Justin Richards - The Death Collector

‘My wallet,’ George repeated. ‘My wallet’s gone.’ He was checking his trouser pockets now, although he never kept his wallet anywhere but in his jacket. ‘I can’t find it.’ He looked at Lorimore for help, aware that his mouth was open and his face pale.

Lorimore sighed, his whole frame moving with the sound. ‘How much?’ he asked.

George blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘How much do you want?’ Lorimore had no trouble finding his own wallet and opened it for George to see. He riffled through the folded bank notes inside.

‘It’s all right,’ George said, thinking he must be offering to pay for his cab or train home. ‘I’ll manage.’

The large man’s eyes narrowed. ‘For the page,’ he hissed angrily. ‘How much do you want for the page from Glick’s diary?’

George shook his head in confusion. ‘I don’t want anything. I just want my wallet back.’ He could not have left it at home — he had needed it to pay for the underground. ‘Don’t you understand?’ George said, close to panic, ‘I don’t have the page.’

Lorimore all but ripped notes from his own wallet. ‘Fifty,’ he snapped.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘All right — a hundred.’ His eyes were wide with anger and passion. ‘Name your price.’

George just stared. Part of his brain was struggling with the fact that the man was willing to pay a fortune for a scrap of burned paper. Another part was trying desperately to work out where his wallet had gone. His mind was retracing his journeys that day at high speed — to the Museum, out again to the underground, arriving at Gloucester Road station unsure of which way to turn …

‘That boy,’ he realised. ‘He must have taken it. When he bumped into me.’

‘Boy?’ Lorimore demanded angrily. ‘What boy?’

‘There was a boy.’ George tried to replay the events in his mind’s eye. ‘I thought it was an accident, but he must have meant to walk into me. Then in the tangle, as I stumbled, he took my wallet. My money.’

‘Confound your money,’ Lorimore’s face was close to George’s and the transformation was terrifying. His lips had curled away from his teeth and his eyes were red with anger. ‘Describe the boy,’ he snarled, grabbing George suddenly by the lapels of his jacket. ‘If there was one.’

‘Of course there was.’ Lorimore let go of George and turned away. He was breathing less heavily now, more in control. George was relieved that the man seemed to have recovered his composure. He did his best to describe the boy, in faltering nervous tones. He recalled the grubby clothes, the cheeky expression, the comma of dark hair emerging from under the cap …

Lorimore nodded as if George’s description was quite in order, and encouraged by this George asked cautiously: ‘So, can you help me, sir?’

Lorimore frowned. ‘What?’ he seemed puzzled by the question.

‘Can you help me find out who was responsible for my friend’s death?’

A nerve ticked under Lorimore’s left eye as he regarded George across the room. Then he walked quickly over to the fireplace and touched a button — a bell. ‘I am afraid not,’ he admitted as he turned back towards George. ‘I really have no idea how — or why — your poor friend believed I could help you. I am sorry if I appear brusque, but you will understand that the possibility of seeing a page of Glick’s diary was …’ The nerve ticked again as he sought for the right word. ‘Intriguing,’ he decided. ‘Please do not let my disappointment unsettle you.’ He forced a thin smile.

The manservant was already standing in the doorway. Clearly, George was being invited to leave.

‘Not at all. Thank you for your time,’ he muttered, feeling his own disappointment keenly.

Lorimore waved a hand dismissively, not even bothering to look at George. He paced up and down, his head lowered, deep in thought.

The butler led George back past the automata and the display cases to the front door. He said not a word as he opened the door and let George step out into the cold of the day. All the while he kept his face turned away, his features obscured, as if trying to avoid letting George see his face.

George was annoyed — angry at his wasted journey and Lorimore’s dismissal of him. Angry at himself for losing his wallet and not even noticing. Before he knew it, George had walked the length of the drive. He passed the man at the iron gates and turned out on to the main road, only distantly aware of the carved lizards on the gate posts watching him through sightless stone eyes.

Gloucester Road was busy and noisy. Horse-drawn carriages clattered across the junction with Cromwell Road. Pedestrians struggled through the crowds. Shopkeepers watched from under their awnings and called out to any passer-by who looked like a potential customer.

The secret was to keep moving. Eddie knew the area better than the cabbies — all the side streets, all the possible escapes. He walked slowly, pausing only briefly before running across the road. A cart driver shouted at him to mind out of the way. Eddie didn’t care about that, but he did mind that the man he had been following heard the warning, and stepped briskly aside. It meant that Eddie missed him, missed the opportunity to brush past and slip his hand into the man’s jacket.

The man had seen him now. Just a glance, no notion that Eddie had been about to relieve him of his money or watch. But there was a chance he might remember if he saw Eddie again — might remember and realise the boy was following him. Time to move on.

Looking round as he kept walking, Eddie’s practised eye lighted upon someone else who might be worthy of his attentions. The man had probably been tall and imposing, but was now bent with age and obviously frail. He wore a heavy coat, fastened tightly round his neck. But as he moved there was heaviness in the material at his chest that might signify money, or perhaps a silver cigarette case he could pawn …

Eddie matched his pace to that of the elderly gentleman, but kept several steps behind and to the side of him. Only now did he see that the man was not alone. There was a young woman with him. She was wearing a plain, pale green dress, and carrying a small bag. Eddie wondered if the bag might be a better target, but dismissed the idea almost at once. No, the man would have the money, and the woman would notice immediately if he took her bag. She might not be able to run as fast as Eddie, but he preferred that no one noticed him at work.

The pavement ahead was more crowded as several people came out of a shop. A carriage with an advertisement for Champion’s Vinegar swept past. The sound of its wheels masked the sound of Eddie’s running feet. As he approached the gentleman, Eddie could see his clerical collar inside the coat. He almost shied away then. Not that he had any qualms about robbing a clergyman, but the shape in his coat was probably a prayer book. Eddie had no use for prayers unless you could sell them.

But at that moment the man turned to say something to the young woman, and as he did so his coat fell slightly open. It was an opportunity too good to pass up. Eddie’s hand dipped inside the coat as he bumped against the man, muttered an apology, lifted out the contents of the man’s pocket, kept walking briskly. It was a wallet, Eddie could tell — the leather was warm and comforting in his hand, the shape bulged nicely as he stuffed it into his own trouser pocket. Perfect.

Except that the man had noticed. Perhaps he had checked his pocket, perhaps he had felt the light touch of Eddie’s fingers. Perhaps he just knew from the way Eddie had collided with him. Whatever the case, he was shouting, pointing after Eddie. A glance back was sufficient to reassure Eddie that the man could never catch him. Soon he would be lost in the crowd, and no one would know who the clergyman was pointing at or shouting after. Eddie knew better than to run, and let everyone know for certain. Better to walk briskly, not look back, pretend it was nothing to do with him.