The Dollar Prince's Wife by Paula Marshall Page A

muffler. He had rubbed ashes from a fire grate into his hair, and on to his hands and face. His dirty appearance was unremarkable and unremarked.
    He sat down next to the copper, said, cheerfully, ‘I’m Mr Horne, James Salmon’s pal. You’re…?’
    â€˜No one whose name you need know,’ said the copper. He was a plain-clothes man, and his face, too, was unremarkable. He was as hard and dour as everyone else in the snug. ‘What’ll you have?’
    â€˜Same as you,’ Cobie told him, and waited while it was fetched. He had dropped his cockney voice and spoke an undistinguished English.
    The whisky arrived; he drank some of it. The copper, who still hadn’t offered his name, watched him with a marked lack of interest. He said after Cobie had put his glass down, ‘What is it you want, chum?’
    â€˜Information.’ Cobie was in his brief business mode. ‘And help.’
    â€˜I don’t know whether I can offer you either.’
    â€˜If the cash was right…’ Cobie let his discreet murmur die away.
    â€˜Depends.’
    â€˜We’re talking in hundreds, perhaps thousands—all the way up to the top.’
    â€˜Pennies or pounds?’
    Cobie gave a snort of laughter. ‘Pounds, of course. The more information you give me, the more you do as I wish, the more you’ll get. Mark me, though, tricked I won’t be.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t dream of it. So…?’
    â€˜Children—and the traffic in them. Specifically at Madame Louise’s off the Haymarket. Who’s behind it, andwho is paying for protection. If they’re paying you, I’ll match their offer—then raise it.’
    If the man before him was surprised, he wasn’t showing it. ‘So, you want to muscle in on the game?’
    â€˜Oh, no,’ and Cobie’s voice was suddenly sweet, more like the one which society knew. ‘No, I want to break it, put those who run it where they belong—in a cell.’
    He had surprised the copper now, who said, ‘Listen to me, I don’t—and won’t—take their dirty money to help them run a dirty business, but I know those who do. Among them are powerful people—both those who offer and those who take. Who the devil are you to challenge them?’
    â€˜The devil,’ Cobie said. ‘I can’t pursue every foul swine who organises this trade, every house where it happens, but I want to break this one—spectacularly. To do so, I need your help. I don’t much care whether you have been on the take. Your guilt or innocence leaves me cold.’
    â€˜Then why worry? About the children, I mean.’
    â€˜Why should I tell you?’
    He saw the other man shrug, and said, ‘Right, I ran across them at their filthy game. I saved a ten-year-old girl from being violated by a man who in his public life has power, position—and respect. If I can close this one house, then I shall have done something, however small, to redress the balance a little in favour of the unfortunate, the illegitimate and the exploited. Satisfied?’
    â€˜Yes, Mr Horne. Which is, of course, not your name. What do you propose that we do?’
    â€˜I want you to tell me exactly how much money it would cost me to pay to have the house raided by the police whilst the filthy business is going on in the attics, so that the perpetrators of it are caught red-handed. In other words, I am prepared to pay as much as it takes. Afterwards, yourpeople can tell those whom they are selling down the river that the scandal had grown too great to be endured, and that an example had to be made. Above all, I want no one warned beforehand. You understand me.’
    â€˜You have no idea how much this would cost.’
    â€˜Oh, spare me. I have said that I will pay what it takes. Tell me what it might cost me, and then we’ll talk about whether I can, or can’t, afford it.’
    The copper