can make less deference to individual tastes in such circumstances. But if you care to tell me what coloring, what figure, you prefer, we will endeavor to accommodate you.”
Yes, Max had had more than talent. He had had genius!
“Excellent,” Pitt answered easily. “I like auburn coloring”—automatically he pictured Charlotte—“or, next to that, dark. And I do not care for fat women, nor yet too thin. Don’t give me someone whose bones I can feel!”
“Quite, sir,” the man said again, bowing. “An excellent taste, if I may say so.” He could have been a butler commenting upon a choice of wine for the table. “If you will return in three days’ time, we will provide you with something that will be to your satisfaction. Our financial settlement will be fifty guineas—payable in advance—upon your meeting the lady and believing her acceptable, of course.”
“Naturally,” Pitt replied. “I must say, my friend was correct. You would appear to be by far the most superior establishment in the area.”
“We have no rival, sir,” the man said simply. “Those like Mr. Mercutt, who imagine they can imitate us, are quite inferior—as perhaps you have already heard.”
“Mercutt?” Pitt repeated, frowning a little. “I don’t think I have heard the name?” He let his voice rise, inviting explanation.
“Ambrose Mercutt,” The man’s eyebrows lifted fractionally in disdain. “A most indifferent person, I assure you, sir, but with pretensions.” A duchess might have spoken of a social climber with just such a tone of weary condescension.
Pitt had the name he wanted. He had accomplished all he could here. The local station would know where to find Mr. Mercutt.
“No.” He shook his head. “I cannot think that anyone has mentioned his name to me. He cannot be of any account.” Better to leave the man flattered and secure. Comfortable people betray far more than those who are suspicious.
The man smiled with satisfaction. “Quite, sir—of no account at all. If you care to return at about this time in the afternoon, in three days’ time?”
Pitt inclined his head in agreement and took his leave, equally satisfied.
Inspector Parkins received Pitt with a look of expectant pleasure. The case of Max Burton had been handed over and Parkins was delighted to be rid of it. There were already more than enough unsolved crimes within his responsibility, and this particular one promised little joy.
“Ah! Mr. Pitt, come in. Wretched day. What can I do for you?”
Pitt took off his coat and the appalling hat, then ran his fingers through his hair, making it look as if he had had a bad fright. He sat down in the chair opposite Parkins.
“Ambrose Mercutt?” he asked.
Parkins’ face relaxed into a dry smile. “Ambrose Mercutt,” he repeated. “An elegant pimp with ambitions. You think he might have murdered Max out of a business rivalry?”
“Max was taking his trade.”
Parkins shrugged and raised his eyes. “Do you know how many brothels there are in this area?” It was a rhetorical question.
Pitt took it literally. “About eighty-five thousand prostitutes in London,” he answered.
Parkins put his hands up to his face. “Oh, God—is it that many? I look at them sometimes and wonder how they came to it. Stupid, isn’t it? But there are a couple of thousand at least, here on my patch. We can’t clean them out—and what good would it do anyway? They’d only start up somewhere else. We don’t call it the oldest profession for nothing. And a lot of the patrons are men with money—and power. I dare say you know that as well as I do. A police inspector who made things embarrassing for them would have a good deal more courage than sense.”
Pitt knew it was all ugly and painfully true. “So you didn’t take a lot of interest in Max—or Ambrose Mercutt?”
Parkins pulled a face. “We can’t do everything. Better to concentrate on crimes where there are obvious victims and we can
Yes, Max had had more than talent. He had had genius!
“Excellent,” Pitt answered easily. “I like auburn coloring”—automatically he pictured Charlotte—“or, next to that, dark. And I do not care for fat women, nor yet too thin. Don’t give me someone whose bones I can feel!”
“Quite, sir,” the man said again, bowing. “An excellent taste, if I may say so.” He could have been a butler commenting upon a choice of wine for the table. “If you will return in three days’ time, we will provide you with something that will be to your satisfaction. Our financial settlement will be fifty guineas—payable in advance—upon your meeting the lady and believing her acceptable, of course.”
“Naturally,” Pitt replied. “I must say, my friend was correct. You would appear to be by far the most superior establishment in the area.”
“We have no rival, sir,” the man said simply. “Those like Mr. Mercutt, who imagine they can imitate us, are quite inferior—as perhaps you have already heard.”
“Mercutt?” Pitt repeated, frowning a little. “I don’t think I have heard the name?” He let his voice rise, inviting explanation.
“Ambrose Mercutt,” The man’s eyebrows lifted fractionally in disdain. “A most indifferent person, I assure you, sir, but with pretensions.” A duchess might have spoken of a social climber with just such a tone of weary condescension.
Pitt had the name he wanted. He had accomplished all he could here. The local station would know where to find Mr. Mercutt.
“No.” He shook his head. “I cannot think that anyone has mentioned his name to me. He cannot be of any account.” Better to leave the man flattered and secure. Comfortable people betray far more than those who are suspicious.
The man smiled with satisfaction. “Quite, sir—of no account at all. If you care to return at about this time in the afternoon, in three days’ time?”
Pitt inclined his head in agreement and took his leave, equally satisfied.
Inspector Parkins received Pitt with a look of expectant pleasure. The case of Max Burton had been handed over and Parkins was delighted to be rid of it. There were already more than enough unsolved crimes within his responsibility, and this particular one promised little joy.
“Ah! Mr. Pitt, come in. Wretched day. What can I do for you?”
Pitt took off his coat and the appalling hat, then ran his fingers through his hair, making it look as if he had had a bad fright. He sat down in the chair opposite Parkins.
“Ambrose Mercutt?” he asked.
Parkins’ face relaxed into a dry smile. “Ambrose Mercutt,” he repeated. “An elegant pimp with ambitions. You think he might have murdered Max out of a business rivalry?”
“Max was taking his trade.”
Parkins shrugged and raised his eyes. “Do you know how many brothels there are in this area?” It was a rhetorical question.
Pitt took it literally. “About eighty-five thousand prostitutes in London,” he answered.
Parkins put his hands up to his face. “Oh, God—is it that many? I look at them sometimes and wonder how they came to it. Stupid, isn’t it? But there are a couple of thousand at least, here on my patch. We can’t clean them out—and what good would it do anyway? They’d only start up somewhere else. We don’t call it the oldest profession for nothing. And a lot of the patrons are men with money—and power. I dare say you know that as well as I do. A police inspector who made things embarrassing for them would have a good deal more courage than sense.”
Pitt knew it was all ugly and painfully true. “So you didn’t take a lot of interest in Max—or Ambrose Mercutt?”
Parkins pulled a face. “We can’t do everything. Better to concentrate on crimes where there are obvious victims and we can
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