Death in the Devil's Acre Read online

  “We won’t know, will we—if I don’t try?” Pitt pointed out.

  “So wotcher want, then? Yer never came ter Devil’s Acre fer yer ’ealf!”

  “Information of course.” Pitt looked at him with mild contempt. He should have known that; indeed the pretense was a waste of time.

  “I dunno nuffin’ abaht no crimes!” Squeaker warned.

  “Of course not,” Pitt said dryly. “You’re an upright citizen, making a few pence writing letters for those who haven’t the skill for themselves.”

  “Vat’s right—yer got it in one!” Squeaker nodded vigorously.

  “But you know the Devil’s Acre,” Pitt pursued.

  “Course I do—I was bloody born ’ere!”

  “Ever heard of a pimp named Max? And don’t lie to me, Squeaker, or I’ll arrest you for withholding information about a murder, and it’ll be the long drop for you! This is a bad one.”

  “Oh, my Gawd! Yer mean vat poor sod as was—oh, Gawd!” Squeaker paled under the dirt on his face. “Oh, Gawd!” he said again.

  “So?” Pitt prompted. “What do you know about Max?”

  “I dunno ’oo killed ’im, I swear to yer, Mr. Pitt. Some kind o’ maniac! ‘Oo’d do vat ter any man? It ain’t decent.”

  “Of course you don’t know who killed him,” Pitt conceded with a tolerant smile. “Or you’d have told us all about it, naturally.”

  “Natcherly,” Squeaker agreed, glancing away nervously. He thought Pitt was laughing at him, but he did not want to put it to the test. “I swear,” he added for good measure.

  “What about Max?” Pitt pressed. “What was he like?”

  “Good at it,” Squeaker said grudgingly. Pimping was a lot more profitable than petty forgery, as well as probably more fun. “’Ad a natcheral talent, ’e ’ad—fer vat sort o’ fing!” He did not want to be too fulsome in his praise. After all, Max could not have made a good forgery to save himself. In fact, Squeaker was not sure if he could even write a legible hand! There was great skill in writing well, and it should not be undervalued.

  Remembering the heavy, sensual face with its dark eyes, Pitt could well believe that Max had such a talent. “Yes,” he said. “So I heard. Had several houses, didn’t he?”

  Squeaker looked at him cautiously. “Know vat, do yer?”

  “I do. What sort of clients did he cater to?”

  “Depends which ’ouse as yer talkin’ abaht,” Squeaker said. “If ’n yer means ve one in Partridge Lane—well, anyone as ’ad ve price. Real scrubbers, vey are. But if ’n yer means ve one up by George Street—well, nah, vat’s diff ’rent altergevver. Nah some o’ vem ’as real class. An’ I ’as ’eard say as ’e’ll provide a gentleman wiv enough money ter spend wiv some ladies o’ blood, as yer might say.” He leered knowingly, showing brown teeth. The idea obviously amused him, as a sort of obscene revenge upon the society that had excluded him completely.

  “Ladies of blood, eh?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. That sounded promising. He fixed Squeaker with a look of suspicion. “Ladies of blood?” he repeated skeptically.

  “Vat’s wot I said—take it or leave it.” Squeaker knew he had Pitt’s interest, and he enjoyed the sensation. “Mebbe vat’s w’ere yer murder comes from. Never mess wiv the Quality—golden rule. Vey ain’t used ter bein’ took, and vey feels it very ’ard—can get real nasty. Stick to yer own—ven yer won’t get someone as don’t know ve rules, comin’ all over spiteful and stickin’ a shiv in yer gut. Although wot vey done ter Max was uncalled for, Mr. Pitt—real uncalled for. I don’t know wot you rozzers is lettin’ the place come to!”

  Pitt hid a smile. “Disgusting,” he agreed. “But a jealous man can get carried to extraordinary lengths if someone has taken his woman and then used her to sell to other men as a whore.”

  Squeaker sighed. He had neither wife nor children, but he dreamed of them sometimes: a woman whose warmth would not have to be traded for or bought, someone who would become familiar with time, children who would treat him with respect—every man should have that, at least for a while.

  “I reckon as yer right, Mr. Pitt,” he said slowly. “Never mess wiv a man’s family—vat’s anuvver rule as should be writ in gold. On the ’ole, I reckon as pimpin’ ain’t such an ’ealfy occupation after all. Women is a dangerous kind o’ goods ter deal in—not ter mention a man’s private needs, wot can be very odd in some o’ them gents from up west, so I’ve ’eard say. Some o’ them stories yer wouldn’t believe! Papers is much better fings ter sell. Knows w’ere yer is wiv papers. People don’t lose veir ’eads over paper.”

  Pitt did not bother to argue with him. “And this more expensive house of Max’s is in George Street?”

  “Ain’t vat wot I jus’ said?” Squeaker was patient, like a schoolmaster with an unnaturally dim pupil.

  “Yes—thank you.” Pitt fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. He gave it to Squeaker, whose grimy hand closed over it quickly. He raised it to his mouth and bit it sharply. It met with his satisfaction and he pushed it into his pocket.

  “Fanks, Mr. Pitt,” he said.

  “Don’t leave the Acre,” Pitt warned. “If you’ve told me lies, I’ll be back here to take that out of your skin!”

  Squeaker was taken aback. “I wouldn’t tell yer no lies, Mr. Pitt! Wouldn’t be worf me w’ile, nah, would it? Yer’d only come back and ruin me business. Ain’t good fer trade to ’ave crushers ‘angin’ around, beggin’ yer pardon. Gives the ’ouse a bad name!”

  Pitt snorted and went out of the “’ouse,” past the rotting wood in the yard, a pile of refuse, and two drunks in the gutter. He made his way rapidly through the rain to George Street. This was a distinctly more salubrious part of the Acre, only a few moments’ walk from the Houses of Parliament.

  Max did indeed have an unusual skill. If he had managed to acquire some “ladies of blood,” as Squeaker put it, and three or four thoroughly handsome whores accomplished in their art, he would have made himself a very rich man in a few years.

  Pitt found the house without much difficulty. A man asking for such a place was not unusual, and those willing to give directions were often compensated for their trouble by the proprietors of the establishments.

  This particular house was inconspicuous, even a little grubby, on the outside. It could easily have been taken for another one of the numerous common lodging houses; anonymity was a necessary part of the trade.

  Inside, however, the style changed. The entrance hallway was discreetly elegant. Pitt was reminded of Max’s service in fine houses of men and women whose taste was nurtured by generations of money and breeding. These were people who knew the masters of painting and furniture design as instinctively as they knew how to construct a grammatical sentence, or to walk with head high and a very slight swagger to the hips.

  Beyond the hallway in the main reception room there was nothing opulent, nothing vulgar. Its sensuality was one of quiet color, which belied the ease with which each piece of furniture and each painting complemented the others. The pleasure the room afforded was tactile as well: soft velvets, a carpet that made the feet tread silently, almost as if upon grass. Indeed, Max possessed a veritable art!

  A man in livery came forward, affecting to be something between a footman and a butler. He was obviously in charge of who would be permitted to become a customer and who would be discreetly redirected elsewhere.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” He eyed Pitt’s clothes and, with an almost imperceptible change of expression, determined that he was unlikely to be able to pay the house charges. But he was too skilled to dismiss him immediately. Gentlemen of the most distinguished rank and fortune were known to assume the oddest of disguises at times.

  “Good afternoon.” Pitt understood the process exactly, and with a touch of amusement he played it all the way, using his most courteous manner. “I came here by recommendation.” He made sure he stood perfectly straight-shouldered, as if his disastrous clothes were an attempt at passing for a
native of the Acre—as indeed they were, but for an entirely different reason. “I have heard from various of my friends”—could Squeaker Harris be termed a friend?—“that you have ladies of far greater quality than any of your competitors.”

  The man’s face relaxed. He decided Pitt was a gentleman, after all. His voice, not his clothes, betrayed the man: that beautiful diction, and the bearing.

  “That is perfectly true, sir. What kind of quality had you in mind? We have both quality of experience and, if you prefer, quality of breeding—although that, of course, does require a little special arrangement.”

  So business was proceeding as usual, in spite of Max’s dramatic demise!

  Pitt flared his nostrils a little and widened his eyes, looking very slightly down at the man. “Quality of breeding,” he replied in a tone that suggested there could have been no other answer.

  “Quite, sir,” the man replied. “If you would care to make an appointment in advance, I will see that it is arranged. You understand, we 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 imprison someone, if we catch them—theft, forgery, robbery, assault. There are enough of them to use all our time.”

  “Then what is the gossip about Ambrose Mercutt and Max?”

  Parkins relaxed again, leaning back in his chair. “Mercutt used to have the carriage trade till Max came along. But Max could provide a better class of women—I’ve heard even a few of distinct breeding. God knows what they’re doing it for!” His face mirrored his complete mystification, an attempt to understand, and defeat. “Yes, Mercutt had good reason to hate Max. But I wouldn’t have thought he was the only one, by any means! Pimping is a very cutthroat business—” He stopped, remembering the literal use of the knife in the crimes.

  “Where would Max get women like that?” Pitt spoke his thoughts aloud. “Society is quite capable of providing its own diversions, if some of their women want a little adultery.”

  Parkins looked at Pitt with interest. He had worked all his professional life in the Acre or areas like it: White-chapel, Spitalfields, places where he never even spoke to “the Quality.” “Is that so?” Parkins glimpsed a world beyond his own.

  Pitt tried very hard not to sound condescending. “I’ve known a few cases that have shown it,” he answered with a small smile.

  “Not women?” Parkins was shocked.

  Pitt hesitated. Parkins worked in the Devil’s Acre amid its filth and despair; most of its inhabitants were born to live hard and die young. We all need to believe in some ideal, even if it is forever out of reach—dreams are still necessary.

  “A few.” He spoke less than the truth. “Only a few.”

  Parkins seemed to relax, and the anxiety died out of his face. Perhaps he also knew it was fairyland he imagined, but he wanted it all the same. “Do you want to know where to find Ambrose Mercutt?” he offered.

  “Yes, please.” Pitt noted the address Parkins gave him, talked a little longer, then took his leave into the bitter evening. The sky had cleared and the east wind was so sharp on his face that it stung his skin.

  The following day, he went first to his office to see if there was any further information, but there was nothing beyond the autopsy report on Hubert Pinchin, which told him only what he already knew. Then he went back to the Acre to find Ambrose Mercutt.

  It proved a less easy task than he had first supposed. Ambrose supervised most of his business himself; at eleven o’clock in the morning he was not up, nor did he wish to receive visitors of any sort, least of all from the police. It was half an hour before Pitt prevailed upon his manservant, and Ambrose was brought, protesting, into the pale-carpeted dining room, with imitation Sheraton furniture and erotic paintings from the new “decadent” artists on the walls. He was lean and elegantly effete, clad in a silk dressing robe, his wavy hair falling over half his face, hiding rather wispy eyebrows and pale, puffy-lidded eyes.

  Pitt could see instantly why Max had succeeded him as the proprietor for the carriage trade. Max had had a sensuality himself that would attract the women who worked for him, and a taste of his own to appreciate and select the best new whores for the
trade—perhaps even teach them a little? Nature had given him an advantage that Ambrose, with all his intelligence, could not hope to emulate.

  “I’ve never heard of you!” Ambrose said, his eyes wide, looking Pitt up and down. “You must be new in the Acre. I can’t imagine what you want here. I have some very good custom. You’d be foolish to make life—awkward—for me, Inspector.” His paused as if to see if Pitt had the mental agility to understand him.

  Pitt smiled. “I believe you do have some very good custom,” he agreed coolly. “But perhaps not as much as you had before Max Burton moved into the trade?”

  Ambrose was shaken. His hand moved down his body and tightened on his silk robe, pulling it a little further around himself. “Is that what you’re here about, Max’s murder?”

  So he was not going to pretend to be stupid. That was a relief. Pitt was not in the frame of mind to play games with him. “Yes. I’m not interested in your other affairs. But Max took a lot of your business, and maybe some of your women as well—and don’t waste time in denying it.”

  Ambrose shrugged and turned away. “It’s a chancy trade. You do better one year, worse another—depends on your girls. Max was doing well now—his girls would have left in time. High-class women always do. Either they get bored, or settle their debts, or they marry someone and get out of it altogether. He wouldn’t have lasted.”

  Perhaps Ambrose had talked himself into believing this, but personally Pitt thought Max would have been well able to replace any women that left.

  Ambrose must have sensed his doubts. He turned back and stared at Pitt defiantly. “Ever wondered—Inspector”—his voice was very delicately sarcastic, as if the title were ill-deserved—“ever wondered just how Max got the quality of women he did? Women like his don’t take to whoring in the Devil’s Acre, you know, just for a little diversion! There’s plenty of whoring to be had in their own circle, if that’s all they want. Surprises you, that, does it?” He looked into Pitt’s eyes and saw that it did not. His face hardened.