Monk, Jones, and Butterworth moved separately, trying to give themselves three chances not to lose him. It would be better to arrest him and catch no one else than lose the carving. But then the whole exercise would have been a failure. One thief was hardly here or there. They would have betrayed their hand for nothing.

They were moving south again. Orme and his men should be keeping pace with them along the river.

There was another man in the shadows. Monk stopped abruptly, afraid of catching up and being seen. Then he realized he should not have stopped. It drew attention to him. It was years since he had done this sort of thing. He retraced his steps a couple of yards and bent down as if to pick up something he had dropped, then went forward again. The new man had caught up with the thief. His outline under the lamppost looked familiar. He was short and fat with a long overcoat and a brimless hat. He had been on that boat-another thief?

A third man had joined them by the time they turned right and reached another ancient set of steps down to the water. A boat was waiting for them, and almost immediately the darkness swallowed them.

Monk stood alone, shifting from foot to foot, desperately searching the darkness for Orme. Where the devil was he? There were barges moving upstream, their riding lights glittering. An ice-cold wind was whining among the broken pier stakes.

There was a noise behind him. He spun around. A man stood ten feet away. He had not even heard him coming; the slurp of the water masked his footsteps. Monk had no weapon, and his back was to the river.

A boat scraped against the steps. He strode over and saw several men in it-randan, police formation. There was room for two more, which would be cramped although not dangerous. Orme was in the stern. Monk could not see his face, but he recognized the way he stood, outlined solid black against the shifting, dimly reflecting surface of the water.

Monk went down the steps as fast as he could, his feet slithering on the wet, slime-coated stone. Orme put out his hand and steadied him as he all but pitched forward on the last step. He landed clumsily in the boat and scrambled to take one of the seats. The next moment his hands closed over an oar and he made ready to throw his weight against it on the order.

Butterworth came down the steps, boarded, and crouched in the stern. The word was given, and they pulled out into the stream. They heaved hard to catch up with the thieves' boat.