Dr. Ferguson bugger took his own good time coming to the door. Colin tried to steady his heartbeat. This was it, mate: the breakout. Don’t take any crap from the bloke, now, he thought. You have what he wants.
Ferguson was a smallish fellow, early fifties maybe, and dressed Savile Row.
“Mr. Smythe, is it?”
“Dr. Ferguson, I presume?” A little cheek to show the bastard I’m not afraid of him.
“Do come in.”
Nice. Nice place. Antique furniture. Hunting prints on the walls. Books, of course.
“You brought the item with you, I hope.”
Colin pointed at the attache case clutched in his hand.
“May I see it?”
“May I see the money?”
Ferguson sat down and pointed Colin to a chair. “You are new at this, Mr. Smythe. The merchandise first, and if it’s genuine, then we discuss the money.”
Colin put the case on his lap and opened it. He handed the books to Ferguson.
The doctor opened up the first volume, checked out the cover, the spine, and the first few pages. Then he examined the other three volumes.
“These are from Simon Keyes’s collection. I’m surprised he let it go.”
“So is he.”
“Ah, yes-”
Colin leaned over. “Let’s cut the genteel bullshit. You had an arrangement with Neal Carey. I’m acting as, shall we say, his agent. Same terms.”
“And how did you get this from Mr. Carey?”
“Do you care?”
“No.”
Come on, come on, Colin thought. So close. Don’t blow it now.
“Ten thousand, was it?” Ferguson was asking him.
Colin smiled. “Twenty, actually.” Up yours, mate.
“Ah, yes.”
Ah, yes, indeed. Twenty thousand sweet quid and Colin is set. I’ll turn that twenty to fifty quick as your sister drops her knickers.
“You’ll accept a check?”
Colin looked nonplussed.
Ferguson chuckled. “Sorry, a small joke.”
I’ll small-joke you, you smarmy twit. Twenty thousand quid may be play money to you; it’s my fucking life.
“You do realize,” Ferguson continued, “that I expected this delivery some weeks ago.”
“There were problems.”
“Apparently.”
No. Christ, no. Don’t let it go sour now.
The whoreson ballocks breaker spent about three hours lighting his fucking pipe, then he said, “Fortunately for you, Mr. Smythe, truth be known, I would kill for these volumes.”
Truth be known, Dr. Ferguson, I did.
“Then you won’t mind giving me my money.”
Ferguson gestured with his pipe to a closed door. “Shall we step into the library?”
Yes, we bloody well shall, if that’s where you keep the nicker. A small evil thought of hitting the bastard over the head and taking it all crept into Colin’s mind, but he dismissed it. Mustn’t be greedy.
“After you.”
Colin stepped into the library.
“Hello, rugger.”
Colin blinked hard. Twice.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Smythe?” Ferguson asked.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Colin recovered quickly. “Neal… glad you’re all right, chappie.”
And sweet bugger all if Neal wasn’t sitting right there, not looking too good, but a damn sight better than he’d looked the last time Colin saw him. He was pale as a nun at an orgy, and the shirt that was draped over his shoulders revealed a bloody bandage that covered most of his chest. And he looked real tired, totally fagged, which wasn’t bad, considering he had been dead and all.
“God’s blood, Neal, that gun had a hair trigger, didn’t it?” Neal didn’t answer him. He didn’t smile or laugh or nothing. Just sat and stared at him. Maybe he is dead, after all.
“When I was a lad,” Ferguson intoned, and double sod him, “on my first bird-hunting jaunt, my father taught me to always, always check my load. Too heavy a shot, you ruin the bird. Too small a shot, you wound the bird. Of course, a load of rock salt… you lose the bird.”
Colin whirled on him. “Yeah, well, you triple-sodomized poxy piece of ape dung, Dad never took me bird hunting, unless you count the time we boffed your grandmum in the gents’ at Charing Cross, and what in the name of Lord Nelson’s sausage is rock salt, while we’re about it?”
“Steady, lad.” This contribution came from a big bloke in the corner, and God’s blood if it wasn’t Hatcher, that half-honest peeler from Vine Street, who wouldn’t even take a bribe from Dickie Huan. And he already had the irons out. This thing was turning to shit, quick like. Think, Colin lad, think. “Where’s Allie?”
Thank you, Neal. God bless you, rugger. I can always count on you.
“I dunnoo, Neal.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Colin. I’ll take you out and shoot you.” Colin wasn’t thrilled that Hatcher was nodding. “But maybe I could find out,” Colin said.
Colin watched and sweated as Neal and the cop exchanged what could be called significant looks. “Hatcher?” Neal asked.
Hatcher stroked his chin. He was thinking, Colin saw, which he knew was hard on cops.
“Not meaning to be difficult,” Hatcher said, “but it leaves me, as it were, standing out in the cold looking through the window at the Christmas pudding. I understand what you’re asking, you get your girl back safe… all well and good… and Mr. Keyes gets his books back, and the young punk goes scot-free. I get left in the same old dead-end job, putting the arm on ponces for the small money.”
So much for half-honest, Colin thought. Must’ve left that half to home.
And it must have been a hell of a natter they had before I got here. Leave it to a greedy cop to queer a nice arrangement. Except it isn’t so nice, is it? If I leave this room free as a bird, I still have Dickie to deal with.
The cop continued: “If I may offer a suggestion. Why don’t you leave me and the lad to have a chat alone, and I’ll wager next month’s take I’ll have your girl for you quick as a Scotsman’s funeral.”
“Then what?”
Christ, Neal, don’t encourage him!
“I’ll charge our friend here with an assortment of major crimes against the Crown, and perhaps win a pat on the back from my grateful superiors.”
Neal looked at Hatcher. “Enjoy,” he said, and started out of his chair. He took it slow, and it still hurt.
“Hold on,” Colin said. “Let’s not be hasty.” He gave Hatcher his most engaging hustler’s smile. “How would you like to be a superstar?”
Neal eased himself down on the bed in Ferguson’s guest room, The doctor had insisted he rest, and Neal supposed it made sense. It would take a while for things to work out, anyway.
His chest throbbed. When the charge had first hit him, he’d thought he was dead. He was sure now that his heart had stopped for a second or so, either through pain, or shock, or fear, and the sheer force of the blow that had taken him off his feet had driven the air out of his lungs. He remembered hitting the floor, and that was about it before he’d passed out.
He’d come to when the collie started licking his face and sniffing him, and he saw Hardin leaning over him. The tough old shepherd got him to his feet and cleaned up the raw, rasping wound. He sterilized his knife with the flame of a match and used it to pick out the rock salt that was still imbedded in the flesh. Then he asked Neal some hard questions.
When he heard the story, Hardin left Neal in the cottage and returned an hour later in an old Bedford lorry. First they went to the village, where they each had a whiskey and Neal placed his call to London. Ferguson had already heard from “Mr. Smythe,” and had recalled Neal’s name. He reasoned that Neal, for some bizarre reason, had betrayed his host by stealing his most valuable possession, and Ferguson was considering ringing the police. He agreed to wait until Neal could tell him the story in person, and then run him in if he wished.
The long ride to London was a torment in the bumpy old truck, and every jolt sent a burning stab through Neal’s chest. When they arrived at Ferguson’s in the small hours of the morning, Neal was in bad shape.