"Where do you want them?"
"I was thinking of Greenwich," Pierce said. "It would be pleasant if they were in Greenwich."
"So you're needing a bone nose to pass them the slang."
"Yes," Pierce said.
Agar thought for a moment. "There's a dolly-mop, Lucinda, in Seven Dials. They say she knows one or two miltonians--- dabs it up with them whenever they pinch her, which is often, seeing as how they like the dabbing."
"No," Pierce said. "They wouldn't believe a woman; it'll look like a feed to them."
"Well, there's Black Dick, the turfite. Know him? He's a Jew, to be found about the Queen's Crown of an evening."
"I know him," Pierce nodded. "Black Dick's a lushington, too fond of his gin. I need a true bone nose, a man of the family."
"A man of the family? Then Chokee Bill will do you proper."
"Chokee Bill? That old mick?"
Agar nodded. "Aye, he's a lag, did a stretch in Newgate. But not for long."
"Oh, yes?" Pierce was suddenly interested. A shortened prison sentence often implied that the man had made a deal to turn nose, to become an informer. "Got his ticket-of-leave early, did he?"
"Uncommon early," Agar said. "And the crushers gave him his broker's license quick-like, too. Very odd, seeing as he's a mick." Pawnbrokers were licensed by the police, who shared the usual prejudice against Irishmen.
"So he's in the uncle trade now?" Pierce said.
"Aye," Agar said. "But they say he deals barkers now and again. And they say he's a blower."
Pierce considered this at length, and finally nodded. "Where is Bill now?"
"His uncling shop is in Battersea, on Ridgeby Way."
"I'll see him now," Pierce said, getting to his feet. "I'll have a go at plucking the pigeon."
"Don't make it too easy," Agar warned.
Pierce smiled. "It will take all their best efforts." He went to the door.
"Here, now," Agar called to him, with a sudden thought. "It just came to me mind: what's there for a flash pull in Greenwich, of all places?"
"That," Pierce said, "is the very question the crushers will be asking themselves."
"But is there a pull?"
"Of course."
"A flash pull?"
"Of course."
"But what is it, then?"
Pierce shook his head. He grinned at Agar's perplexed look and left the room.
When Pierce came out of the accommodation house, it was twilight. He immediately saw the two crushers lurking at opposite corners of the street. He made a show of looking nervously about, then walked to the end of the block, where he hailed a cab.
He rode the cab several blocks, then jumped out quickly at a busy part of Regent Street, crossed the thoroughfare, and took a hansom going in the opposite direction. To all appearances, he was operating with the utmost cunning. In fact, Pierce would never bother with the crossover fakement to dodge a tail; it was a glocky ploy that rarely worked, and when he glanced out of the small back window of the hansom cab, he saw that he had not thrown off his pursuers.
He rode to the Regency Arms pub house, a notorious place. He entered it, exited from a side door (which was in plain view of the street), and crossed over to New Oxford Street, where he caught another cab. In the process, he lost one of the crushers, but the other was still with him. Now he proceeded directly across the Thames, to Battersea, to see Chokee Bill.
The image of Edward Pierce, a respectable and well-dressed gentleman, entering the dingy premises of a Battersea pawnbroker may seem incongruous from a modern perspective. At the time, it was not at all uncommon, for the pawnbroker served more than the lower classes, and whomever he served, his function was essentially the same: to act as a sort of impromptu bank, operating more cheaply than established banking concerns. A person could buy an expensive article, such as a coat, and hock it one week to pay the rent; reclaim it a few days later, for wearing on Sunday; hock it again on Monday, for a smaller loan; and so on until there was no further need for the broker's services.
The pawnbroker thus filled an important niche in the the society, and the number of licensed pawnshops doubled during the mid-Victorian period. Middle-class people were drawn to the broker more for the anonymity of the loan than the cheapness of it; many a respectable household did not wish it known that some of their silver was uncled for cash. This was, after all, an era when many people equated economic prosperity and good fiscal management with moral behavior; and conversely, to be in need of a loan implied some kind of misdeed.
The pawnshops themselves were not really very shady, although they had that reputation. Criminals seeking fences usually turned to unlicensed, second-hand goods "translators," who were not regulated by the police and were less likely to be under surveillance. Thus, Pierce entered the door beneath the three balls with impunity.
He found Chokee Bill, a red-faced Irishman whose complexion gave the appearance of perpetual near strangulation, sitting in a back corner. Chokee Bill jumped to his feet quickly, recognizing the dress and manner of a gentleman.
"Evening, sir," Bill said.
"Good evening," Pierce said.
"How may I be serving you, sir?"
Pierce looked around the shop. "Are we alone?"
"We are, sir, as my name is Bill, sir." But Chokee Bill got a guarded look in his eyes.
"I am looking to make a certain purchase," Pierce said. As he spoke, he adopted a broad Liverpool dockyard accent, though ordinarily he had no trace of it.