Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(70)

“Did he say where he had gotten it from?”

“I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me. Said he would bring me more and we would talk then. Was supposed to be here three nights ago with more merchandise. I waited up, but he never showed. That’s all I know. Certainly nothing about no murder.”

“This black man,” Andrews said. “Young or old? Local or Unassimilated?”

“Old,” said Macinnes, relieved to be able to answer something definitively. “And not local. Tribal herder type, by the look of him. Didn’t speak Feldish too good either.”

“Name?” asked Andrews.

“Didn’t give one. Said he’d find me.”

“And he said nothing about where he had come from?” asked the detective.

“Nothing. And, to be honest, he seemed a bit, well, not entirely right in the head. Looked like he’d been out in the sun too long. Even his hands were burned up.”

“Wait,” I said, speaking for the first time since we had fled from Bessie’s awful sorrow. “His hands were burned when he came to see you?”

“On the insides, yes. Blistered and pink. None too steady on his feet either.”

“Did he visit any of your neighbors?” Andrews asked.

“He got thrown out of a couple places,” said Macinnes. “Saw it myself. Not all my competitors have my eye for a bargain.”

“Or your flexible ethics,” said Andrews.

Macinnes scowled but said nothing.

“Did he go in there?” I asked, nodding across the street.

“To Ansveld’s?” said Macinnes. “That he did.”

“And was thrown out?”

“Not so far as I saw,” said Macinnes, grinning now. “Was in there at least a half hour, then came out and wandered off down the street. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that the high-and-mighty Mr. Ansveld, who thought he was too good to walk on the same cobbles as the likes of yours truly, made a little purchase that day.”

*

“LET ME GO IN by myself,” I said to Andrews.

“This is a police matter, Miss Sutonga,” said the detective. “I’m letting you tag along. That’s all.”

“I was talking to him earlier,” I said. “We don’t want to alarm him.”

“‘We’?” said Andrews, lowering his voice and turning his shoulder so that the uniforms wouldn’t be able to see his face. “There is no ‘we.’ I represent the police. You—”

“Have helped.”

“That may be true,” said Andrews. “But you have also been, shall we say, an instigator. Trouble follows you like weancats after a wounded gazelle.”

“Just give me a minute alone with him,” I said. “If he doesn’t tell me what we need to know, you can question him.”

“And if he lies?”

“I’ll know,” I said.

“Really! And how does that work exactly?” said Andrews, his eyes starting to bulge.

“I’m a good judge of people. Of their moods,” I said.

“Are you getting anything right now?” said Andrews.

I gave him a wan smile.

“Fine,” he said. “One minute, then we come in.”

I turned, but he stopped me, and there was something different in his eyes that was almost compassionate. “Are you all right?” he asked. He was talking about Bessie.

“Fine,” I said.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” he said. “Billy Jennings, I mean.”

“I know,” I said, only half believing it. “Make sure she gets this, will you?” I said, handing him Billy’s two purses.

*

ANSVELD JR.’S EYES LIT up as I stepped in. “I see the police paid a visit to the honorable Mr. Macinnes,” he said, not bothering to contain his glee. “What has the little scamp been up to this time?”

“They are coming here next,” I said.

His smile stalled, as much at my manner as at my words. “Here? Why?”

“Macinnes had dealings with an elderly black man,” I said, “an Unassimilated herder who came offering undocumented luxorite for sale. Macinnes sold one of his pieces to Dowager Hamilton. But the man also came here and had another stone.”

“You already asked me about this, and I told you I didn’t know what you were talking about.”

“I know,” I said, “and I believe you. But it seems certain that the Mahweni herder did come here and spoke to your father.”

“My father would not have bought from him. An undocumented piece is a stolen piece. Simple as that.” He thought for a moment. “You think the boy got the piece from the herder?”

“Not directly,” I said, “but yes. When you first mentioned the boy, you said his fingers were burned. Is that right?”

He blinked, casting his mind back, then nodded. “A little, yes,” he said. “Why? Is that important?”

“I’m not sure,” I said honestly. “Luxorite can be broken up, right? Cut like diamonds?”

“Of course.”

“So one way to disguise stolen stones would be to recut them into new shapes?”

“Yes.”