Movement from the table next to their friends caught Max’s eye. A man with more grey in his hair than brown lay down his paper and stood. He picked up his mug, sauntered across the room to Pinkerton’s table, and took a seat.
The American gave the newcomer a shaky smile. Pinkerton must have made some jest that only he found amusing. He broke out into loud guffaws but the newcomer remained stone-faced.
“Your man isn’t going to make it,” Dunkeld said. “He doesn’t have the stomach for the double deal.”
He had stomach enough to threaten to cut a woman’s throat. But, yes, looking at the man, Max doubted he would have had been able to carry through on the act. Max knew from past experience just how gruesome a slit throat could be. He swallowed. The world would be a better place if all men were as squeamish as Pinkerton.
“You don’t suppose Montague or Summerset are close enough to hear their conversation?” Dunkeld asked.
“In this crowd?” Max shook his head. “I think Pinkerton is having a hard time hearing what the man is saying.”
“I guess all we can hope for is that he will lead us to Zed. Or at least one step closer.” Dunkeld sipped his brew and looked around for the serving girl. “Where are our pies? We could be here awhile.”
“Or not.” Bringing his leg down, Max sat on the edge of his seat. The older man had grabbed Pinkerton’s forearm, shaking it around like a ragdoll. Something had made him unhappy. The man’s gaze slid around the room, sharp as a blade. Max made himself busy with his coffee.
With a disgusted look at Pinkerton, the man drew to his feet and stormed from the coffee house.
Max threw some coin on the table. “Looks like we’re up.” With a nod to Montague and Summerset, he and Dunkeld headed for the front door while their friends made for the back. Dunkeld made a quick detour and hit the exit with two pies in his hand.
“What?” the Scotsman said at Max’s eye roll. “Following someone isn’t any easier on an empty stomach.” Passing a meat pastry to Max, Dunkeld strode out onto the street towards their carriage.
Zed’s man was climbing into a hackney.
Dunkeld said a few words to the driver of their carriage and nodded his head at the hackney Zed’s man had entered. Their driver, a man they’d used before for such tasks, nodded and clutched the reins to the horses tightly.
Dunkeld climbed into the carriage. “I don’t see Rothchild.”
Max followed. “He’s here. Somewhere.” And with Rothchild, Montague, and Summerset on horseback, their chances of maintaining a line on their quarry were better than his and Dunkeld’s.
They jolted into motion. Peering out the window, Max tracked the hackney. Their own driver maintained a respectable distance. The conveyance their quarry was in didn’t have a rear window, and it would be difficult for the man to discover he was being followed.
The hackney coach turned down a side street, pausing by a cart weighed down with ale barrels, to let a street sweep cross before starting forward once more and rolling down the street.
Max almost missed it. The man was good, he’d give him that. If the nag harnessed to the cart hadn’t done a little side-step, Max would never have looked anywhere but at the coach. He would have missed that the man had jumped out, using the cart to block himself from sight, and tucked himself behind the horse.
“We’ve been spotted. He’s left the coach, and it looks like he knows someone is following.” Max leaned forwards and clenched his hands. “Let’s wait until we reach the corner and tell our driver to drop us off out of sight. If we double back, maybe we can still follow him without his knowledge.”
“A wise plan.” Dunkeld pursed his lips. “If only Summerset would have thought of it, too.”
“What?” Max whipped his head around to look out the opposite window. Their friend galloped towards the ale cart, making it clear that he was aiming for their target. Zed’s man peered over the horse’s back, saw Summerset charging, and took off down a back alley. Max cursed. “Jesus. I swear, sometimes John has more jewels on his boots than he does brains in his head.” Launching himself from the carriage while it yet rolled, Max hit the ground and stumbled. He straightened and took off after their fleeing quarry.
Summerset maneuvered his mount around the pedestrians on the sidewalk. He reached the entrance to the alley and kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks. His horse took off, a spray of dirt flinging back from its hooves. Max’s long legs closed the distance, and he turned into the alley right behind Summerset.
The man ahead got smart and began tossing barrels and empty crates in his path as he ran past the debris. Summerset urged his horse over and around, but lost time.
Max reached his friend and shoved past the rump of his mount. Summerset looked down, eyes wide and glowing.
Jumping over a barrel, Max yelled back over his shoulder, “This isn’t supposed to be a good time, arsehole. We’re here to catch the man.” Actually, they were there to follow and gather information, but Summerset had blown that out of the water. Max didn’t have time to give his friend snuff. Later. The yelling could come later.
“Can’t we have both?” Summerset hollered from behind him.
Max pounded ahead, ignoring him. Turning at the next street, he was joined by Montague on his black stallion.
“He’s turning the next corner,” Montague said and kicked his heels in his horse’s sides. Man and beast flew down the street. Max pounded after them, regretting not having a horse of his own for this task. Chasing down suspects was getting harder and harder.
Dunkeld rounded the corner ahead of Max, and Max was glad to see his friend’s face was red and sweaty. “Why can’t this bugger run in a straight line?” Dunkeld asked. “All these twists and turns are starting to make me lose my temper.”
“Have you seen Rothchild?”
