A Christmas Odyssey

The following evening was much easier. They now knew exactly who they were looking for. Additionally, contacts whom Squeaky had used in the past could be persuaded to yield a little information in return for promises of unquestioning medical help for things, such as unexplained knife wounds or even the odd gunshot.

Sadie’s name was recognized by several people they asked in taverns and small theaters of the more louche kind. It seemed she was as great a beauty as the young man the previous evening had suggested, although she did not apparently sing or dance. But, far more arresting than mere physical perfection, she was said to possess a wild energy, imagination, and laughter that fascinated more men than just Lucien Wentworth, although they all seemed agreed that he was the most obsessed with her. He had already come close to killing a man who had tried to claim her forcibly.

“At each other’s throats over ’er, they were,” one raddled old woman told them, where they found her in a busy and very expensive brothel off Half Moon Street. “Stuck a knife in ’is guts, that Lucien did. Daft bastard.” She sucked at her few teeth where the taste of whisky still lingered. “’E’ll kill somebody one day. If ’e din’t already.”

Squeaky silently provided some more.

“Ta’,” she said, grasping hold of it with gnarled hands, lumpy and disfigured by gout. “Ever seen dogs fight? Like that, it was. Sneerin’ an’ teasin’ at each other. An’ she loved it. Food an’ drink it were to ’er. The sight o’ blood fair drove ’er wild. Eyes bright as a madwoman, and a glow on ’er skin like she were lit up inside.”

“Where is she now?” Crow asked her, controlling his voice with difficulty.

“Dunno.” She shook her head.

“Did the man live?” he asked. “The one Lucien knifed?”

“Never ’eard,” she said with a shrug. “Prob’ly.”

Squeaky looked at the swollen hands. “Where’d he go, this Lucien?” He tried to imagine the pain. He reached out and put his thin, strong fingers over hers. “I s’pect you know, if you think about it,” he suggested.

“No I don’t,” she told him. “Places best not talked about. I don’t know nothing.” She nodded. “Safer that way.”

“Wise to be careful who you talk to,” Squeaky agreed. “Best if you just talk to me, an’ him.” He nodded toward Crow. Then very slowly he tightened his grip on her hand, squeezing the swollen joints.

She let out a shriek of pain. Her lips drew back in fury, showing stumps of teeth.

“Oh, how careless of me,” Squeaky said in mock surprise. “Gout, is it? Very painful. So they say. You’ll have to leave off the strong drink. Where did you say they went, then? I didn’t hear you right.” He allowed his hand to tighten just a fraction.

She let out a string of abuse that should have curdled the wine, but she also named a couple of public houses. One was off an alley to the south of Oxford Street, and the other to the north, in a tiny square behind Wigmore Street.

She looked at him with venom. “They’ll eat you alive, they will. Go on, then, I dare yer! Think yer know it all? East End scum, y’are. Know nothing. East End’s kid’s stuff, all there up front. West End’s different. They’ll drown yer, an’ walk away whistlin’. Find yer body in the gutter next mornin’, an’ nobody’ll give a toss. Nobody’ll dare ter.”

“She’s right,” Crow said warningly as they went outside again into the icy street.

“An’ what do you know about the West End?” Squeaky dismissed him.

Crow blinked. For a moment Squeaky thought he saw something quite different in the blue eyes, as if he had once been the sort of man who knew such places. Then the idea seemed absurd, and Crow was just the same amiable “would-be” doctor he’d known for years.

“We better tell Mr. Rathbone that we can’t find what happened to Lucien Wentworth,” Squeaky said aloud. “He could’ve gone anywhere—Paris even, or Rome.”

“There’s no need to give up,” Crow argued. “We’ve a fair chance of finding him.”

“Course we have!” Squeaky responded. “An’ what damn good will that be? Best if his father never hears the kind o’ company he kept. If he went to these places—an’ I have heard of them, no matter what you think—then he isn’t coming back. They don’t need to know that.”

Crow was silent for several moments. “Is that what you would want?” he said finally.

Squeaky was indignant. “How the hell do I know? As if I had children what should’ve been gentlemen.”

“I think we should tell them the truth,” Crow replied thoughtfully. “At least tell Mr. Rathbone the truth. Let him decide what to tell Lucien’s father.”

“Soft as muck, you are!” Squeaky shook his head. “And about as much use. What’ll he want to know that for? Tell him Lucien’s gone to Paris, and he’ll stop looking.”

“Then don’t tell him,” Crow replied. “I will.”