“What makes you say that?” Crawford asked Ian, ignoring the Frenchman.
“It shows a level of premeditation. He arrived prepared, and carried off his plan without being seen. He is not a man who makes mistakes.”
“Mais he makes the mistakes sooner or later,” Gerard said. “The trick is to catch him at it.”
“Easier said than done,” Crawford grunted, sitting heavily behind his desk.
“But why wait until now to kill her?” Gerard asked.
“He must not have realized she was a threat earlier.”
“What do you think she was going to tell you?”
“I’m afraid we’ll never know.”
Crawford pointed to a bulletin board containing pictures of all the victims, in the order they were found. Beneath them were the cards found upon each body. “What do you make of these playing cards—what do they signify?”
“They are quite the rage in Paris,” said Gerard. “It’s the danse macabre—the dance of death.”
“So he might have brought them over with him,” said Crawford.
“Perhaps the cards are a clue to his profession,” Ian suggested.
“He is taunting us,” Gerard remarked.
“That much is clear,” Crawford replied, “but beyond that, what do they tell us about his identity?”
Gerard cocked his head to one side. “He seems to be trying for—what do you call it in poker . . . la quinte flush—a straight flush?”
“You’re right,” said Ian. “And if you include the two Paris killings, that makes five total, so—”
“His hand is complete,” said Crawford.
“Oui,” Gerard agreed. “Which leaves the question, what will be his next hand?”
“That depends upon what cards he still holds,” Ian remarked.
As he gazed at the late-morning sunlight slanting in through the high window, it occurred to him that they didn’t hold much of a hand at all.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Derek McNair paced restlessly in front of the intersection of Candlemaker Row and George IV Bridge. Freddie Cubbins was late again. Derek had just about had his fill of waiting for his friend, who never seemed to arrive on time. It was market day, and they planned to join the milling crowds on the Grassmarket, pretending to mingle while looking for pockets to pick. Saturday was their most lucrative day of the week—folks were so busy haggling, they failed to notice their wallet was no longer in their coat pocket until Derek and Freddie had vanished into the crowd.
Being small and slight, Derek seldom attracted attention. Assuming he was younger than he was, people didn’t see the threat until it was too late. His slim, delicate hands were like quicksilver; he could lift a purse from a lady’s handbag and slip away through the crowd before anyone was aware of his presence. Freddie was not as skillful, and being larger, was more likely to draw suspicious glances or catch a policeman’s eye. Derek didn’t need Freddie to have a profitable day, but the two had been mates ever since Freddie defended the smaller boy from attacks by bullies, and Derek prided himself on his loyalty.
Still, he thought as he paced the same blocks for the tenth time, there was a limit to his patience. Just as he was about to give up, he saw Freddie. Hatless and out of breath, he was dashing down the street as if being chased by demons.
“Sorry I’m late! Almost got nicked by a copper fer stealin’ fruit and ’ad to lie low until he gave up the chase.” He stood panting and sweating, his big, friendly face anxious for approval. His big-boned hands protruded from a tweed wool jacket several sizes too small for him; his trouser cuffs hung a good five inches from the ground. While Derek hardly seemed to grow from year to year, Freddie had shot up like a blond beanpole sprouted from magic seeds.
“I ’most gave up on ye,” Derek said, starting down the stone stairs leading to the Grassmarket.
“Oiy—wait up!” Freddie cried, a lock of sandy hair falling over one eye as he scrambled after his friend in his awkward gait, ungainly as a young colt.
“We’ll have t’make up fer wasted time,” Derek called over his shoulder as he darted nimbly around a plump dowager struggling down the stairs, encumbered by an enormous shopping basket on her fat arm.
“Where we gonnae start?”
“We’ll dig in’t the crowd around the livestock pens.”
Local Midlothian farmers came to town on Saturdays with livestock, homemade jams and jellies, and everything in between. The wide avenue was packed with slaughterhouse men and butchers, as well as housekeepers looking to stock their pantries. The square was lined with all manner of stores—grocers, victual dealers, clothing and candy shops, all doing a brisk trade on market day. The coffee shops were packed with drovers rubbing shoulders with servants of society ladies looking to stock their pantries.
Like most Scots, Edinburgh residents were a thrifty lot, but once seized by the desire to spend, their frenzy could last all day. The one common element was cash, and plenty of it—which was where Derek and Freddie came in, their aim being to relieve their fellow citizens of as much of the cumbersome stuff as possible.
“Look sharp,” Derek cautioned as the boys swung round the corner onto the broad avenue, already filling with merchants and shoppers. The air rang with the high, plaintive bleating of sheep and goats, and the throaty rumble of cattle, as animals’ earthy odor floated into the city’s already fetid air. Looming above them, Edinburgh Castle perched like a brooding hen upon its stone nest, guarding the entrance to the city as it had for centuries.
Derek glanced around for any sign of their competition. Pickpockets of all stripes were drawn here on market day. The best plied their trade with ease, while the less skillful drew the attention of the police and created warier victims. Across the street he spied Terry McNee, alias Rat Face, loitering in the shadows and sizing up potential marks. McNee was so skillful at his trade that he even commanded the respect of the local constabulary. They had yet to nab him in the act, though he was once imprisoned on the testimony of a pawnshop owner he had commissioned to “reset”—fence—a gold watch.
“See anyone?” Freddie said, following Derek’s gaze around the assembled crowd. Sometimes he seemed to have no will of his own, mimicking everything Derek did.
“Rat Face is here already. I don’t s’pose he’ll cause us any concern.”
“What about that mate of ’is—Jimmy Snead?” Freddie asked nervously. He had good reason to be frightened of the big man, who had once spied the boys encroaching upon what he regarded as his friend’s territory. His attempt to scare the boys off succeeded. Derek could still feel the great beast’s fingers around his throat, and Freddie had been so terrified, he’d wet himself.
“No sign of Snead anywheres,” Derek replied. “Let’s get ta work afore the amateurs show up an’ spoil it fer us.”