A Conspiracy of Paper Read Free Page B

father’s killers made his death appear self-murder, for it makes all ashamed to discuss it. But I am not ashamed. You think me now penniless, and you think I come to you begging for your help like a pauper, but you know nothing of me. I shall pay you twenty pounds to look into this matter for one week.” He paused so I might have time to reflect on so large a sum. “That I should have to pay you anything to uncover the truth behind your own father’s murder is the more shame for you, but I cannot answer for your sentiments.”
    I studied his face, looking for signs of I’m not sure what—deceit, self-doubt, fear? I saw only an anxious determination. I no longer questioned that he was who he claimed to be. He was an unpleasant man; I knew that I disliked him immensely, and I was certain that he felt no love for me, yet I could not deny my interest in what he claimed about my father’s death. “Mr. Balfour, did anyone see what you claim to be this falsification of self-murder?”
    He waved his hands in the air to demonstrate the foolishness of my question. “I do not know that anyone did.”
    I pressed on. “Have you heard talk, sir?”
    He stared at me in astonishment, as though I had spoken gibberish. “From whom would I? Do you think me the sort to correspond with men who would talk of such things?”
    I sighed. “Then I am confused. How can I find the man who committed a crime if you have no witnesses and no contacts? Into what, precisely, am I to look?”
    “I do not know your business, Weaver. It seems to me that you are being damnably obtuse. You have brought men to justice before—how you have done it then, you are to do it now.”
    I attempted a polite, and I admit, condescending smile. “When I have brought men to justice in the past, sir, it has been in instances wherein someone knew the villain’s identity, and the task lay before me to locate him. Or perhaps there has been a crime in which the scoundrel is unknown, but witnesses saw that he had some very distinctive features—let us say a scar above his right eye and a missing thumb. With information of this nature, I can ask questions of the sort of people who might know this man and thus learn his name, his habits, and finally his whereabouts. But if the first step is your belief, what is the second step? Who are the right people to inquire of next?”
    “I am shocked to hear of your methods, Weaver.” He paused for a moment, perhaps to drive home his distaste. “I cannot tell you of second steps nor of which rascals are appropriate for you to speak with regarding my father’s murder. Your business is your own, but I should think you would consider the matter of sufficient interest to take of me twenty pounds.”
    I was silent for some time. I wanted nothing so much as to send the man away, for I had always been willing to go considerable lengths to avoid contact with my family. Yet twenty pounds was no small amount to me, and while I dreaded the terrible day of reckoning, I knew I needed some external force to push me toward reestablishing contact with those whom I had long neglected. And there was more: though I could not then have explained why, the idea of looking into a matter so opaque intrigued me, for it occurred to me that Balfour, despite the bluster with which he presented his notions, was right. Had there been a crime committed, it seemed only reasonable that it could be uncovered, and I liked the thought of what a success in an inquiry of this nature could do for my reputation.
    “I expect soon another visitor,” I said at last. “And I am very busy.” He started to speak, but I would not let him. “I shall look into this matter, Mr. Balfour. How could I not? But I have not the time to look into this matter right away. If your father has been killed, then there must be some reason why. If it is theft, we must know more details of the theft. I wish you to go inquire as nearly as you can into his matters. Speak to his friends,