Margo and the enigmatic Noah Armstrong, both decked out in middle-class businessmen’s wool suits, moved off to talk to the dock foremen. Skeeter followed Tanglewood into the transit office.
The clerk glanced up from a ledger book and smiled a cheerful greeting, his starched collar not yet wilted under the day’s intense pressures. “Good morning, gentlemen, how might I help you?”
Tanglewood said, “We’re hoping you might be able to assist us. We understand there is a ship scheduled to leave St. Katharine’s this morning at six-thirty, a cargo ship. Do you know where we might discover if a certain man has tried to book a passenger berth on her? Or maybe hired on as shiphand?”
The clerk’s smile reversed itself. “You’re trying to find this man?” he asked cautiously.
“We are. He is a desperate criminal, a fugitive we’re trying to trace. He kidnapped a young lady last night and shot a gentleman, leaving him nearly dead, and we have proof that he is responsible for several other deaths in the recent past. The young lady has escaped, thank God, made her way to safety last night. We have reason to believe he’ll try to book passage on any ship that will have him, to escape the hangman. This gentleman,” Tanglewood nodded to Skeeter, “is a Pinkerton Agent, from America, one of the Yanks’ best private inquiry agencies.”
Skeeter dutifully produced his identification.
The transit clerk’s eyes had widened in alarm. “Dear God! Have you contacted the Metropolitan Special Constabulary, sir? The river police should be notified at once!”