clean. And then you’re going to eat. And then you and I are going to sit and talk about the Bloods and Cawling and Marris. Got it?”

Stick closed his eyes and brought up his hands to run water over his face.

“Got it.”

I let go of his head and tossed him a bar of soap. “Waters here did your clothes a favor and burned them. I’m going to go back to my place and get you some of mine. If you want the coin you’ll be here when I get back. You do want the coin, don’t you, Stick?”

The weed-lust in his eyes was the only reply I needed.

“Don’t make trouble for Waters, you hear?”

“I hear.”

I told Waters what I was doing on my way out. My place is just a short walk away, and I swear I could smell Stick in the still, early morning air all the way back to my door.

I found an old shirt and an old pair of brown trousers and a pair of socks with holes in the toes under my bed. They bore the faint aroma of Three-leg, who had apparently been using them as a bed. Even so they were a vast improvement on anything Stick was likely to ever own again.

A pair of old black shoes, soles worn paper thin, completed Stick’s new ensemble. I gathered them all and headed back, more worried about Waters and the possible application of his cane to Stick’s head than I was about anything Stick might decide to do.

Mama popped out of her door as I neared.

“No time now, Mama,” I said. “Bath emergency.”

Mama eyed my bundle, and wrinkled her nose at me. “Something stinks. Come back around when ye finish your doings. Got some things to say.”

Don’t you always, I thought. I just nodded and kept that to myself.

Stick was still in the bathtub when I got back. Waters had near-empty bottles of bath salts lined up by the tub, and he was emptying the dregs from each one onto Stick.

He had at least managed to knock the smell down.

“Gonna have to charge you double, Markhat. Can’t use this water for nothin’ but fertilizing flowers.”

“Not a problem.” I put the clothes down where Stick could see them. I think he muttered a toothless thank you.

Beneath the grime and the filth, Stick looked thin and pale and weary. And no amount of bath salts was going to wash that yellow skin away, or heal those open sores.

I paid Waters and got Stick dried off and dressed. The man had to have help getting shoes on. He simply couldn’t operate more than two fingers at a time.

We left the bathhouse to the sound of Waters draining the tub and burning the towels.

“You’re bathed. You’re fed. Now let’s talk about Cawling Street and Marris Sellway.”

Stick swallowed the last bite of biscuit and washed it down with water. I’d never seen a toothless man eat a slice of baked ham before. I hoped I never did again.

“She lived in old Number Six. Up top. Nice lady. Baked us bread when she had extra.”

I nodded. Number Six hadn’t been on the waybill either.

“What did she do for a living, Stick?

He looked confused by the very concept.

“Did she have a job? Did she take in laundry or sewing?”

“She sewed some,” said Stick. “I remember. She sewed some.”

“That’s good, Stick. That’s very good.” I shoved another biscuit his way. “Now tell me about her husband. Did you know him too?”

Stick had half a dry biscuit in his mouth, and he nearly choked trying to reply.

“No husband,” he finally choked out. “Dead. Dead and gone.”

I frowned. But maybe that’s what she told people, when he didn’t come home.

“Died in the War?”

Stick shook his head no. Biscuit crumbs went flying.

“Kilt in a bread riot. Stabbed in the street. We brung him home. She cried and cried.”

Something in the back of my mind said softly but plainly, I told you so.

“What? Tell me again. And tell me who died, and who you brought home.”

Stick rubbed his chin. “Mr. Sellway. Got hisself stabbed dead in a bread riot down on Forge. We found him, brought him home. Me and Eggs and Lark and Stubby. Mrs. Sellway. Marris. She cried and cried.”

Bread riot. The last one had been on Midsummer Eve, a year before the War ended.

Which meant my dead client-or Granny Knot-was lying through his metaphorical teeth.

“Army wouldn’t take him. Mr. Sellway. He had a bad leg. Bad hand, too, all twisted up.” Stick curled his right hand into a claw and held it limp at his side. “We didn’t know what to do. She just stood there crying and screamin’. Eggs started cryin’ too. Lark took off. Me and Stubby wound up sitting with her ’til the dead wagons came. She had to let him burn. Couldn’t afford no burial. Can I have another biscuit?”

“Are you telling me the truth, Stick?”

Stick tilted his head, genuinely confused. “I think so. Is that not what happened?”

I looked into his yellowed, rheumy eyes, and I realized he no longer had the capacity to create such an elaborate lie.

“I’m sure it is, Stick. Here, have two.”

I sat back and watched him gobble down a week’s worth of food. Tears ran down his cheeks, from what I couldn’t discern.

“What happened to the lady after that, Stick? What did she do? Where did she go?”

Stick gobbled and nodded. “Heard she took up with some other fella,” he said. “Or something. Moved after the second fire. Up and took off, left her door wide open. Don’t know about that.” His face clouded. “War ended, them soldiers came. Lark dead. Eggs dead. Stubby…”

He teared up again. I tossed him my last biscuit. He gummed it and gobbled like he’d not just eaten six of its kin.

“So, let me get this straight. Her husband died in a bread riot a year before the War ended. She was seeing another man shortly after. Then came the fires, and she left in a hurry. Is that about right?”

“About.”

“Any idea who this second man was? A name?”

Stick shook his head. “Don’t know,” he said. Worry creased his brow. “Sorry. Don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve told me what I needed to know.”

“I get the coin? The twenty crowns?”

“That was the deal. You did your part. I’ll do mine.”

I flipped him a single Old Kingdom gold crown. He could buy a decent place to sleep with that for a month, and food, and clothes, and maybe even a middling good set of carved oak false teeth.

Or he could blow it all on weed and vein and whatever other drugs were in vogue, and wind up encrusted in his own wastes and drooling before the Curfew bell rang again.

It took Stick a long time to count the single coin he gripped in his skeletal hand and realize that one coin was, just possibly, fewer than twenty.

His face darkened.

“You said twenty.”

“I didn’t say all at once.” I pulled my Army knife out and stuck it point-first in my desk. Weedheads don’t respond to subtlety.

“We both know what’ll happen to you if you walk out of here with twenty gold crowns in your pocket, Stick. You got a place? You got a bank? Have you got so much as a sack to keep your money in?”

“I want my money.”

“Those pants you're wearing have holes in both pockets. So, that coin will do you for today. I’m going to put the rest in a bank, Stick. They’ll keep it safe for you, and you can take all of it out, if you want. I hope you won’t. I hope you’ll clean yourself up and get off the weed and have what’s left of your life. I doubt that’ll happen. I figure you’ll march into whatever bank I choose and take all of it out and you’ll be dead before you spend a tenth of it. But that’s your decision. This is mine.”

He eyed me and eyed the knife and finally his eyes fell on the crown in his palm.

“This is a lot of money,” he said.

“Enough to buy you a brand new life. Come back around before Curfew. I’ll tell you where your bank is; give you the bank chit so you can get to the rest anytime. Deal?”

Maybe, just for an instant, Stick really meant to start over. Maybe he realized what a stroke of rare good fortune had befallen him, and maybe he meant to turn his miserable life around.

He stood. He looked me in the eye. And after I stood, too, he shook my hand.

“Thanks,” he said. “I mean it.”

And then he was gone.

I did all that, by the way. I went to Crowther and Sons. I opened an account in the name of Mr. Stick. I deposited the nineteen gold crowns. I had the bankers make up a chit just for Stick, made them promise not to throw him out even if he stank, and I put Stick’s bank chit in my pocket.

Stick never returned. The chit is in my desk, waiting for him. I suspect it will wait forever.

Even rare good fortune can be too little and too late.

I spent the rest of the morning greeting other respondents to my waybills. I stopped counting Marris Sellways after the fifth one sashayed into my office. All of them, though, seemed surprised to learn they had a daughter. One couldn’t even recall where she’d lived. One was obviously a man.

Mixed in with the would-be Marris Sellways were the people who claimed to have known her. Not a one recalled her daughter’s name, or much of anything else. Reported ages ranged from teenager to granny lady. One asked me, “How old do you want me to say she was?”

I shooed them all out and only had to resort to waves of my head-knocker once.

I paid the urchins, as promised, and I even flipped a pair of coppers to the man in drag because at least he showed a sense of humor about the whole wretched mess.

Skillet came back around and got the rest of his pay and his bonus. By early afternoon, the crowds had thinned out, and I posted Skillet at my door with instructions to tell any stragglers they’d have to come around later.

I wasn’t very happy when I left Skillet behind and hit the street. The sun could beam and the birds could sing all they wanted to-I’d been lied to, either by a dead man or the old lady who claimed to speak for him. And since Granny was the only one of the pair with a corpus, it was her I headed to see.

I stopped by Mama’s, more out of a desire to snag a cup of her tea than anything else. She was waiting, and instead of her usual tea she’d splurged and made coffee. I cleaned off a spot on her card-reading table and plopped myself down.

“I seen quite a crew file in and out of your place,” she said.

I grunted. “All a waste of time. All but one.”

Mama nodded sagely. “The stinkin’ one?”

“He ran a gang called the Bloods back before the fires, when Cawling Street was Cawling Street. He remembers the Sellway woman. Remembers her kid. He also remembers her husband getting himself killed in a bread riot a year before the War ended. That business about the spook being a soldier coming home never happened.”

“I reckon dead ’uns ain’t no more honest than the living.”

“And I reckon I’m being played, Mama. Spooks my ass. You know Granny. Tell me why she’d need to make all that up? If she wants me to find Marris Sellway, fine, I don’t even need a reason. Just hire me to find her. No questions need be asked.”

I half-expected Mama to shake her dried owl at me, but she just shook her head.

“Boy, I know you don’t believe. And maybe I don’t blame you much. For every Granny Knot, there’s two dozen put-ons. Just like for me. You do believe in me, don’t you, boy?”

“I worship the ground you drop feathers on, Mama, you know that. But Granny. I don’t know her. And somebody is lying to me. What am I supposed to believe?”

“You ain’t never supposed to believe nothing but the truth, boy.” Mama cackled. “Trouble is, sometimes the truth gets buried with the dead.”

I thought about Stick. “Sometimes it’s better that way.”

“This ain’t one of them times. I done some askin’ on my own, boy. I got some answers you ain’t going to like.”

I can read Mama pretty well. When she lowers her voice and leans in toward me, I know to expect Eldritch Wisdom wrought from her dealings with things Mystical and Arcane.

“This involves portents and signs, doesn’t it?”

“There’s worse things than tellin’ lies afoot, boy. There’s killin’. And a powerful want to kill.”

“Throw in some vengeance from beyond the grave and I’m sold.”

“Ain’t about vengeance, boy. At least folks might have a reason for wantin’ that. Ain’t no reason here.”

“That part I believe.”

Mama snorted. “Boy, I’m telling you plain that Granny ain’t a fake. That means you are dealing with a dead man.”

“A dead man who’s so far lied about everything but the money.”

“Why do you reckon that is, boy? Why do you reckon he’s gone to all this trouble just to find that woman, if what he said about being her husband ain’t true?”

“I don’t know. Yet.” I stood and drained my cup. “I’m going to see Granny and ask her.”

“Take this with you.”

Mama rose and rummaged around on a shelf behind her and finally produced a little cloth bag tied at the neck with a piece of dirty yellow yarn.

“You get in a tight with that there dead man’s shade, you remember you got this.”

She put it in my hand.

“Mama.”

“And if you drop that in the gutter a block from here I’ll know it,” said Mama. She shook her owl for emphasis. “Took me all night to mix that up and hex it. Now get. The Eltis sisters are comin’, any minute.”

I put the pitiful little bag in my pocket.

“Thanks, Mama. The coffee was good.”

“The advice was better. One day you’ll appreciate that.”

“I always do, Mama.”

I heard a cab slow to a halt outside, so I hurried out.

Again, Granny wasn’t home.

I didn’t sit on her porch this time. I started banging on doors. Having once been seen in Granny’s company, a couple of faces poked outside. No, they hadn’t seen Granny today. No, she didn’t keep any kind of regular hours. The first face had no idea where she might be.

The second gave me a “what, are you stupid?” look and suggested Granny might be down at the bone-yard.

Some finder I am. Where else would I look for a spook doctor but the cemetery?

Rannit’s well-heeled dead spend their eternal rewards laid out on the Hill, on the other side of the Brown River. On this side of the Brown, the lucky ones get planted at Noble Fields. Those who can’t afford a plot there wind up providing ash for the crematorium smokestacks or being interred, on a yearly paid basis, in one of the tiny, rocky cemeteries granted grudging existence by the Church. Poverty plots, they’re called.

Families who go more than seven days late on a payment wake up to find their deceased relative dumped without ceremony on their doorstep.

No one ever accused any of Rannit’s churches with being sluggard when it came to collecting their due.

I got directions to the nearest such place and headed out. It wasn’t far, and I saw Granny hobbling along just inside at the same time I saw the open cemetery gates.

There’d been a funeral there recently. The fireflowers in the gate urns hadn’t even wilted yet. The place was tiny, less than a block in any direction, and it was enclosed on all sides by buildings and a wall of scraggly hedge-bushes. The gravewards were crude affairs, some obviously homemade, all leaning in different directions. Some had fallen, and hadn’t been righted.

Here and there were open empty graves, evidence of the Church’s unflagging and doubtlessly holy efficiency in all manners fiscal.

I caught up with Granny easily. I hadn’t wanted to shout out for her, not among the dead. Mama Markhat had instilled a few manners after all.

“Granny Knot,” I said, puffing a bit. “Glad I found you here.”

Granny held her rags up to her mouth and looked carefully around to make sure we were alone.

“Good to see you as well. Do you have news for me?”

I fell into a slow amble beside her. The sky was bright and cloudless and blue. The gravewards gleamed white all around us.

“I do.” I retold Stick’s story, gave an accounting of money spent. I didn’t voice my own misgivings just yet.

“So, my shade has lied to us.”

“It seems that way, Granny.” A pair of ink black crows gazed down on us from atop a leaning, above-ground crypt and issued a chorus of ragged caws. “Any idea why he might do that?”

Granny shook her head. “None whatsoever.”

“Think you could ask him?”

“I intend to.” Granny shook her rags. “I don’t enjoy being lied to. Especially when by doing so he made me complicit in his lie.”

“Can you ask him now?”

Granny halted. We stood before a relatively new wardstone. This one had been bought, not made by a grieving but unskilled family. It bore a few words of Church, and at the very bottom, a single name.

Gorvis.

“I’m very much afraid I cannot, Mr. Markhat.” Granny scowled at the graveward. “At least, not at the moment. But I shall, I assure you. As soon as possible.”

“This is him, isn’t it?”

“First name H-O-R-A-C-E.” Granny spelled it out so the name wasn’t spoken aloud. “Yes, I believe so.”

I frowned. “You believe so?”

“Like you, Mr. Markhat, I have my resources. I employed them with the aim of learning the true name of the spirit who called himself Sellway. These-resources have provided me with a first name and led me to this spot. This is not who the spirit claimed to be. I am as surprised as you are. Possibly more so.”

Granny’s handful of rags fluttered in her hand. There wasn’t a breath of wind.

Granny whirled to face me.

“We must go, Mr. Markhat. Now!”

“Why?”

That was as much as I got out before Granny grabbed my wrist with her implacable, elderly hand and dragged me at a middling fast run away from the graveward.

We made good time down the winding path to the gate, and through it, and onto the street, before Granny halted and bent double, gasping for air.

I let her catch her breath.

“That. Was close.” She was grinning, like we’d just outrun the Watch. There was even a twinkle in her eyes.

“What was close?”

“He almost saw us there.” Granny straightened. “I’m not ready for him to know I know, just yet.”

“Who, the spook?”

“The spook, as you say. They often return to the location of their remains as they prepare to intrude upon our world. This one is no different.”

“Won’t he see us?” I could see the wardstone plain from where we stood. The hedges were not much more than sticks on the street side of the cemetery. I guessed that wagon-drivers let their ponies nibble on the foliage as they passed.

Granny shook her head. “No. Not in broad daylight, not before he has a chance to…let us say, assert himself. We are quite safe here.”

Granny turned and started marching for home, and I followed.

“So, his real name was Gorvis.” It wasn’t a name anyone had mentioned yet. Not that I was at all convinced by Granny’s fist of rags. She could easily have staged the whole scene when she saw me coming. For what purpose, I still didn’t know.

“He’s buried not far from your house, Granny. And that’s not a name you know?”

“It isn’t.” Traffic started picking up, so Granny fired up her public spook doctor act, complete with muttering and random bursts of howled laughter.

“I’m not a big believer in coincidence, Granny.”

“Nor am I.” She replied in a whisper between rants about spying spirits and groaning ghosts.

“I’m going to go out on a limb, Granny. I’m going back to Regency Avenue, and this time I’m going to ask about a man named Gorvis. If you just staged that whole, little scene back there on the spur of the moment, tell me right now, or so help me I’ll start handing out the crowns at random, on the street.”

Granny guffawed.

“You go. You ask your questions. You get down off that roof, shade of Angus Fergis!” She said the last in a screech that caused pedestrians all around us to stop and search the rooftops for spooks.

“And when you’re done, come back. You and I will have business tonight. After Curfew. You and I and a man named Gorvis. Are you willing to do that, Mr. Markhat?”

“If that’s what it takes to earn my pay.”

“I see you, shades of the Lowrey twins! I see you peepin’ in them windows!”

Granny winked.

I said my farewells and headed back to Regency Avenue.

The first thing I did after arriving at Regency was present myself to the biggest pair of Owenstall’s bullies I could find.

They knew my name, and they knew I had the blessing of the boss himself. One of them even went so far as to suggest a place or two some of the older folks might be at the moment.

Oh, what a difference a few words from Mama had made.

I thanked them and started making my rounds. This time, I wasn’t concentrating on the name Sellway, but on Gorvis.

And I wasn’t having much better luck, either. Blank looks. Shakes of the head. Frowns and creased brows and ultimately, variations on the theme of no.

I expanded my search, no longer just talking to people of a certain age and above. I talked to kids. To their parents. To their nannies, to their grannies, to their yipping poodle-dogs.

One of Owenstall’s bullies brought me a sandwich and a glass of tea sometime well after noon. He even wished me luck.

I had the blessing of the local muscle, but none whatsoever from Lady Luck. I pondered that as I chewed. I’d seated myself on a bench under the largest of the poplars that lined the avenue. It offered scant shade, but I’d learned long ago to take whatever comfort I could get.

The sandwich, at least was good. And the tea was cold and dark.

So I was more than a little annoyed when a trio of well-dressed toughs walked up to my bench and knocked my glass of tea right out of my hand.

I swallowed and put the rest of the sandwich down, lest it too be cast into the street.

“Whoa,” I said. I did not stand. I could tell from the expression of my tea-tosser that he’d just knock me down if I did. “Look, gents, you need to check in at the head office. Owenstall himself said I could ask my questions. And this sandwich and that tea were his, by the way.”

“I don’t know any Owenstall,” snarled my new friend. He made his hands into fists. “But I do know you.”

“Are you sure? Because to know me is to love me. Trite, but true. It’s my innate charm-”

I didn’t get to finish, because I was hauled to my feet by the two silent gentlemen.

I’d assumed they belonged to Owenstall because of their dress. They weren’t common street thugs. Their shoes were shined, their shirts were pressed, their trousers actually fit and someone had ironed the wrinkles out not too long ago.

I didn’t struggle. That made the third man frown. People were beginning to stop, to stare. Some even flocked out of doors to watch the show.

I knew none of them expected that. The normal procedure in most of Rannit is to turn away from trouble, lest it come and visit you.

I grinned. I was seeing something else they weren’t-namely, a half dozen of Owenstall’s boys, who were rounding the corner and coming my way, their expressions none too happy.

“You been poking around, finder. Messing in things that ain’t your business. Maybe it’s time you was taught a lesson.”

“Maybe so,” I said amiably. “But it’s not one that’s going to be taught by you. Now here’s what’s going to happen. Your boyfriends here are going to let me go. You’re going to buy me another glass of tea. And then we’re all going to sit down and talk about who sent you, and why they sent you.”

The man cursed and drew back a fist, and I was wondering if I should have kept talking for just an instant more when Bolton himself stepped right up into my new friend’s face and slapped him, hard, right across his mouth.

The man blanched. But then Owenstall’s boys were on him, and on the two pinning my arms behind my back, and after a very brief scuffle I was free and facing tea-tosser from a very different perspective.

Bolton slapped him again, from the other side.

“You come into my neighborhood?”

Slap.

“You start shaking down people on my street?”

Slap.

“You think you can walk in here and start pushing people and nobody pushes back?”

Slap.

It took two slaps for the man’s face to go from fury to fear. He looked to his companions, but they weren’t displaying any heroics.

“You all right, Mr. Markhat?”

Slap.

“I’m peachy,” I said. “Do you know this gentleman, or his friends?”

Bolton snorted. “Sure I do. This here is Mr. Corpse. His friends are Mr. Fishbait and Mr. Hogfeed. You don’t need to worry about them bothering you again. Unless you get a line snagged on this one’s torso when you’re out fishing in the Shallows.”

All three men blanched. Bolton was convincing. Even I wasn’t sure he was bluffing.

I frowned. “I don’t know. Dismemberment seems a little harsh for the loss of a beverage. Maybe they’re willing to make amends. What about it, gentlemen? Have you seen the error of your wicked, sinful ways? Are you filled with a burning desire to rejoin polite society as helpful, productive citizens?”

Bolton grinned and produced a very long, very sharp knife. “Or would you rather be gutted and dumped in the Brown?”

There was dried blood plain in the gap between blade and hilt. It wasn’t that old.

All three men professed repentance, and we were off to Owenstall’s office.

I finished my sandwich on the way.

The three men who’d accosted me and abused my tea were named Argis, Florint and Wert. Wert was the leader.

And Wert was a very nervous man. It was cool in Owenstall’s well-appointed office. But from the amount of sweat pouring off Wert, you’d have thought he stood on a sunlit gallows, and in a way I suppose, he did just that. I almost felt sorry for the man.

Even seated like civilized beings in Owenstall’s luxurious office, it was clear that Bolton and his well-used knife were not just possible outcomes but probable ones.

Owenstall himself joined us, after a while. Bolton made introductions, and laid out the events of the day. Owenstall nodded, seated himself, and let out a heavy sigh.

“I ain’t gonna waste all day on you three road apples,” he began. “I’m going to ask this one time. Who sent you down here, and why?”

He asked it in a quiet voice. He didn’t make a single threat.

He didn’t have to.

Argis and Florint gave Wert a pair of frantic looks. Wert raised his hands in surrender.

“We work for Burnsey Mays,” he said. “And we didn’t mean any disrespect to you. We came to see him.” He jerked a thumb at me. “He doesn’t even live here. We didn’t think-”

“No. You didn’t think. ’Cause if you had thought, you’d have thought ‘Maybe I shouldn’t go making a ruckus in Mr. Owenstall’s neighborhood. Maybe making Mr. Owenstall angry is not a good idea.’ That’s what you would have thought. And you’d have been right. Who is Burnsey Mays?”

Wert mopped sweat. “Mr. Mays owns the Stig River Runners,” he said. “Stig River? They run payroll, mail convoys. Out West. Were big during the War?”

I frowned. Owenstall frowned. His men exchanged what-the-Hell looks.

I said what they were thinking.

“Why would an outfit that guards payroll stages and mail wagons send you three down here to give me fresh bruises?”

Wert gobbled and spat out a series of uhs and wells. Owenstall’s face went dark.

“I ain’t believin’ a word of that.”

For the first time since meeting him, I heard death clear in his voice.

“Wait a minute. Wait a damned minute!” It was Argis, the youngest of the three, who spoke.

“I was willing to risk my job over this foolishness, Wert, but I am not going to get killed over it.”

“Shut up,” growled Wert. “They’re bluffing.”

“Like Hell they are. Burnsey Mays didn’t send us anywhere. Yeah, we work for him, but he’s got no idea we’re here. It was his daughter what put us up to this, and I told you it was a fool thing to do.”

Owenstall gave me the smallest of nods.

“What’s her name?” I asked before Wert could speak. “The daughter. Her name.”

Argis faced me. “Natalie. Natalie Mays. She rounded us up this morning and showed us that waybill you plastered all around town. Said for us to find you and see what you knew and then…and then beat you ’til you didn’t care to poke around anymore.”

Owenstall grinned. “You know this Mays woman, finder?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Now, Argis. Why would your boss’s daughter send you down here to ruin my day? What have I ever done to her?”

The one named Florint saw the lay of the land and decided to chime in, lest he be numbered with the fish bait when pardons were being handed out.

“She didn’t talk like she knew you. She just showed us the waybill, said to find you.”

The waybill.

“Any of you boys know a Marris Sellway?”

Blank looks and shakes from Argis and Florint. Stupid defiance from Wert.

“That’s very helpful, gentlemen. Very helpful indeed. So. I’m in a generous mood. I might even be willing to intercede on your behalf with Mr. Owenstall here.” I turned to face the grinning force behind Law and Order on Regency Avenue.

“What say you, sir? Shall we spare these miserable urchins their lives, or feed a few of the Brown’s less discriminating catfish?”

Owenstall shrugged. “I’ll let that be up to you, finder. As long as you mention all this to Mama.”

“Deal,” I said. “I wonder if I might ask one small favor of you?”

“Ask.”

“Let’s say you’ve got a nice, sturdy room somewhere. A room without windows. A room that muffles shouts for help, screams of agony, pleas for mercy, that sort of thing.”

Owenstall pretended to ponder this. “I might.”

“Would it be too much to ask to have these three worthies deposited therein, for, say, two full days? Just as guests, mind you. Fed once a day. Food served with tea.”