Anne Perry - The Face of a Stranger

"My problem is not a shortage of funds," Monk replied with the faintest smile. He hated moneylenders; he hated the relish with which they plied their revolting trade. "At least not pressing enough to come to you. I have a matter of business to discuss with Mr. Wigtight."

"Quite." The man nodded with a smirk of understanding. "Quite so. All matters of business are referred to Mr. Wigtight, ultimately, Mr.-er?" He raised his eyebrows.

“I do not want to borrow any money,'' Monk said rather more tartly. "Tell Mr. Wigtight it is about something he has mislaid, and very badly wishes to have returned to him."

"Mislaid?" The man screwed up his pallid face. "Mislaid? What are you talking about, sir? Mr. Wigtight does not mislay things." He snifled in offended disapproval.

Monk leaned forward and put both hands on the counter, and the man was obliged to face him.

"Are you going to show me to Mr. Wigtight?" Monk said very clearly. "Or do I take my information elsewhere?" He did not want to tell the man who he was, or Wigtight would be forewarned, and he needed the slight advantage of surprise.

"Ah-" The man made up his mind rapidly. "Ah- yes; yes sir. I'll take you to Mr. Wigtight, sir. If you'll come this way." He closed his ledger with a snap and slid it into a drawer. With one eye still on Monk he took a key from his waistcoat pocket and locked the drawer, then straightened up. "Yes sir, this way."

The inner office of Josiah Wigtight was quite a different affair from the drab attempt at anonymous respectability of the entrance. It was frankly lush, everything chosen for comfort, almost hedonism. The big armchairs were covered in velvet and the cushions were deep in both color and texture; the carpet muffled sound and the gas lamps hissing softly on the walls were mantled in rose-colored glass which shed a glow over the room, obscuring outlines and dulling glare. The curtains were heavy and drawn in folds to keep out the intrusion and the reality of daylight. It was not a matter of taste, not even of vulgarity, but purely the uses of pleasure. After a moment or two the effect was curiously soporific. Immediately Monk's respect for Wigtight rose. It was clever.

"Ah." Wigtight breathed out deeply. He was a portly man, swelling out like a giant toad behind his desk, wide mouth split into a smile that died long before it reached his bulbous eyes. "Ah," he repeated. "A matter of business somewhat delicate, Mr.-er?"

"Somewhat," Monk agreed. He decided not to sit down in the soft, dark chair; he was almost afraid it would swallow him, like a mire, smother his judgment. He felt he would be at a disadvantage in it and not able to move if he should need to.

"Sit down, sit down!" Wigtight waved. "Let us talk about it. I'm sure some accommodation can be arrived at."

"I hope so." Monk perched on the arm of the chair. It was uncomfortable, but in this room he preferred to be uncomfortable.

"You are temporarily embarrassed?" Wigtight began. "You wish to take advantage of an excellent investment? You have expectations of a relative, in poor health, who favors you-"

"Thank you, I have employment which is quite sufficient for my needs."

"You are a fortunate man." There was no belief in his smooth, expressionless voice; he had heard every lie and excuse human ingenuity could come up with.

"More fortunate than Joscelin Grey!" Monk said baldly.

Wigtight's face changed in only the minutest of ways- a shadow, no more. Had Monk not been watching for it he would have missed it altogether.

"Joscelin Grey?" Wigtight repeated. Monk could see in his face the indecision whether to deny knowing him or admit it as a matter of common knowledge. He decided the wrong way.

"I know no such person, sir."

"YouVe never heard of him?" Monk tried not to press too hard. He hated moneylenders with far more anger than reason could tell him of. He meant to trap this soft, fat man in his own words, trap him and watch the bloated body struggle.

But Wigtight sensed a pitfall.

"I hear so many names," he added cautiously.

"Then you had better look in your books," Monk suggested. "And see if his is there, since you don't remember."

"I don't keep books, after debts are paid." Wigtight's wide, pale eyes assumed a blandness. "Matter of discretion, you know. People don't like to be reminded of their hard times."

"How civil of you," Monk said sarcastically. "How about looking through the lists of those who didn't repay you?"

"Mr. Grey is not among them."

"So he paid you." Monk allowed only a little of his triumph to creep through.

"I have not said I lent him anything."

"Then if you lent him nothing, why did you hire two men to deceive their way into his flat and ransack it? And incidentally, to steal his silver and small ornaments?" He saw with delight that Wigtight flinched. "Clumsy, that, Mr. Wigtight. You're hiring a very poor class of ruffian these days. A good man would never have helped himself on the side like that. Dangerous; brings, another charge into it-and those goods are so easy to trace."

"You're police!" Wigtight's understanding was sudden and venomous.

"That's right."

"I don't hire thieves." Now Wigtight was hedging, trying to gain time to think, and Monk knew it.

"You hire collectors, who turned out to be thieves as well," Monk said immediately. "The law doesn't see any difference."

"I hire people to do my collecting, of-course," Wigtight agreed. "Can't go out into the streets after everybody myself."

"How many do you call on with forged police papers, two months after you've murdered them?"

Every vestige of color drained out of Wigtight's face, leaving it gray, like a cold fish skin. Monk thought for a moment he was having some kind of a fit, and he felt no concern at all.

It was long seconds before Wigtight could speak, and Monk merely waited.

"Murdered!" The word when it came was hollow. "I swear on my mother's grave, I never had anything to do with that. Why should I? Why should I do that? It's insane. You're crazed."

"Because you're a usurer," Monk said bitterly, a well of anger and scalding contempt opening up inside him.

"And usurers don't allow people not to pay their debts, with all the interest when they're due.'' He leaned forward toward the man, threatening by his movement when Wig-tight was motionless in the chair. "Bad for business if you let them get away with it," he said almost between his teeth. "Encourages other people to do the same. Where would you be if everyone refused to pay you back? Bleed themselves white to satisfy your interest. Better one goose dead than the whole wretched flock running around free and fat, eh?"

"I never killed him!" Wigtight was frightened, not only by the facts, but by Monk's hatred. He knew unreason when he saw it; and Monk enjoyed his fear.

"But you sent someone-it comes to the same thing," Monk pursued.

"No! It wouldn't make sense!" Wigtight's voice was growing higher, a new, sharp note on it. The panic was sweet to Monk's ear. "All right." Wigtight raised his hands, soft and fat. "I sent them to see if Grey had kept any record of borrowing from me. I knew he'd been murdered and I thought he might have kept the cancelled IOU. I didn't want to have anything to do with him. That's all, I swear!" There was sweat on his face now, glistening in the gaslight. "He paid me back. Mother of God, it was only fifty pounds anyway! Do you think I'd send out men to murder a debtor for fifty pounds? It would be mad, insane. They'd have a hold over me for the rest of my life. They'd bleed me dry-or see me to the gibbet."

Monk stared at him. Painfully the truth of it conquered him. Wigtight was a parasite, but he was not a fool. He would not have hired such clumsy chance help to murder a man for a debt, of whatever size. If he had intended murder he would have been cleverer, more discreet about it. A little violence might well have been fruitful, but not this, and not in Grey's own house.