“Have you any more knowledge of the jewelry theft, such as when exactly it’s to happen?”
Brian shook his head. “Not yet. I’m not sure they’ve decided on th’exact date.”
“Do you know which gang is to pull it off?”
“That’s the funny thing, see.”
“What is?”
“From what I’ve haerd, they might be in on it t’gether.”
Ian’s face darkened. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Bad enough ye’ve got t’keep tabs on what each of ’em are up to. If they’ve banded together, it’s twice as worse, right?”
“Yes,” Ian said, though what he was thinking was that his friend’s remark didn’t begin to describe the chaos in store for the citizenry of Edinburgh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was a little past five when Ian arrived at the Hound and Hare. The crowd was just beginning to work itself into the usual Friday night frenzy, as dockworkers mixed with drovers, draymen, and drunkards. Of all the working-class pubs in Edinburgh, the Hound and Hare was the most volatile, and the most unpredictable. Under the influence of alcohol, fast friendships and fistfights sprang up like mushrooms after a spring rain. It was hard to tell what would set a man off—one night he might overlook crude remarks about his sister, only to pound his best mate the next over an offhand comment about his dog. It all depended on how the drink hit him, and how much of it he had.
Into this rough and raucous melee Ian stepped, wary and prepared for anything. The air reeked of cheap tobacco and cheaper whisky, sweat and desperation, aggression and despair. If you weren’t ready for a brawl, you didn’t drop into the Hound and Hare on a Friday. It was a fighting man’s pub, and the barkeeps looked as if they were born of gorillas crossbred with rhinos. Tonight was no exception. Big, beefy, and bullet-headed, the giant behind the bar sported a perfectly bald pate, so shiny it looked as if it had been waxed, and a single gold earring in his left ear. From the tattoos of an anchor on one forearm and a mermaid on the other, Ian surmised he was a seagoing man. Sailors often made good barkeeps, skilled at dealing with drunkards.
Ian ordered a pint of ale, then slipped past a table of dockers engaged in a loud game of rummy. He spied Rat Face sitting at a table in the far corner, sipping nervously from a glass. When he saw Ian, his thin face twitched, and his liver-colored lips spread into what he probably fancied was a smile, but was more like a grimace.
Ian crossed the room in a few strides and slid into a chair opposite him.
Rat Face leaned back and studied the detective. “I wasn’t sure you would show.”
“Nor I you, and yet here we are,” Ian said, taking a long swig of ale.
Rat Face did likewise, wiping his mouth delicately with a monogrammed handkerchief. “I thought this an appropriate meeting place, since this is where we first met. And to think at the time I had no idea how our friendship would blossom.”
Ian ignored the remark, thinking that Terrance McNee would be behind bars if he hadn’t proved himself so useful to the police. McNee knew this and was just rubbing it in.
“What is that?” Ian asked, pointing to his glass, which smelled of orange peel and ginger.
“Ah, this?” he replied, his face resuming the rather grotesque imitation of a smile. “It’s purl—old-fashioned, I know, but I grew fond of it some years back when a lady friend introduced me to it.”
Ian tried to imagine Terrance McNee, a.k.a. Rat Face, with a woman, but gave it up as a bad job. He knew purl was a concoction of gin, ale, sugar, and spices that was popular during Dickens’ time, but had never seen anyone drink it.
“Where are we meeting this Crippen fellow?” he asked, looking around. He knew a fair number of the men in the room, several with criminal records, but the name Nate Crippen had been new to him when McNee first uttered it.
“First we have a small business matter to attend to,” Rat Face replied, licking his lips.
“How much?”
“Would you be able to swing say, half a crown?”
Ian fished a coin from his pocket, wondering why McNee wasn’t asking for more.
“Many thanks,” his companion said, gazing at the coin fondly. “Would you like to see a trick?”
“I don’t—”
“Our assignation won’t occur for a few minutes yet.”
“Very well, go ahead.”
“I—oh, wait, you have something behind your ear,” Rat Face said. His right hand shot out and plucked an object from the side of Ian’s head—a half crown piece. “I think you forgot this—hang on, there’s another,” he said, moving his other hand around to behind Ian’s left ear. “Ah,” he said, pulling forth another half crown, “they look better together, don’t you think?”
“You are very gifted at sleight of hand, Mr. McNee. I only hope you are as good at producing people out of thin air.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” said his companion, downing the last of his drink.
Ian gulped down the remainder of his pint and followed him back through the crowded pub. The sound level had increased by half, and smoke swirled in thick waves all around them.
“Oiy, Detective!” a voice bellowed from across the room.
Ian turned to see a familiar face.
“Why, hello, Jimmy!” he said, as two muscular arms enveloped him in a crushing hug. Once he was released, he looked up into the smiling face of Jimmy Snead, thief, street fighter, rogue, and Ian’s most loyal follower.
“Fancy seein’ you here,” the big man said. “Hain’t seen ye fer ages!”
“What have you been up to, Jimmy? Keeping your hands clean?”
Snead grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Th’only thaing these hands hae done in th’past eight months is good, honest labor. Workin’ the docks now—ain’t I?” he said, with a nod at Rat Face.
“Yes, indeed.” The small man chuckled nervously. “Quite a reformed character these days, heh heh.”
The two of them had sustained a formidable crime partnership in the past, stealing and fencing stolen goods, and Ian doubted that Jimmy was as reformed as all that, but kept his thoughts to himself.
“Lemme buy ye a wee dram,” Jimmy declared, starting toward the bar.
“First I’ve some business to attend to,” Ian said. “But maybe later?”
“A course, whatever ye say,” Snead replied, sounding disappointed. “Police work, is it?”
“In a way,” said Ian.
“Well, let me nae stop ye—get on wi’ye,” Jimmy said, giving Ian a slap on the back that nearly winded him.
“See you later,” said Ian, following Rat Face from the pub.
A blast of wintry air hit them as they emerged into the night, making Ian’s eyes water. Flicking away the tears, he followed McNee through the wynd along the side of the pub. The last time he had walked this alley was to fight Jimmy Snead, at their first meeting, earning his affection by—just barely—besting him.
“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” said Rat Face, as though reading his mind. “I have to say, my money was on Snead. To hear him talk, you’re the only person to beat him in a fair fight. He never stops talking about the police detective who gave him a good thrashing.”