"Our reputation was rather in need of help," Monk said, his eyes still stinging. "Somebody's been spreading the word that we were not only incompetent but very probably corrupt as well. I'd dearly like to know who that was. I don't suppose you've any idea?" He looked at Crow as steadily as his groggy condition would permit.

Crow shrugged and turned his mouth down at the corners. "You want the truth?"

"Of course I do!" Monk said tartly, but with a touch of fear. "Who was it? I can't survive blind."

"Actually, it wasn't so much the whole River Police as you personally," Crow answered. "Everybody that matters knows it was never Mr. Durban. And Mr. Orme s pretty good."

"Me?" Monk felt dizzy again, and the wound in his arm throbbed violently. It was hard to believe it was only a cut-nothing to worry about, Crow had insisted. It would heal up nicely if he gave it a chance.

"You've got enemies, Mr. Monk. You've upset somebody with a lot of power."

"Obviously!" Monk snapped. He clenched his fist, then wished he hadn't.

Crow gave him a sudden, dazzling smile. "But you've got friends as well. Mr. Orme made sure you all stood together."

"Crow ...," Monk began.

Crow blinked, and the smile remained. "You look after Mr. Orme; he's a good one. Loyal. Worth a lot, loyalty. I'll get a cab to take you home. You'll only fall on your face, and you don't want to have to explain that- you a hero an' all."

Monk glared at him, but actually he was grateful-for the ministration, for the cab, but above all for knowing of Orme's loyalty. He made up his mind that from now on he would try harder to deserve it.

But who had spread the word that he was corrupt personally? Argyll again?

NINE

NINE

It was well into February when Aston Sixsmith came to trial. He had been free on bail since shortly after his arrest, having been charged only with bribery.

"But you are going to be able to prove Argyll's complicity, aren't you?" Monk said to Rathbone the evening before testimony began. Monk's wound was healing well, and they were comfortable before a brisk fire in Rathbone's house. Rain was beating against the windows, and the gutters were awash. They still had not found the actual assassin, in spite of every effort, and River Police duties had consumed most of Monk's time since the death of the Fat Man. It had been a hideous job catching grapples into the corpse and hauling it up through the jagged hole in the pier. But the carving had been retrieved-to Monk's intense relief, and to mixed emotions in Farnham's case. If it had been lost, Farnham would have blamed Monk, not himself.