Execution Dock Page 0,80

and his pursuit of Phillips. It took them upstream and down both sides of the river, on docksides, and into warehouses, alleys, shops, taverns, doss-houses, and brothels.

On one occasion the search for information took Monk and Scuff into the Strangers' Home in Limehouse. It was a handsome and commodious building on the West India Dock Road.

"Cor!" Scuff said, deeply impressed by the entrance. He stared up and round at the sheer size of it, so utterly different from the narrow and squalid houses they had been in earlier where men slept a dozen to a room.

They were passed by an African seaman, his smooth, dark skin like a polished nut against his white shirt. Almost on his heels came a Malay in striped trousers and an old pea jacket, walking with a slight roll, as if still aboard ship.

Scuff stood transfixed. He heard a score of languages and dialects around him in the main room crowded with men of every shade of skin and cast of feature.

Monk yanked him by the hand to waken him from his daydream, and half-dragged him towards the man he was seeking, a seaman from Madras who had apparently given Durban information several times.

"Oh, yes, sir, yes," the seaman agreed when Monk put the question to him. "Certainly I spoke to Mr. Durban on several occasions. He was seeking to apprehend a very bad man, which is uncommonly difficult when the man is protected by the fact that he is using children who are too frightened of him to speak out."

"Why did he ask you?" Monk said without preamble.

The man raised his eyebrows. "There are certain men that I know, you see? Not from any choice, of course, but in a way of business. Mr. Durban thought I might be aware of earlier... how shall I express it? Weaknesses? Do you understand me, sir?"

Monk had neither time nor patience for obliqueness. "Patrons of Phillips's boat, and its entertainment?"

The man winced at Monk's bluntness.

"Exactly so. It seemed to me that he had the belief that certain of these men had great influence when it came to bringing the law into such matters, and quite naturally a strong desire that it remain a private affair."

"Among Phillips, these gentlemen, and the children they abused?" Monk said brutally.

"Quite so. I see that you understand entirely."

"And were you able to help him?"

The man shrugged. "I gave him names and instances, but I have no proof."

"What names?" Monk said urgently.

"Certain harbormasters, revenue men, the owner of a brothel, a merchant who is also a receiver, although very few know it. Another name he looked for was the master of a ship who came ashore and set up his own importing business. Friend of a revenue man, so Mr. Durban said."

"That sounds more like corruption of the revenue than anything to do with Phillips," Monk answered.

"Oh, it was about Phillips," the seaman insisted. "Mr. Durban almost had 'im, two or three times. Then the evidence just vanished away like mist when the sun comes up. You can see it happen, but you can never put your hand on it, do you see?" He shook his head. "Mr. Phillips's goods are not cheap to buy, at least not the ones he sells on his dirty little boat. The men who buy them have money, and power comes from money. That's why Mr. Phillips is very difficult to catch in the hangman's noose."

Monk asked more questions, and the man answered him, but when Monk rose to leave, closely followed by Scuff, he was not certain how much more he knew. All kinds of men were involved, and at least some of them had the power to protect Phillips from the River Police.

"Yer better be careful," Scuff said, his voice tight and a little high with anxiety. He had abandoned even trying to look as if he were not frightened. He kept pace with Monk now, putting in an extra little step every so often to make up for his shorter stride. "Them revenue men is summink wicked. Get them on yer tail an' yer might never get out o' trouble. Mebbe that's why Mr. Durban backed off, like?"

"Maybe," Monk agreed.

The day after that Scuff accompanied Orme, and Monk went alone to pursue the few friends or informants he had gained in the short time he had been on the river. He began with Smiler Hobbs, a dour north countryman whose lugubrious face had earned him his nickname.

"Wot are yer after now?" Smiler asked when