Had it been worth those long winter days he’d spent, shuttered away with Samantha? Lounging in bed, going for leisurely strolls, relaxing in front of a blazing fire…
No. Not if it meant losing everything to O’Leary. Which was why they had to find his man. So they could put a stop to O’Leary’s scheme before it got more out of hand.
They rounded a corner, the tread of their shoes leaving prints in the thin snowy layer, letting the brown dirt beneath shine through. A movement along the edge of a wall caught Adrian’s gaze. He shot a quick glance at the rat that scurried along. It vanished behind a stack of crates piled to create a make-shift shelter for a man who huddled between them and a sloped wall.
He muttered something incoherent — a drunken slur or words of madness — as Adrian and Murry passed by. They ignored him and kept moving. Not everyone could be saved and only few were worth the effort.
“The location is just up ahead,” Murry muttered. A warning for Adrian to prepare.
He drew the pistol he’d placed in his pocket and gripped it firmly to steady the hold. A pawnshop came into view and Adrian sent the squat building a critical glare. Such places pretended to serve the poor but only encouraged more crime. They tempted desperate souls to steal and sell their stolen goods here, only to receive a fraction of what the items were worth in return.
Which led to more stealing and more pawning.
Dismissing the problem, he walked to the opposite building. A run-down two-story tenement where their quarry reputedly lodged. Hand fisted, he banged on the door. A clamor arose from within as people stirred in response.
Adrian banged on the door once more and a gruff voice responded. “Who’s there and what do ye want?”
“Name’s Croft. Adrian Croft. I’ve come—”
The door cracked open and the roughened face of a man accustomed to hardship came into view. “I know who you is, Mr. Croft.”
“Are you the landlord here?” Adrian asked.
“That I am,” the man confirmed. “Name’s Ratcher. Whatever ye need, just let me know. I’ve no wish fer trouble.”
“Glad to hear it.” Adrian glanced at Murry, whose body remained tense and ready for action, then told Ratcher, “Word is there’s a lodger here by the name of Mark Crispin.”
Ratcher produced a slow nod. “Aye. He took over Garret’s bed after ’e died.”
Adrian didn’t know who Garret was and didn’t care. “Is Crispin here now?”
Another slow nod. Adrian set his palm on the door and gave it a nudge, forcing Ratcher back a step. He peered inside the dark entryway where silhouetted shapes cast in purplish hues informed him of three doorways opening on to various rooms. Someone skulked in one of them, watching and waiting, probably curious to know what the fuss was about. Adrian dismissed them and noted the stairs that led toward the next level.
“Which way?” Adrian asked Ratcher as he pushed at the front door again and stepped over the threshold.
He heard Ratcher swallow. The person lurking nearby retreated and pulled the door to their room shut. Ratcher sent a swift glance over his shoulder before returning his attention to Adrian. He nodded toward the stairs. “Up there. He’ll be in the room to yer left with five others. His bed is farthest from the door.”
“Thank you.” Adrian turned to Murry, who remained outside. “Stay here. In case he tries to flee through the window.”
“You’re sure?” Murry asked. “If the rest of the men up there give you trouble, it could be six to one.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He’d no wish to chase the man through these streets in case he ran. A fight was preferable if it led to a quick capture.
Leaving Murry behind in the alley, Adrian took the steps two at a time. The sagging wood gave beneath his feet, creaking and groaning with each move he made. A wet smell filled his nostrils, alerting him to the mold that undoubtedly grew in various parts of the building. It wasn’t any warmer in here than outside, but at least the squalid place offered the lodgers shelter.
He stepped onto the landing and turned toward the closed door leading into the room where Crispin supposedly slept. Fingers curled around the grip of his pistol, one finger resting lightly against the trigger, he entered the crowded space.
Adrian paused to observe. The beds had been shoved so closely together there was barely room to move between them. Several occupants snored, one louder than the rest. One turned over, huddling farther under his blanket. Adrian took a step forward and edged his way toward Crispin’s bed.
He positioned himself at the foot end since there was no room on either side, then reached for the scoundrel’s blanket and yanked it away.
Crispin squirmed in response to the answering chill and curled his knees to his chest while frantically seeking the missing blanket. He was a sizeable fellow. Exactly the sort a man like O’Leary could benefit from when he needed some muscle.
Adrian leaned forward and knocked his pistol against Crispin’s leg. “Get up.”
“What?” A groggy sound of confusion.
Adrian straightened, his pistol aimed straight at Crispin’s head. “Don’t make me ask you again.”
