Stokes didn’t smile. “Who’s Alert?”
“This toff who’s got some plan to rob places.”
“Houses in Mayfair.”
“Yes. He wanted a cracksman, so I put him onto Smythe, but I don’t know anything about their arrangements.”
“You don’t know anything about the planned burglaries?” Stokes looked skeptical.
“I don’t! Alert plays his cards slap up against his chest—cool beggar, he is. And Smythe’s as close as a clam about any job he does. All I know is Smythe decided he needed eight boys. Eight! I ain’t never heard of a cracksman needing eight boys all at once, but that’s what Smythe said he wanted.”
“And you were happy to supply him, of course.”
Grimsby looked grumpy. “No, as a matter of fact. Eight is hard to get—especially with Smythe being so particular. Wouldn’t have done it, even for him, except…”
When Grimsby shot him a look, Stokes filled in the gap. “Smythe had something on you, some lever to pressure you into doing what he wanted.”
“Not Smythe. Alert.”
Stokes frowned. “How did a toff brush up against the likes of you, let alone get some hold over you?”
Grimsby grimaced. “Happened a few years ago. I was going through a bad patch. Tried a little jemmying on me own. I used to have a flair for it in me youth. Broke into a place—and walked into Alert in the dark. Coshed me, he did. When I came around, he had me trussed tight—he gave me a choice, tell him all about who I was, what I did, how I did it, and so on, and he wouldn’t hand me over to the rozzers. Like I was his entertainment for the evening. I fingered him for one of those nobs who likes to rub shoulders with us hoi polloi, likes to think of themselves as in the know, so I told him everything.” Grimsby shook his head at his own naïveté. “Didn’t seem any great risk at the time. I mean, he was a toff—a gentleman. What would he care about me and what I told him?”
“But he remembered.”
Grimsby passed a hand over his face. “Aye, all too well.” He paused, then went on, “He said if I provided Smythe with the boys he wanted, he’d forget he’d ever met me.”
“And you believed him?’
“What choice did I have?” Grimsby glanced around, disgusted again. “And here I am anyway, in the arms of the rozzers.”
Leaving Penelope’s side, Barnaby joined Stokes. “You say Alert is a toff—describe him.”
Grimsby eyed him, then said, “Not as tall as you. Brown hair—darkish and straight. Middling to heavy weight. I’ve never seen him in good light, so can’t say much more than that.”
“Clothes?” Barnaby asked.
“Good quality—Mayfair quality.”
“Have you met with him recently?” Stokes asked.
Grimsby nodded. “In a house in St. John’s Wood. We meet in the back parlor. He sends a message to Smythe if he wants us there, or if we need a meet, Smythe leaves a note at some tavern—I don’t know where.”
“Does Smythe know all of Alert’s plan?” Barnaby asked.
“Not as of yesterday. When he came to fetch the boys he was grumbling about Alert being so cagey about naming the targets. Smythe likes to do a fair amount of reconnoitering before he goes in. Smythe knows more’n I do, but he doesn’t know it all. Not yet.”
Stokes frowned. “This house you meet in—it’s his?”
Grimsby pulled a “how should I know” face. “I assume it is. He’s always right at home there, comfy and relaxed.”
“What’s the address?” Stokes asked.
“Number 32, St. John’s Wood Terrace. We always go round the back, to the parlor doors to the garden. There’s a lane running behind.”
Barnaby had been studying Grimsby. “You say Smythe wanting eight boys is unusual. Why do you think he wants so many?” When Grimsby shrugged, Barnaby let his tone harden. “Guess.”
Grimsby held his gaze for a moment, then said, “If I had to guess, I’d say Alert’s plan was to hit more’n eight houses all at once—all in one night. That way you rozzers wouldn’t have any chance to get in his way.”
