hell are you doing here, my girl? This ain’t your part of town no more.”
“Nat, you old villain,” I said. “It’s bloody good to see you.”
The old villain wore a rusty black suit and an ancient beaver hat that had been made before I’d been born. Nat sported a splendid mustache and a bristling pair of muttonchops. Between the brim of his hat and the soup-strainer, a pair of beady black eyes gleamed at me.
“Haven’t seen you in ages,” he said.
“Haven’t had a ruby to fence in ages,” I said.
His belly shook and the black eyes twinkled. “Don’t stand out there in the dark. Come in and have a drink with me.”
I stepped into Nat’s establishment and looked around. I’d been here before, on the day I’d pawned the Rajah’s Ruby. I’d known Nat for years before I ever did business with him. He had a reputation for honesty (well, relatively speaking) and was circumspect, a man who paid top dollar and dealt with his accounts promptly. I’d been more than pleased with the price the old Shylock had paid me for the ruby. I had no doubt he’d sold it for a substantial profit, but I didn’t begrudge the man his mite.
Nat ran a flash house, where, as alert readers will have gathered, stolen goods were fenced. But a flash house was more than that, being a combination of a club and a school. Palmers arrived with the goods they’d shoplifted and the fingersmiths kept Nat in a steady supply of pocket watches. They were always welcome to sit down to a glass of rum or brandy and share the latest gossip, and the young ones were allowed to hang around the edges of the group and imbibe useful knowledge, such as how to ask a passing toff to help you with a drunk friend while you lifted the swell’s wallet. There were dozens of these enterprises around the city, but I’d only crossed the threshold of Nat’s.
He had a crowd tonight which was not what I wanted, so I drew him aside and asked for a quiet word.
He nodded sagely and shouted at the group of fellows gathered around the fire. “Drink up, boys. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
That bunch needed no encouragement, for they were downing the liquor at a fast pace. There was a lot of good-natured ribbing and a few ribald comments, which is only to be expected when I walk into a room, but Nat shushed them with a glance and led me down a dark hall to his cramped office. The room was blue with smoke. Nat had been at work, as I could see by the open ledger and the weighted scales on his desk.
He offered me a chair and a drink, and I spun him a story about the old friend I wanted to find. I didn’t ask Nat outright if he knew Philip. The old duffer was tight-lipped when it came to his clients, but I reckoned that one of London’s best fences would know most of the jewel thieves who plied their trade in the city. I do believe Nat was a romantic at heart, for he heard me out with a sympathetic expression and patted my hand and told me not to give it another thought: If Philip Barrett was in the city, Nat would find him for me.
I walked home well pleased with my night’s work.
SEVEN
A fter my late night I treated myself to a lie-in. I was reclining in bed with the morning papers and a cup of coloured water Mrs. Drinkwater had delivered to me with the announcement that it was “tea.” There was some evidence that she was correct, as I espied a shred of limp brown vegetation at the bottom of the cup. I’d have to have a word with my cook as I suspected that she was allocating the weekly provisions allowance somewhat differently from what I intended, i.e., in the increased purchase of alcoholic beverages for herself and the decreased procurement of just about everything else on the list.
As expected, the reporter Johnnies were having a field day with Colonel Mayhew’s death. The headlines were breathless and the prose ghoulish. Inspector Allen was quoted copiously, with frequent allusions to “solid leads” and “quick resolution to the
“Nat, you old villain,” I said. “It’s bloody good to see you.”
The old villain wore a rusty black suit and an ancient beaver hat that had been made before I’d been born. Nat sported a splendid mustache and a bristling pair of muttonchops. Between the brim of his hat and the soup-strainer, a pair of beady black eyes gleamed at me.
“Haven’t seen you in ages,” he said.
“Haven’t had a ruby to fence in ages,” I said.
His belly shook and the black eyes twinkled. “Don’t stand out there in the dark. Come in and have a drink with me.”
I stepped into Nat’s establishment and looked around. I’d been here before, on the day I’d pawned the Rajah’s Ruby. I’d known Nat for years before I ever did business with him. He had a reputation for honesty (well, relatively speaking) and was circumspect, a man who paid top dollar and dealt with his accounts promptly. I’d been more than pleased with the price the old Shylock had paid me for the ruby. I had no doubt he’d sold it for a substantial profit, but I didn’t begrudge the man his mite.
Nat ran a flash house, where, as alert readers will have gathered, stolen goods were fenced. But a flash house was more than that, being a combination of a club and a school. Palmers arrived with the goods they’d shoplifted and the fingersmiths kept Nat in a steady supply of pocket watches. They were always welcome to sit down to a glass of rum or brandy and share the latest gossip, and the young ones were allowed to hang around the edges of the group and imbibe useful knowledge, such as how to ask a passing toff to help you with a drunk friend while you lifted the swell’s wallet. There were dozens of these enterprises around the city, but I’d only crossed the threshold of Nat’s.
He had a crowd tonight which was not what I wanted, so I drew him aside and asked for a quiet word.
He nodded sagely and shouted at the group of fellows gathered around the fire. “Drink up, boys. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
That bunch needed no encouragement, for they were downing the liquor at a fast pace. There was a lot of good-natured ribbing and a few ribald comments, which is only to be expected when I walk into a room, but Nat shushed them with a glance and led me down a dark hall to his cramped office. The room was blue with smoke. Nat had been at work, as I could see by the open ledger and the weighted scales on his desk.
He offered me a chair and a drink, and I spun him a story about the old friend I wanted to find. I didn’t ask Nat outright if he knew Philip. The old duffer was tight-lipped when it came to his clients, but I reckoned that one of London’s best fences would know most of the jewel thieves who plied their trade in the city. I do believe Nat was a romantic at heart, for he heard me out with a sympathetic expression and patted my hand and told me not to give it another thought: If Philip Barrett was in the city, Nat would find him for me.
I walked home well pleased with my night’s work.
SEVEN
A fter my late night I treated myself to a lie-in. I was reclining in bed with the morning papers and a cup of coloured water Mrs. Drinkwater had delivered to me with the announcement that it was “tea.” There was some evidence that she was correct, as I espied a shred of limp brown vegetation at the bottom of the cup. I’d have to have a word with my cook as I suspected that she was allocating the weekly provisions allowance somewhat differently from what I intended, i.e., in the increased purchase of alcoholic beverages for herself and the decreased procurement of just about everything else on the list.
As expected, the reporter Johnnies were having a field day with Colonel Mayhew’s death. The headlines were breathless and the prose ghoulish. Inspector Allen was quoted copiously, with frequent allusions to “solid leads” and “quick resolution to the
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