Faces of Man

7

Hopkins was standing alone in the shady mouth of the byway opposite Whitfield's house. The stretch of Netheravon Road before him was moonlit, rendering the streetlamps nearly useless. He chipped the gleaming butt of his cigarette into the gutter, exhaling a gust of smoke. Hopkins stomped his legs to keep the cold out. Monroe had been gone for some time by now, and he grew restless.

Something was rattling down the street out of the direction of the old cathedral. Hopkins drew further back into the shadows of the byway, listening intently. He heard iron-rimmed wheels on stone, the patter of horseshoes, snippets of a conversation.

"You can stop here," Hopkins heard a man say. "We'll walk the short stretch, savouring the night."

He couldn't hear the response, but the coach came to a rattling halt out of his sight. Hopkins leaned closer to the corner of the house to the left, risking a quick glance. He could see a man helping a woman out of a coach under the flickering light of a streetlamp just up the road. The coachman waited patiently until he was paid, then he clicked his tongue, setting the horse into motion again. The man turned southward, so that Hopkins could see his face. So, he's returning home now, Hopkins thought, glancing from Whitfield to the building Monroe had broken in. He could see no sign of his colleague and he surely didn't know how to contact him about the arrival of the homeowner. He could hear the couple walking down the street, talking to one another in hushed voices; heard the woman giggling at something Whitfield had said.

Hopkins drew away from the corner, deeper into the shadows. Whitfield and his company drew level with the mouth of the byway. They walked up the few steps to the front door, Whitfield searching for his keys.

It's done know, thought Hopkins. Monroe had to find a way out on his own. He could do nothing for him.

Whitfield had opened the front door and stepped over the threshold, but he seemed as if something had struck him as odd. He hesitated. Hopkins saw him, closing the door halfway, reconsidering, opening the door again and observing something on the ground. Hopkins heard Whitfield's company asking if anything was amiss. Seconds seemed to strain into minutes before Whitfield closed the door, seemingly satisfied.

Hopkins produced one of the cigarettes he had pre-rolled while waiting for Monroe, struck a match on the wall beside him, and lit it. Damn, how he hated that bloody shit; the whole bloody business of doing the dirty work for Whitfield, just because he wasn't in the mood to do it himself. Hopefully, Monroe would find something that would link Whitfield to that shithole of a situation. Hopefully, Monroe wouldn't get caught.

Time passed. A slight fog began to rise from the river, creeping up the street. The nearest streetlight flickered and went out.

Hopkins made up his mind. He needed to do something. Monroe was too long in there by now; Whitfield's presence wouldn't speed things up, quite the contrary. He straightened his coat and was about to cross the street as he heard something behind him. Steps, unmistakably. He didn't turn around at once. He listened. Two pair of feet were coming down on the stones, they weren't in a hurry. And they were headed his way. Hopkins folded the right side of his coat behind the butt of his heavy revolver, slightly rattling the iron to make sure it would get smoothly out of the holster. As he judged that whoever was coming down the street was now close enough, he placed his hand on the butt of his gun and turned around.

"Don't piss yourself," announced Monroe, closing the distance, and clapping his colleague on the shoulder.

Hopkins groaned, un-cocked the hammer and concealed the weapon once more under his coat. "Close call, wasn't it?"