Read Online The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) by James McCreet - Free Book Online
Authors: James McCreet
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somebody find their property missing and remember being jostled by him.
Noah followed, himself accidentally colliding with a fellow he recognized instantly as none other than Commissioner of Police Sir Richard Mayne. The eminent gentleman was mercifully too
preoccupied to pause, however, and Noah managed to keep his quarry in view while reflecting ironically on how the city threw people together.
Moving north, he was not at all surprised to be led around the Tower, up Rosemary-lane and then into that warren of alleys north of East Smithfield, where sundry low receivers of stolen goods
are to be found. With many a backward glance (but little observation) the ‘one-armed’ man turned repeatedly left and right through a maze of filthy passages before finally entering a
dilapidated marine store whose unsellable wares spilled out into the narrow passage before it.
A few moments later, he was joined by Noah in a shop that was tiny and made to seem smaller still by the improbable multitude of rubbish piled on its shelves and floor. The tin cups, rusted
tools, oiled capes, sacks of mouldy ship’s biscuit and coils of well-worn rope together gave off a powerfully musty scent. Behind the counter, the proprietor was talking to the thief but
paused mid-sentence to look dubiously at his new ‘customer’.
‘Sure yer got the right shop, mate?’ he said.
‘I believe so,’ said Noah. ‘I am looking for . . . excuse me a moment . . .’ He took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘Yes – I am
looking for a “gold and diamond brooch in the shape of a swan”.’
‘Ha! You must have problems with yer peepers, mate. I can do yer a length of rope or a tin bucket, but I don’t sell no jewel’ry. Yer want old Levi down the alley –
he’ll do for yer.’
‘No – I am sure this is the place. I have just followed this poor fellow here, having spent part of my morning watching him steal from passengers at Custom House quay. I trust that
you are his customary receiver and that – as thieves are wont to do – he has reserved that particular plot as his own. Therefore, this is the most likely place for me to find my
brooch.’
‘I don’t think I like your tone,’ said the ‘one-armed’ man, squaring up to Noah. ‘Call me a thief to my face, will you?’
Noah smiled and casually extracted his dagger, which, without a moment’s hesitation, he thrust downwards into the arm within the dirty sling. It stuck there, upright, and quivered slightly
at the handle.
The ‘one-armed’ man showed not the slightest reaction of pain, but the proprietor let forth a throaty laugh and slapped the counter in his mirth.
‘Balsa wood, I presume. Or is it pine?’ said Noah, tugging the dagger free of the false arm.
‘Ha ha! He’s got yer there!’ said the proprietor to the man with the sling, who – seemingly nonplussed by the boldness of the gentleman with the dagger – was now
sheepishly releasing his concealed arm from a hidden vent in the side of his jacket. He looked Noah up and down. ‘You are no policeman. What are you?’
‘I have come for the brooch. Not the one you took today from the street girl – you can keep that. I want the one shaped like a swan.’
‘What makes yer think it’s here, if it ever was,’ said the proprietor, his smile fading rapidly.
‘Because a small receiver such as yourself does not sell his spoils piecemeal to the larger receivers – you store up your treasures until you have a quantity to tempt them. Because
it was taken only a few days ago. Because if you do not give it to me now, you will both be very sorry.’
‘You are only one and we are two,’ said the proprietor with mathematical assuredness.
Noah merely grinned. ‘Gentlemen – let us be civil. It would not inconvenience me at all to use my dagger on you. But in truth I am not remotely interested in your thievery. I have no
intention of harming your free-enterprise endeavours – nor do I
Noah followed, himself accidentally colliding with a fellow he recognized instantly as none other than Commissioner of Police Sir Richard Mayne. The eminent gentleman was mercifully too
preoccupied to pause, however, and Noah managed to keep his quarry in view while reflecting ironically on how the city threw people together.
Moving north, he was not at all surprised to be led around the Tower, up Rosemary-lane and then into that warren of alleys north of East Smithfield, where sundry low receivers of stolen goods
are to be found. With many a backward glance (but little observation) the ‘one-armed’ man turned repeatedly left and right through a maze of filthy passages before finally entering a
dilapidated marine store whose unsellable wares spilled out into the narrow passage before it.
A few moments later, he was joined by Noah in a shop that was tiny and made to seem smaller still by the improbable multitude of rubbish piled on its shelves and floor. The tin cups, rusted
tools, oiled capes, sacks of mouldy ship’s biscuit and coils of well-worn rope together gave off a powerfully musty scent. Behind the counter, the proprietor was talking to the thief but
paused mid-sentence to look dubiously at his new ‘customer’.
‘Sure yer got the right shop, mate?’ he said.
‘I believe so,’ said Noah. ‘I am looking for . . . excuse me a moment . . .’ He took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘Yes – I am
looking for a “gold and diamond brooch in the shape of a swan”.’
‘Ha! You must have problems with yer peepers, mate. I can do yer a length of rope or a tin bucket, but I don’t sell no jewel’ry. Yer want old Levi down the alley –
he’ll do for yer.’
‘No – I am sure this is the place. I have just followed this poor fellow here, having spent part of my morning watching him steal from passengers at Custom House quay. I trust that
you are his customary receiver and that – as thieves are wont to do – he has reserved that particular plot as his own. Therefore, this is the most likely place for me to find my
brooch.’
‘I don’t think I like your tone,’ said the ‘one-armed’ man, squaring up to Noah. ‘Call me a thief to my face, will you?’
Noah smiled and casually extracted his dagger, which, without a moment’s hesitation, he thrust downwards into the arm within the dirty sling. It stuck there, upright, and quivered slightly
at the handle.
The ‘one-armed’ man showed not the slightest reaction of pain, but the proprietor let forth a throaty laugh and slapped the counter in his mirth.
‘Balsa wood, I presume. Or is it pine?’ said Noah, tugging the dagger free of the false arm.
‘Ha ha! He’s got yer there!’ said the proprietor to the man with the sling, who – seemingly nonplussed by the boldness of the gentleman with the dagger – was now
sheepishly releasing his concealed arm from a hidden vent in the side of his jacket. He looked Noah up and down. ‘You are no policeman. What are you?’
‘I have come for the brooch. Not the one you took today from the street girl – you can keep that. I want the one shaped like a swan.’
‘What makes yer think it’s here, if it ever was,’ said the proprietor, his smile fading rapidly.
‘Because a small receiver such as yourself does not sell his spoils piecemeal to the larger receivers – you store up your treasures until you have a quantity to tempt them. Because
it was taken only a few days ago. Because if you do not give it to me now, you will both be very sorry.’
‘You are only one and we are two,’ said the proprietor with mathematical assuredness.
Noah merely grinned. ‘Gentlemen – let us be civil. It would not inconvenience me at all to use my dagger on you. But in truth I am not remotely interested in your thievery. I have no
intention of harming your free-enterprise endeavours – nor do I
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