“Are you quite well, sir?” said Ian as the scent of aromatic herbs wafted through the room.
“Quite well, thank you.”
“What is the poul—”
Crawford twisted a bit of string round his fingers and sighed. “If you must know, I have a case of piles.”
“That sounds painful.”
“Never mind—just see that you catch your man, eh? Go on, then—get all this sorted.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ian, and left the office before Crawford changed his mind.
As he headed for his desk, Ian heard voices coming from the tea station. He turned to see Sergeant Dickerson laughing at something Constable Turnbull had just said. When the sergeant saw Hamilton, he blushed violently, looking confused, but Turnbull laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Dickerson started to laugh, then stopped himself. He said something to the constable, then broke away and walked toward Ian.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” said Ian as Dickerson sat at the desk across from his own.
“Mornin’, sir,” he mumbled, burying his face in paperwork.
An awkward silence ensued, punctuated by the rustle of papers and the steady tick of the wall clock above them.
Resisting the urge to ask what Turnbull had told Dickerson, Ian leaned back in his chair and stretched. “I thought we would go by Gullan’s Close and have a chat with Mr. James McAllister.”
“The resetter? Wha’ d’ye want from him, sir?”
“I’d like to get a confirmation on what my source told me regarding the upcoming robbery.”
“Ye think he’d be likely t’know?”
“I think that as a well-known fencer of stolen goods, he would be on the alert for something like that.”
“I’ll get my coat, sir.”
Ian watched as Dickerson fetched his greatcoat from the rack, carefully avoiding eye contact with Constable Turnbull, who sneered at Ian, as if to say, “I have your man in my pocket.”
“Not if I can help it,” Ian muttered. Throwing on his cloak, he followed Sergeant Dickerson out of the station house.
The bright skies of the past few days had disintegrated into a thick, wet drizzle that veered uneasily between rain and snow; even the weather couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to do. Dickerson pulled his collar close and stared up at the sky as if the precipitation was a personal punishment meant for him alone. To put him out of his misery, Ian hailed a cab.
By the time they arrived at Gullan’s Close, snow had gained the upper hand, and a thin layer of white settled over the cobblestones, muffling the sounds of people and traffic, softening the sharp edges of a city that seemed at times to be all scrapes and bruises. Gullan’s Close was damp and dingy, and the screech of an alley cat was followed by the sound of scuttling in a nearby trash bin. Ian did not care to think what the cat was chasing, nor did he want to ponder the fate of the animal after its capture.
They descended the narrow stairs to the basement entryway. The same cracked wooden sign hung by a single nail over the door, but an attempt had been made at sprucing up the lettering.
J. R. MCALLISTER, PAWNBROKER
The door was bolted from the inside, and when Ian knocked, they heard sounds very much like the ruckus in the trash bin. Footsteps were punctuated with rattling, crashing, and cursing, as if someone was moving clumsily through a forest of objects. Finally the door opened to reveal the visage of James R. McAllister, pawnshop owner and fencer of stolen goods. A short, powerfully built man, he looked somewhat the worse for wear than the last time Ian had seen him. His face was scratched and bruised, and his small blue eyes were bloodshot. A discolored ring beneath one eye suggested the application of a fist. He sighed when he saw the policemen.
“You, is it? Ach, it’s nae my week. I s’pose ye better come in.”
“Good morning, Mr. McAllister,” Ian said as they followed him into the cluttered interior of the shop. Objects seemed to sprout from the floor, covering every spare inch of space in the cramped room. A carousel pony with one ear missing leaned against a rusting radiator; a chipped credenza was covered in a motley assortment of bric-a-brac, from dusty wooden spoons to tarnished hatpins. A dressmaker’s mannequin was draped with an array of faded scarves and torn petticoats, next to which sat a black Scottish terrier. The dog gazed at them with bright little eyes, wagging its stub of a tail furiously.
“I see you’ve acquired a dog since we were last here,” Ian remarked. “What happened to your cat?”
“Deid.”
“So you got a dog instead.”
“Aye—helps keep away rats.”
“The animal or human variety?”
McAllister grinned, showing teeth the color of tar. “Both.”
“It looks like you’ve been in a bit of a scuffle.”
The resetter dabbed at a chipped glass vase with a dirty dustcloth. “Don’ know wha’ ye mean.”
“Someone is responsible for the injuries to your face.”
“I tripped.”
“Was that what caused your face to come in contact with a fist?”
“Ach, it’s nae business a’ yers, but it wae a pub brawl,” he said, swabbing at an overhanging cobweb with his cloth. “So wha’ kin I do fer ye?”
“We are in search of corroboration.”
“Corrobawha’?” he said, cocking his head to the side. It was small, set on a short, thick neck, muscular as a mastiff’s.
“We need some information,” Dickerson explained. “’Bout a robbery.”
“Wha’ makes ye think I’d know anythin’ ’bout somethin’ like that?”
“Come, Mr. McAllister,” said Ian. “Let us dispense with the posturing. I’m sure you don’t have time to waste any more than we do.”
His small eyes narrowed. “Wha’ robbery might that be, then?”
“Murray and Weston.”
“On Princes Street?”
“We have information that a major burglary is being planned.”
“When?”
“Within the week.”
McAllister burst into laughter. “Someone’s been pullin’ yer leg, mate.”
“So you haven’t heard of any robbery?”
“No, an’ I’ll tell ye somethin’ else. Only someone wi’ a heid full o’ mince would try to break in there.”
“Why is that?”
“They’ve an alarm system no one’s yet foiled. An’ a coupla hounds they let roam at night.”
“So you’ve heard nothing about such a plan?”
“No, an’ if I did, I’d tell ‘em tae skedaddle aff straightaway.”
“Of course you know if there is such a robbery, your shop will be the first place we visit.”
“So I’ve nae reason t’lie to ye, have I?”
“Thank you,” Ian said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“I hope ye’ll remember that in’t future.”
“Oh, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You haven’t by chance had a visit from any of my colleagues recently?”
“Coppers comin’ here? That’s a laugh.”