Dickerson looked at Rat Face, whose mouth hung open, a look of astonishment on his ferret-like features. No one spoke as Jimmy slowly got to his feet. Hands on his knees, he took a few more deep breaths hunched over, then straightened up slowly, painfully, like an old man. Stretching his spine to its full length, he took a step toward his opponent and extended a hand. Dickerson tensed as the two men clasped hands, fearing it was a trick.
But Jimmy’s aggression had drained away. Without a word, he fished a grimy handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Ian. It looked filthy, but Ian took it and wiped the blood dripping from his nose.
“How’d ye learn to fight like that?” Jimmy asked in a raspy voice.
“I did a bit of wrestling in school,” Hamilton replied, massaging his right forearm.
“More than a bit, I’d say,” Rat Face remarked.
“If I were you, I’d have someone check out your head injury,” Ian said to Jimmy. “It could be serious.”
“Don’ be daft, man,” Jimmy scoffed. “Ye think it’s the first time I’ve had a poundin’?”
Ian smiled. “I suppose not. Still—”
“Why’d ye wan’ tae fight? Because ye knew right enough ye were bound tae win?”
“I figured it was the best way to gain an introduction.”
The big man looked perplexed. “Why on airth would ye—”
“Well,” ventured Rat Face, “they’re coppers, obviously.”
Dickerson stared at him. “How did you—”
“You smell like coppers.”
“So, what d’ye wan’ from us?” asked Jimmy.
“You’re clearly the most feared man in that establishment,” said Hamilton, “and your friend here is the most intelligent.”
His flattery had the intended effect. Jimmy crossed his arms, a lopsided smile on his broad face.
Rat Face wasn’t so easily convinced. “Why not just talk to us?”
Hamilton smiled. “Come now, Mr. McNee.”
Rat Face frowned. “You know me?”
“You are, I believe, the most skilled pickpocket in Edinburgh.”
“Indeed.” His attempt to look innocent did not suit his features.
“So tell me,” said Hamilton. “Would you have answered my questions twenty minutes ago?”
“I suppose not,” said the pickpocket.
“I assume you would have told me to bugger off?”
“Correct.”
“What makes ye think we’ll talk to ye now?” said Jimmy, rubbing his neck, which was still red.
“Because I was willing to risk a thrashing to get what I want.”
“It’s aboot tha’ fella wha’ was killed a coupla days ago, innit?”
“Yes,” said Dickerson, clearing his throat officiously. “I am Sergeant William Dickerson of the Edinburgh City Police, and this is Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton. We’re investigating—”
“What’s in it for us?” asked Rat Face.
“For starters, I won’t arrest you or tell the gentleman in the green tweed cap that you picked his pocket,” said Hamilton. “Though I would appreciate it if you returned his wallet before leaving tonight.”
Rat Face blanched. “How did you . . . ?”
Hamilton smiled. “You have a ‘tell,’ which I won’t reveal to you, because I’d rather not make you more proficient at your vocation.”
Rat Face stared at him, then laughed. “By God, you are a clever copper! Go ahead—ask me whatever you want.”
“Were either of you at the Hound and Hare this past Friday?”
“That’s the night the fella wa’ killed?” Jimmy asked, scratching his head.
“D’you know anything about it?” said Dickerson.
“Wha’ if we do?” Jimmy said. “What’s it worth to ye?”
“It’s more a question of what it’s worth to you,” Hamilton replied. “Numbers running may be common in Edinburgh, but it’s still frowned upon, I’m afraid.”
“Give it up, Jimmy,” Rat Face said. “This fellow knows more about us than our own mothers, though I’ll be damned if I know how he got his information.”
Dickerson stared at Hamilton, confounded. He was as much in the dark as the other two.
“It’s not difficult to see that you gentlemen are partners in more than just bar fights,” Hamilton said. “So the question becomes where in the underworld is one most likely to find a need for both brains and brawn? Several answers occurred to me, including burglary, but Mr. McNee doesn’t have the look of a safecracker. A pickpocket is likely to be a cardsharp, and possibly a bookie. And every bookie needs someone to collect money from reluctant clients.”
Rat Face laughed again, showing a row of pointed gray teeth. “I declare, Detective Inspector—Hamilton, is it? I really must congratulate you. I do pride myself on a certain facility with a deck of cards, though I would never turn my skills to the service of crime.”
“Of course not,” Hamilton replied with a smile.
Rat Face extracted a toothpick from his pocket and planted it in the corner of his mouth, chewing on it delicately. “So, what can we do for you, gentlemen?”
Dickerson cleared his throat. “Were you acquainted with th’ late Robert Tierney?”
“Do you have a photograph of the fellow in question?” said Rat Face.
Dickerson frowned. “His picture was in the paper for two days.”
“Alas, I’m somewhat lax in my reading habits.”
“I know ’im,” Jimmy said. “Comes in of an evenin’, usually lookin’ fer trouble. Me and him ’ave had a go or two in the past. Fights dirty, likes to bite.”
“I see,” said Dickerson. “And last Friday . . . ?”
“I weren’t here.”
“Might I ask where you were?” said Hamilton.
Jimmy looked at his shoes. “Helpin’ me mum.”
Dickerson started to laugh, but the expression on Jimmy’s face cut him off short.
“It’s true, gentlemen,” Rat Face said. “Jimmy’s a good son to her—aren’t you, lad?”
“She’s me mum, ain’t she?” Jimmy mumbled, still staring down at his shoes, scuffed and caked with mud.
Dickerson turned to the pickpocket. “So were you at the Hound and Hare last Friday?”
“Sergeant,” he replied, pulling his collar up as a thin, cold rain began to fall again, “before continuing, do you suppose we could retire to the comfort of a corner booth and a pint of ale?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The atmosphere inside the Hound and Hare had heated up. Dickerson nearly choked on the cloud of tobacco smoke billowing out the door when he opened it. The air inside was worse. A thick blue haze lay over the room, the noise was deafening, and the floor was slick underfoot. The sawdust sprinkled on the boards wasn’t enough to soak up the puddles of spilled beer. Harsh laughter competed with drunken singing and the clatter of beer mugs as they pushed toward the back of the room. Dickerson rubbed his eyes, burning from the dense layer of smoke hanging like mist in the air. He looked at Hamilton to see if he, too, was suffering, but the detective appeared oblivious to the foul atmosphere.
They squeezed their way to a booth in the far corner. Sitting alone with a pint in front of him was a man who looked so out of place that Dickerson would have noticed him even if he hadn’t been waving at Detective Hamilton.
“You know him?” the sergeant asked, bewildered.
“I’m afraid so,” Hamilton said, frowning.