As he'd anticipated, the boy ignored the open acknowledgement that he was the pack's leader and fell for the implication that he was not man enough for the “job.” He drew himself up to his full four feet and bristled.

“I got two older brothers. One's a drunk and one's in prison. Which one do you want?”

“By the sound of it, neither of them. I need someone who's wise enough not to fall into a bottle and bright enough not to get caught when he does something slick. How smart are you?”

“Smarter'n you, mister, if you think I'll fall for that guff.”

“Up to you. I need a job done, and I'm willing to pay, but if you're not interested, I'll find someone else.”

“What kind of job?”

“The kind of job that takes brains and the ability to keep his friends under control.”

The boy looked at the friends in question, standing in a knot just a little further down the alley. Then he looked back at Holmes, and took a couple of steps closer. “Like I said—what kind of a job?”

The negotiations that followed would have done a wigged barrister proud, but in the end, Holmes had bought the day's services of the boy's pack: keeping constant watch over the Hammett door, running a messenger to the St Francis if anyone came to the apartment, and following discreetly when the intruder left.

“You'll need to be wary of the boot-leggers on the ground floor,” he warned his new lieutenant. “They may stand watch in the evenings. And if an intruder comes, you are not to approach him, or her as the case may be. You will follow, at a distance, for as long as you can. If she—or he—gets into a taxi, don't try to run behind or draw attention to yourself by trying to hail a taxi of your own. Just get the cab's number and we can later find where the driver went. Er, I am correct in assuming you can all read numbers?” The scornful snort the lad gave out reminded Holmes of Russell; it also satisfied him, and he went on. “If she goes into a shop, one of you go around the back to make sure—”

“Mister,” the leader interrupted with infinite disdain, “we know all this. My uncle runs a betting shop, and when one of his customers don't pay up, sometimes he asks us to help lay hands on the guy. You're doin' what he calls ‘Teaching granny to suck eggs,' whatever that means. Sounds disgusting, but that's what you're doin'.”