“Tell me what happened at the quay,” she whispered to me, flicking her skirt aside and straddling me. This did not bode well for me; the dame was smart. I knew what she wanted, too, and it wasn’t to hear about the quay. She already knew about the ridiculous scene on the yacht at low tide, with Johnny Scouts hanging his deadbeat, ale-sodden driver off the aft of the boat by his heels and bellowing for his money back, and the poor sot kicking and yelling that he didn’t know anything about any damn loans, sir! That wasn’t what she was looking for, no. Her questions reeked of something deeper, something sharper. I told her so and laughed.

“You cur,” she said, laying the blade of a knife against my neck. I stared at the yin and yang of her dark hair against the curve of her cheekbone, a duality even the Dalai Lama would be too speechless with awe to expound upon. Her thighs on top of mine felt as hot as an oven, and the rope gouged painfully into my wrists behind my back.

“I’ve committed no crime,” I said, and in the corner of the room, her lackey jotted down my denial.

“If that’s true, then we mean you no harm,” whispered she. The slender knife dug into my neck, her slender fingers curled around its handle, and I wondered how badly such a puny thing could injure me.

“The money’s with the dancer,” I said finally, feeling something wet pool in my collarbone. “The lead in the Peccadillo Revue.”

“Where can I find her?” Her lips were curving, and I felt sick to my stomach at having surrendered the information. But better a live rat than a dead hero, right?

“The Revue opens tomorrow night in the Angel Zoo bar. Knock six times on the dressing room door – three slow, three quick – and tell her I sent you.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, climbing off me and tossing the knife aside. As she pulled on her trenchcoat, she tossed me a long-lashed wink. “Don’t you move, kid. I shall return anon.”