Free William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide by Anne Perry Page B

steal and what do they do with them?”
    Scuff’s eyes opened wide. “What der you care? Yer in’t never goin’ ter even see none of ’em, if yer’ve any sense. Don’t yer go lookin’ into fings like that. Yer in’t got the wits fer it, nor the stomach neither. Yer stick ter wot yer can do—wotever that is.” He looked distinctly dubious that that was anything at all.
    Monk bit back the reply that rose to his lips. It irritated him surprisingly deeply that this child’s opinion of him was so low. It took an effort not to justify himself. But he did need this information. The theft from the
Maude Idris
looked like exactly the sort of thing such men would do.
    “I’m just curious,” he replied. “And yes, I mean to avoid them.”
    “Then keep yer eyes shut—an’ yer mouf—all night,” Scuff retorted. “Come ter that, yer’d better keep yer mouf shut most o’ the day, an’ all.”
    “So what do they take?” Monk persisted.
    “Anyfink wot they can, o’ course!” Scuff snapped. “Why wouldn’t they? Take yer ’ole bleedin’ ship, if yer sloppy enough ter let ’em.”
    “And what do they do with what they take?” Monk refused to be deterred. This was no time for delicate feelings.
    “Sell it, o’ course.” Scuff looked at him narrowly to see if he could really be as stupid as he appeared.
    “To whom?” Monk asked, keeping his temper with difficulty. “Here on the river, or in the city? Or on another ship?”
    Scuff rolled his eyes. “Ter receivers,” he replied. “Dependin’ on wot it is. If it’s good stuff, ter the op’lent geezers; if it’s poor, ter the cov’tous. They pick up the other bits. Or the Rev’nue men, o’ course. But they more often take just a cut. In’t easy ter sell stuff, ’less yer got the know-’ow, or the connections.” He shook his head. “Yer in’t never gonna last ’ere, mister. Leavin’ yer ’ere is like puttin’ a babe out by ’isself.”
    “I’ve done all right so far!” Monk defended himself.
    “Yeah?” Scuff said with heavy disbelief. “An’ ’ow long is that, then? I know everyone ’round ’ere, an’ I in’t never seen yer afore. Where yer gonna sleep, eh? Yer thought o’ that, then? If it rains, an’ then freezes, which it will sooner or later, them as in’t inside somewhere is gonna wake up dead!”
    “I’ve got a few contacts,” Monk invented rashly. “Maybe I’ll go into receiving. I know good stuff from bad—spice, ivory, silk, and so on.”
    Now Scuff was really alarmed. “Don’t be so bleedin’ daft!” he said, his voice going up into a squeak. “D’yer think it’s a free-for-all or summink? Yer go inter the cov’tous stuff an’ the Fat Man’ll ’ave yer feet fer door stoppers. An’ if yer try the op’lent stuff Mr. Weskit’ll fix yer fer the rest o’ yer life. Yer’ll wake up wi’ a splittin’ ’ead in the ’old o’ some ship bound for the fever jungles o’ Panama, or someplace, an’ nobody’ll never see yer again! Yer wanna go back ter thievin’ wi’ bits o’ paper, or wotever it is yer done afore. You in’t safe ’ere!”
    “I’ve managed so far!” Monk retaliated at last. He was angry with himself that he should care what this child thought, but he had had enough of being considered a fool. “Meet me here tomorrow. I’ll bring you a damned good lunch!” It was a challenge. “A whole hot pie for yourself. And tea and cake with fruit in it.”
    Scuff shook his head disbelievingly. “Yer daft,” he said with regret. “Don’t yer go an’ get caught. It in’t no better in jail than it is ’ere, rainin’ or not.”
    “How do you know?” Monk challenged.
    “ ’Cos I keep me ears open an’ me mouf shut!” Scuff retorted. “Now I got work ter do, if you ain’t! Those lumpers put coal out. It in’t gonna sit there all bleedin’ day. I gotter go fish it up.” And he rose to his feet swiftly, looked once more at Monk and shook his head, then disappeared so rapidly