“Oiy!” the bartender shouted, having reached the brawlers. “I said take it outside, or I’ll call the police!”
Hamilton rose unsteadily to his feet, blood trickling down his face from a new cut on his forehead. “I am the police.” He fished a badge out of his shirt pocket and waved it at the barkeep. “Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police. I’m arresting this man for creating a public nuisa—”
He turned to where his opponent had been moments ago—just in time to hear the pub’s back door slam.
“The bugger got away!” cried one of the other patrons.
“Slipped oot th’ back,” another said.
“For sure ’e’s gone now,” declared another. “Ye’ll never find ’im on a night like this.”
Hamilton’s face was hard as stone as he handed the bartender a card. “If he shows his face here again, or if you hear a whisper of him causing trouble any time of night or day, call me.”
The barkeep pocketed the card and pointed to the broken glass littering the floor. “Who’s gonnae pay fer this?”
Without a word, Hamilton tossed a handful of coins on the nearest table, then turned and headed back toward the corner booth. Dickerson watched the crowd part for him. They had gone quiet, though the sergeant couldn’t tell whether it was because Hamilton was a policeman or because of his quiet anger.
“Much obliged,” Rat Face called after him, but Hamilton didn’t turn around.
When he reached the table, he handed another card to Jimmy Snead. “I may wish to talk to you again. Where can you be reached?”
The big man looked at him with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. “Ye can find me ’ere mos’ nights. Ask anybody here—they’ll tell ye.”
Hamilton grabbed his coat from the back of the chair where he had left it, his face still grim.
“I say, aren’t you going to stay awhile?” George Pearson asked, twitching uncomfortably.
“No,” the detective replied. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Without another word, he ducked through the same back exit Tony had used for his escape. Sergeant Dickerson hastily gulped down his beer before scrambling after him.
As he left the pub, a woman with painted cheeks and a slash of vermillion on her lips sauntered up to Dickerson, attaching herself to him like a river leech. Wrapping her arm around his, she pulled herself close to his ear.
“Would ye like a bit o’ fun tonight, ducky?” She was not young, and her breath smelled of cheap whisky and lye soap. “I like little fellows,” she purred, her hand sliding down his torso. “Bet you’re big where it counts.” He pulled away, but her hands found his, her jagged nails digging into his flesh. “Promise I won’t tell yer wife.”
Hamilton, several steps ahead of them, turned around. “Not tonight, Sally.”
She let go of Dickerson abruptly. “Sorry, Detective—didn’t see you there.” She laughed. “I nearly frightened yer wee boyo here senseless. You’d better get him hame tae bed so he kin get t’school tomorrow.”
“Very amusing,” Dickerson muttered. He almost remarked that she was old enough to be his mother, but it was unmanly to insult a woman, even one like her.
“It’s too cold a night for you to be out, Sally,” said Hamilton. “Why don’t you go home?”
Sally snickered. “Right. I’ll just tell me maid to light the fire an’ fix me a nice rum toddy, eh?”
Hamilton pressed some coins into her hand. “Don’t spend it on whisky. For God’s sake, find a place to sleep.”
“Thanks, Boss,” she said. With a leering glance at Dickerson, she turned and melted into the darkness.
The night wrapped itself around the city in a comfortless embrace, starless and black as pitch. Dickerson hurried after Hamilton, jogging and quick-stepping to keep up with his long strides. After a few blocks he worked up the courage to speak.
“Excuse me, sir, but wha’ happened back at pub?”
Hamilton kept walking.
They continued on for a while, their breath coming in thin wisps in the crisp air. The temperature had dropped, and rainwater had crystallized in frozen puddles, patches of slick ice between the cobblestones. The buildings of Old Town loomed above them, seeming to lean in as the streets twisted and wound around one another. Most of the windows were dark, though the occasional gas lamp still flickered behind curtains.
As they neared the Lawnmarket, Dickerson tried again. “Who were tha’ chap, sir?”
“Someone who should be swinging at the other end of a rope.”
Dickerson felt as though a spoon had scooped out his stomach. “Beg pardon, sir?”
Hamilton stopped walking. “He’s a known arsonist, Sergeant, too clever by half to get caught red-handed—at least so far.”
Dickerson cleared his throat. “D’ye think—I mean, were he the one who—”
“No, he was behind bars when the fire killed my parents. I just hate all arsonists.”
“Sir?”
“Let’s leave it at that, shall we? It’s late and I’m tired.”
“Will ye be all right, sir?” Dickerson said, pointing to the thin river of dried blood on Hamilton’s face.
“It’s nothing. Good night, Sergeant.”
“G’night, sir.”
He watched Hamilton’s long form lope toward Victoria Terrace before he headed in the direction of his own flat, blowing on his hands to keep them warm as a wicked wind whipped between the buildings of the Old Town. The sergeant turned around for one last glimpse of the detective, but he had already disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Henry Standish Wright stood before the hotel bedroom mirror late Monday night, gazing at his own reflection. The face looking back at him was handsome, well featured, the olive skin smooth, with a noble brow and full, curved lips. It was a face that made women swoon and men burn with envy. Along with his elegant, tapered figure and measured, mellifluous voice, it made him nearly irresistible.
But anyone looking at him more closely could see that his eyes were vacant. Large and liquid, ringed with dark lashes, they should have been the eyes of a lover or an artist, as captivating as the rest of his flawless figure. Onstage they glimmered in the glare of the footlights, as brilliant and shiny as the dreams of his admirers. But like his act, it was only a charade, a hoax to trick the na?ve spectator. In reality, his eyes were as empty and blank as those staring out of the sockets of the dead fish stacked in rows of baskets in the Lawnmarket.
Henry Wright, alias Monsieur Le Coq, turned away with disgust from the sight of his own face just as a short, sharp rap sounded at the parlor door. With a weary sigh, he crossed into the next room and opened the door to admit the man who smiled at him with taunting familiarity. His visitor sauntered into the room, settled himself upon the French Empire love seat, and crossed his legs, displaying muddy, scuffed boots. His frayed shirt collar was open, his hair was uncombed, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Henry glared at him and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”