They heard the boat bump against the steps. It was time to go on patrol. Neither said anything more. The plan would begin the following afternoon. There was much to go over and prepare before then.

In order to catch the Fat Man himself they needed the thieves to steal one article of such value that they could neither divide it, as they would a haul of money, nor break it up, as they would a piece of jewelry, selling the separate stones. It had to be something that was of worth only if it remained whole, yet too specialized and too valuable to sell themselves.

Monk and Orme had obtained Farnham's permission to borrow an exquisite carving of ivory and gold. Intact, it was worth a fortune; broken, its only value was in the weight of the gold, which wasn't much. Even at a glance, a pickpocket would know that such a carving, in good condition, was worth enough to keep him for a decade, if fenced successfully.

Farnham had insisted that Monk himself carry it.

"You can look the part," he said with a curl of his mouth as he passed over the figure, wrapped in a soft chamois leather cloth. He surveyed Monk's beautifully cut jacket and white shirt with its silk cravat, and then his trousers and polished boots. Such clothes were a legacy from Monk's earlier years, before the accident, when most of his money went to his tailor. They were not the fashion of a season, as a woman's gown would have been, but timeless elegance. They spoke of old money, the kind of taste that is innate, not put on to impress others. Farnham might not have been able to describe it, but he knew what it meant. It was inappropriate in a subordinate, which was why Farnham's smile troubled Monk. He remembered how Runcorn had hated his attire, and it made him even more uneasy.

"Thank you, sir." He took the carving and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. It made a slight bump, pulling it out of shape.

"Take care of it, Monk," Farnham warned. "The River Police will go out of business if you lose that! With the word going around now, no one will believe we didn't take it ourselves."

Monk felt odd. Was he walking straight into a trap, knowing it and yet still stupid enough to step in? Or caught tightly enough to have no choice?

"Yes, sir." His voice was rasping, as if the night air off the river had caught in his throat already.

"Orme will give you a cutlass later," Farnham added. "Can't let you have a weapon yet. Even a knife a thief would feel and know there was something wrong. It's a shame. Leaves you a bit vulnerable, but can't be helped." He was still smiling, thin-lipped, barely showing his teeth. "Good luck."