"Why do they call you Eight Fingers?"
Walton asked, puffing away on his pipe. His eyes were directed right at the
ratty man sitting on the chair on the opposite side of his desk, although they
didn't seem to be looking at him or anything in particular. Occasionally he
would run a hand through his greasy, graying hair or tap his beard clad chin
with his pipe, as if in thought.
"Is that a joke?" Rat asked. He had both
his hands held nervously in his lap, missing a pinky and a ring finger on his
left hand. That might just explain his nickname, Walton might assume. But he
never assumed. He listened, and then he verified. He couldn't afford
assumptions as a homicide detective in London's police department.
"Aye, almost as funny as having to knock you
down a digit to seven," Walton said rather dangerously, although he
certainly didn't look dangerous. He looked like an old man. A fit old man, to
be sure, with muscles built over decades of hard work and labor, but still an
old man.
"Look! I don't know nothing! And you got no
proof!" Rat yelled, standing up and slamming his hands on the desk. He
winced slightly, although he tried to hide it quickly. Walton picked that up
quickly.
Probably from his right hand. Poor beggar couldn't even afford
prosthetics. He sighed, blowing a puff of smoke at Rat and waving him, and the
smell, away. Rat managed a smug look as he left, slamming the office door open
as he did. He was soon replaced by a much younger, and well dressed, woman.
"I take it he didn't know anything about the
murders?" The young woman asked, raising an eyebrow at Walton. He managed
a shrug, inhaling and exhaling more smoke before he decided to talk.
"If you work in the less savory parts of
London, and dabble in certain shady endeavors, who is most likely to know about
said endeavors?"
"Yourself? The people you work for?"
"The beggars. Nobody pays them any mind,
because to most people they are just a part of the surroundings. Like a spent
fag on the cobblestones, or some trash in the alleyways," Walton said somberly.
He knew his way around the streets, and he had plenty experience with them.
Unlike this new partner of his. She was too young, too optimistic. He held back
a sigh as he stood up and put on the jacket he had hung over the back of his
chair, moving past the young woman.
She followed him out of the office and out of the
police station, keeping quiet. Her name was Alice, which Walton always chuckled
about for some reason, and she had been working with Walton for a month. That
was long enough to know his moods and that he was a crotchety old geezer at the
best of times. It was long enough to also know that if she needed to know
something, that he would tell her. Or at least give her a hint. If he didn't,
then it was best to keep quiet until he talked.
They walked in silence as he navigated through the
streets, seeming to not follow any particular route. She didn't even realize
they had been following that rat-like man, Eight Fingers she believed, until
she heard his scratchy voice.
Walton held out a hand to motion for her to stop. He
signaled for her to look around the corner of the building they had been
walking by, which she did. She could make out Eight Fingers and some other man,
wearing a dark jacket that he had pulled up enough to cover his face. They were
talking in soft murmurs, making it impossible to make out what they were
saying. She wondered if Walton could hear them. Rumor at the station was that
he had some of those fancy automaton parts in him, although she didn't pay much
mind to rumors.
"Well I'll be. I think we have found a
clue," Walton said quietly, barely loud enough to be even a whisper. They
continued to wait there until Alice heard the man leave, and who she assumed to
be Eight Fingers walking back their way. Walton's body tensed, his arm shooting
forward like a gunshot right as Eight Fingers walked by them, slamming into his
throat. He was pushed back by Walton into the wall across from them, gasping
for breath.
"You're a dirty liar, Eight, and I don't
tolerate liars."
