Chapter 43: The Private Detective
“Well, then,” I piped up, my voice small and clear, cutting through the angry grumbling. “You should fetch the peelers, shouldn’t you?” It was a simple question, delivered with the wide-eyed innocence of a child. It was also a perfectly aimed stone cast into a nest of vipers. The men's faces changed instantly. It was as if I had thrown a bucket of ice water on them. The bluster and rage vanished, replaced by a shifty, panicked look.
Just as I thought. They had no intention of involving the authorities. If they had, they wouldn't have been here, bullying a helpless girl behind a counter. They knew that by the time the peelers arrived, the thief would be long gone. They also knew it would mean an end to any chance of extorting compensation from the bathhouse. And worse, they might be dragged away for questioning themselves—a troublesome affair that could easily end with them being shaken down for a few coppers by the very constables meant to be helping them. No one in the lower classes had a good word to say about the peelers. Seeing one was considered a bad omen. They would never consider reporting a crime, preferring to settle matters themselves, usually with fists and knives. But when I, a small child, suggested it, they couldn't refute it without revealing their true, craven intentions. The other onlookers merely chuckled, seeing me as a naive little girl proposing a hopelessly naive solution.
“The little lady is right,” the man in the trench coat said, his calm voice carrying an edge of amusement. He was stoking the fire, enjoying the show. “A matter for the constabulary, I should think. Let’s have them sort it out in public. Who stole what, how much was lost, whether the bathhouse is liable… let the peelers decide.”
“There’s no need for that! It’s just a small matter,” one of the men said hastily, his voice almost a squeak. The others nodded in fervent agreement. I noticed then the genuine fear in their eyes. They feared the peelers like the plague, and wouldn't even dare to criticize them in a public place.
“Well then,” I piped up again, my voice full of false innocence, pressing my advantage. “Why not call for the owner of the bathhouse? He should come out and give you an explanation, shouldn't he?” Once again, their expressions soured. I had suspected as much. To run a business like a bathhouse—a place ripe for trouble—in a district this rough, and to have the means to install such a complex water pump, the owner had to be a formidable character himself. These men were common bullies: they preyed on the weak and feared the strong. They had no qualms about threatening a young woman behind a counter, but they clearly had no stomach for a direct confrontation with the bathhouse master.
“No, no, that won’t be necessary either,” they mumbled, their collective anger now completely extinguished by my two simple, "naive" questions. The focus of the conflict had shifted away from the poor girl at the counter.
“Why don’t we all have another look, then?” the man in the trench coat suggested with a pleasant, reasonable smile. “I would be happy to assist you in your search.”
“And who are you?” one of the other men asked, eyeing him with suspicion. The little girl getting involved was one thing—she was just a child. But why was this stranger meddling in their affairs?
“Sebastian de Cervantes, at your service,” the man in the trench coat said, giving a polite, almost theatrical bow, one hand held to his chest. “I am a private investigator.” The mood shifted again. A private detective. That explained his intervention. The men relaxed, their suspicion replaced by a grudging respect. Some even managed a weak, ingratiating smile. My own attention, however, was snagged by his name. It sounded like the name of a character from a book, not a real person you'd find in a grimy bathhouse. And the "de" in the middle… it could be a nobiliary particle, like the "von" in the names of German aristocrats. He was no common man.
The detective's offer was accepted, and the men decided to return to the changing room to search for clues, though I suspected their efforts would be fruitless. This affair was no longer my concern. I had won. I turned to slip away, to finally find Jared. But the detective was suddenly at my side, his movements silent and swift as a cat's. He leaned in, his voice a low, a conspirator's whisper that was far more terrifying than the mob's angry shouts. “A clever performance, miss,” he said. “Just one small question. How did you know the theft occurred in the men’s changing room?”
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