for one so corpulent, slipped out into the crowd of drinkers. He made directly for the pair who had just entered and were beginning to negotiate a passage through the throng of imbibers.
Dacers was still facing the bar and Tooley made urgent gestures to the two men, indicating that they should turn and head back to the door. In a tone just audible over the din of the singers, he warned: “Get out! Bloke at the bar’s snoopin’. Asked about you. Get out, quick.”
The pair turned, quickly strode to the door and exited with Tooley following. Out in the cold air, the man with the fair moustache asked in a slow drawl representative of the Southern American states: “Is he from over the pond?”
“No, an Englishman, dressed up in a fustian suit and black cap. Says he ain’t a crusher but I ain’t so sure. If he is one, he ain’t going to say so, is he? He’s got the style of a regular working cove but them detectives is smart at acting. You told me t,o warn you if anyone came asking about you, Mr. Fairfax.”
“Thanks, Josh. He’s fishy, all right. We ain’t expecting anyone to look in on us. We’ll make his acquaintance in due course. We’ll maybe give him a little persuading to mind his own business.”
“Don’t be too hasty, Cal,” cautioned the pugnacious man in the billycock in a drawl similar to his companion’s. “Maybe we should just blow out of here quietly. We could be laying up a heap of trouble for ourselves if he’s from the police.”
“That’s right. Watch what you’re about,” hissed Tooley in a sudden panic. “If he is a peeler and you croak him or injure him, I’ll have every crusher in London charging in on me!” He retreated back to the door and gave a last anxious warning before entering: “Remember, if you gives him a towelling, don’t do it anywhere near my gaff!”
Tooley slipped back into the rowdy depths of his drinking den where Septimus Dacers was still facing the bar, absorbing the sight of the assorted humanity crammed into the smoky confines of the Blue Duck.
There was a scattering of races and colours; men from the open sea and others whose variety of boats rode the Thames; a few soldiers in scarlet tunics and gin-sodden men in tatters from the lower depths of the city, mostly slumped over the tables. Dollymops in borrowed plumes belonging to their bawdy house mistresses sat on the knees of leering drunks or canoodled with them in corners. All not otherwise engaged roared a hoarse chorus of another popular song the sweating fiddler was grinding out, The Ratcatcher’s Daughter:
“Her pa caught rats
And she sold sprats
All round and about that quarter;
And all the gentlefolk thereabout
Loved the pretty little Ratcatcher’s daughter.”
Every Tom, Dick and Harry’s in the place except the one I’m looking for, thought Dacers, unaware that the man he sought and his companion had already entered the premises and been shooed away by Tooley. He reflected on how stupid he was to put faith in Setty Wilkins as in some sort of oracle. How on earth could Setty, living in Seven Dials as a near recluse, know anything of what went on down here near Hungerford Bridge? He concluded that probably Josiah Tooley told him the truth when he said the man Dacers sought was unknown in the Blue Duck, and it would be fruitless to stay there any longer.
He finished the fiery tasting grog, turned and pushed his way through the standing mass of drinkers, and headed for the door.
As he came out of the tavern there was a brief blossoming of lamplight from the door, which illuminated him. Two bulky black figures, crouching just out of the ambit of the light, stirred and there was a whispered sentence: “That’s him—fustian suit and black cap!”
Before Dacers realised that a couple of men were lurking close to the door, there was a sudden scuffle of boots and a pair of heavy bodies came lunging out of the shadows, barging into him and almost knocking him off his feet, sending his breath gusting out of him. The aggression of the man who called himself Fairfax had won out over the caution of the one in the billycock.
Dizzy with the notion that a veritable avalanche of human bodies had fallen on him, Dacers nevertheless perceived by the dim light that the larger of the two had a moustache, probably fair in colour. Fairfax! he thought as his senses reeled.
Two pairs of hands grabbed his clothing, and he was shoved backwards on his heels, with a force that caused the healing knife wound in his side to jab a sharp pain through his ribs. Within the Blue Duck, the drinkers began to bawl another music hall favourite, the rollicking Villikins and His Dinah, as an incongruous accompaniment to the violence being enacted outside.
Gasping and grimacing, Dacers was slammed against the wall of the pub and held there. One of his attackers gave off a strong odour of whisky mingled with tobacco, and, from the one whose dark silhouette was topped by the shape of a billycock hat, there was the distinct aroma of horses. While he tried desperately to regain his breath, his mind began to clear, and he remembered the coachman who drove away from the American Embassy. He had almost forgotten about him. So Roberta Van Trask and her father were indeed menaced by three adversaries: the man who called himself Fairfax, the mysterious one who might be a hunchback, and the fellow who was the bundled-up coachman the day Fairfax intruded on Theodore Van Trask.
Dacers managed to lift a knee and jab it into the midst of the dark, combined bulk of his assailants who were forcing him against the damp bricks of the wall.
He ground it into a groin, was rewarded with an anguished, snarling obscenity, and was then pushed against the wall even more forcefully.
Something round and hard was clapped against his temple. Fairfax’s Derringer! he thought.
“You goddam nosy Limey!” growled a voice almost in his ear. “What are you snoopin’ around for? Our business is none of your concern. I’ve a mighty notion to blow your interferin’ brains out.” There was something slightly crazed about the voice, as if the man was on the edge of hysteria. Then the weapon was pressed harder against Dacers’ temple. “By God, I will. I’ll blow a hole in your head and toss your corpse into the river,”
“Go easy, Cal,” cautioned the second man. “Don’t go off your head again. If you shoot and he’s a copper, all hell will be let loose. All our plans could be jimmied.”
“What the hell do we care? Tomorrow, we’ll be in Cardsworth, seein’ this Vaillant lord or knight or whatever damn fool Limey title he has. You know what they say about the Thames, Sometimes bodies are never found and, anyway, we’ll be well clear of London in a couple of weeks.”
“Hush up! You’re blabbin’ too much,” said his companion firmly. “You know damned well Fortune warned you against that time and again.”
When Fairfax spoke of firing, Dacers had almost automatically stopped struggling, frozen under the ominous threat of the firearm clapped against his temple. He began again to wriggle and shove against the combined weight of his assailants, taking advantage of what appeared to be divided opinion between the two, which was staying Fairfax’s trigger finger. He noticed that the marked edge of hysteria in Fairfax’s voice had intensified and he memorised the names he had mentioned: somewhere called Cardsworth, someone with a title named Vaillant, and someone called Fortune.
“Quit squirming, goddam you!” exploded Fairfax. “Quit squirming while I put a bullet into your brain.”
“No, Cal!” objected the other. “I keep telling you: shoot him and, if he’s a copper, it’ll raise holy hell and Fortune will pull the guts out of you if our operation is ruined!”
Even in the midst of the physical struggle and with the swirling turmoil of his senses, Dacers felt there was something different about this man. Seeming to be as much a ruffian as his companion, he nevertheless gave the impression of having to constantly impart some common sense into Fairfax, as if he was frightened of his companion going too far in his strongarm actions.
The pressure of the pistol was lifted from Dacers’ head and Fairfax said: “All right, we’ve been hanging around here for too long,