the same man," Monk said cautiously. "I don't know that it is. I don't know anything about him but his name, and only part of that. Where do I find him?"
"Thirteen Gun Lane, Limehouse." He hesitated. "If you get anything, Monk, will you tell me, as long as it isn't the actual murder? Is that what you're after?"
"No. No, I just want some information. If I find evidence of fraud I'll bring it back for you." He smiled bleakly. "You have my word."
The man's face eased into a smile. "Thank you."
***
Monk went early in the morning and was in Limehouse by nine o'clock. He would have been there sooner had there been any purpose. He had spent much of the time since he woke at six planning what he would say.
It was a long way from Grafton Street and he took a hansom eastward through Clerkenwell, Whitechapel and down towards the cramped and crowded docks and Limehouse. It was a still morning and the sun was gleaming on the river, making white sparkles on the water between the black barges coming up from the Pool of London. Across on the far side were Bermondsey-the Venice of the Drains-and Rotherhithe, and ahead of him the Surrey Docks, and along the shining Reach the Isle of Dogs, and on the far side Deptford and then the beautiful Greenwich with its green park and trees and the exquisite architecture of the naval college.
But his duty lay hi the squalid alleys of Limehouse with beggars, usurers and thieves of every degree-and Zebe-dee Marner.
Gun Lane was a byway off the West India Dock Road, and he found Number 13 without difficulty. He passed an evil-looking idler on the pavement and another lounging in the doorway, but neither troubled him, perhaps considering him unlikely to give to a beggar and too crisp of gait to be wise to rob. There was other, easier prey. He despised them, and understood them at the same time.
Good fortune was with him: Zebedee Marner was in, and after a discreet inquiry, the clerk showed Monk into the upper office.
"Good morning, Mr.-Monk." Marner sat behind a large, important desk, his white hair curled over his ears and his white hands spread on the leather-inlaid surface in front of him. "What can I do for you?"
"You come recommended as a man of many businesses, Mr. Marner," Monk started smoothly, gliding over the hatred in his voice. "With a knowledge of all kinds of things."
"And so I am, Mr. Monk, so I am. Have you money to invest?"
"What could you offer me?''
"All manner of things. How much money?" Marner was watching him narrowly, but it was well disguised as a casual cheerfulness.
"I am interested also in safety, rather than quick profit," Monk said, ignoring the question. "I wouldn't care to lose what I have."
"Of course not, who would?" Marner spread his hands wide and shrugged expressively, but his eyes were fixed and blinkless as a snake's. "You want your money invested safely?"
"Oh, quite definitely," Monk agreed. "And since I know of many other gentlemen who are also interested in investment, I should wish to be certain that any recommendation I made was secure."
Manner's eyes flickered, then the lids came down to hide his thoughts. "Excellent," he said calmly. "I quite understand, Mr. Monk. Have you considered importing and exporting? Very nourishing trade; never fails."
"So I've heard." Monk nodded. "But is it safe?"
"Some is, some isn't. It is the skill of people like me to know the difference." His eyes were wide again, his hands folded across his paunch. "That is why you came here, instead of investing it yourself.''
"Tobacco?"
Marner's face did not change in the slightest.
"An excellent commodity." He nodded. "Excellent. I cannot see gentlemen giving up their pleasures, whatever the economic turns of life. As long as there are gentlemen, there will be a market for tobacco. And unless our climate changes beyond our wit to imagine"-he grinned and his body rocked with silent mirth at his own humor-"we will be unable to grow it, so must need import it. Have you any special company in mind?"
"Are you familiar with the market?" Monk asked, swallowing hard to contain his loathing of this man sitting here like a fat white spider in his well-furnished office, safe in his gray web of lies and facades. Only the poor flies like Latterly got caught-a"d perhaps Joscelin Grey.
"Of course," Marner replied complacently. "I know it well."