Little grumbled and looked at his hands, now curled into fists.
After a moment, Curtin continued, his tone more definite, “We also know that Vince—again, as usual—was working for someone else. He and, therefore, you were following someone else’s orders.”
Little didn’t deny that. From beneath his lowered brows, he looked at Curtin, clearly unsure where the inspector was leading him.
Smoothly, Martin said, “We’re really not that interested in you, your friend, or even Murchison, John. We’re much more interested in learning the identity of the man who hired Vince and, through him, you.”
Curtin nodded and, when Little looked back at him, said, “So what can you tell us about that man, Johnny?”
Little glanced again at Martin, then shot a look at Oliver before returning his gaze to Curtin. “I’m for this, aren’t I?”
Slowly, Curtin nodded. “’Fraid so. You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest this time, and you aren’t going to escape being stung.”
Little pulled a face, then with a hint of shrewdness in his eyes, looked at Martin. “If I tell what I know…?” He grimaced. “It isn’t much, but…what then?”
“Then,” Curtin said, “if Mr. Cynster is so inclined, we can arrange for your sentence to be transportation rather than the noose. Those accidents were bad enough, especially in this town, but the kidnapping?” Curtin shook his head. “There’s no escaping paying a price for that.”
Little grimaced again, stared at the table for several moments, then nodded to himself and looked at Martin. “I’ll tell what I know, but it doesn’t amount to much.”
“So you said.” Martin met Little’s gaze levelly. “And as I said, I’m more interested in that man than I am in you, so any piece of information, no matter how small, might be valuable.”
“Well, then. I only saw him the once, the first time Vince met him. It was me and Vince and him and his guard. His guard was like me. He’d spent time in the ring, but he wasn’t the chatty sort.” Little paused as if remembering. “Real cold one, that, and his master mighta been worse. Didn’t get much from either man to judge, if you know what I mean. No little smiles, nothing in their faces to show what they were thinking. No tells.”
Little looked at Martin. “Anyhow, him in charge was oldish—fifty-something. His face was…craggy. Hard and…well, like cut from a rock. His eyes made you shiver. They were palest-green chips of frozen ice. He had silver-gray hair, pomaded and all, and was very well turned out. His gloves were kid, his top hat real silk, and his overcoat was the best I’ve seen in an age. Softest wool, it looked, and perfectly cut. London without a doubt.
“The thing is, though”—Little looked at Oliver, studying him for several seconds, then returned his gaze to Martin—“the man looked like a toff. He spoke like a toff, quiet-like and clear in his speech. Never raised his voice. But it was all an act, see. You just knew it was. He wasn’t like you two—you’re real toffs. You carry that like a cloak that never ever slips. It can’t slip because it’s who you really are. He, though...I pegged him as a vicious streetfighter-type posing as a toff.”
Little paused, clearly thinking back to that meeting, then shook his head regretfully. “After the man explained what he wanted done and, silly beggar, Vince agreed and the pair left, I told Vince—begged him—to go after the geezer and return his down payment.” Little heaved a huge sigh. “But Vince wouldn’t, would he? And look where it’s got us.”
After a moment of contemplating that, Little looked at Martin. “That’s all I’ve got. Enough?”
Martin studied the man, then nodded. “How’s your head?”
Little huffed. “Probably about the same as yours.”
“I figure that makes us even, then.” Martin pushed back his chair. “Depending on what we get from Vince, I might see my way to dropping the kidnapping charges.” That would greatly reduce the possible threat to Sophy’s reputation. “The charges relating to the accidents will, however, remain.”
Little considered that, then dipped his head. “Fair enough.”
“One last thing,” Curtin said. “Do you know where this toff-who-isn’t-a-toff is putting up?”
Little shook his head. “Nah, sorry. Vince caught up to him on the street, and they met at Vince’s place, not the other way about.”
Curtin shut Little’s file. “Never mind. With that description, we should be able to hunt him down.” He rose and nodded to Little. “I’ll have you taken to a cell. You’ll learn what charges you’ll face later.”
With Oliver trailing him, Curtin followed Martin from the room.
Martin halted in the corridor. While Curtin gave orders for Little to be transferred to a cell, Martin said to Oliver, who had halted beside him, “That was the best description we’ve yet got of our man. And if Little is correct—and it’s likely he is—and our mystery man is not actually the gentleman he pretends to be, that would explain why no one in Sheffield seems to know who he is.”
Oliver nodded. “He wouldn’t move in the circles in which we’ve been making our inquiries.”
Curtin joined them in time to hear that. “Given Sheffield is not his home turf, it’s likely he’s lying low, although other than the Murchisons, there’s no underworld figure of any note he’d need to be wary of.” Curtin frowned. “But as he’s dealing with the Murchisons, I can’t see why he’d be hiding from them.”
Martin shrugged. “He could simply be one of those villains who prefers to operate from the shadows.”
Curtin tipped his head. “True.” He juggled his files, then looked at the next closed door. “Shall we?”
“Same entrance?” Oliver asked as they approached the door. He glanced at Martin. “Did Vince see you when you were laid out?”
