They didn’t give me enough, I’m bigger than I look. Coming out of it this time I knew what to expect an didn’t make any rash moves. When everything was working properly I went across to the barred window which was now letting in the last few rays of the day’s light. The bars were in the form of a one piece grill bolted into the window frame-the worst way to do it. This gives you something heavy to lever against something fragile if you can get any leverage. This depends on the bolts, sometimes they’re anchored deep into the wood, sometimes they’ve worked loose, rusted or are held firm only by an accretion of paint. Here at St Mark’s we had the latter kind. I took a few breaths and applied some pressure to the grill, it moved. I applied some more and it moved a lot. It was hard work for one in my condition but I stuck at it; eventually I’d jiggled and lifted the grill loose on one side. It was heavy but that helped; I peeled it back off the frame like unwrapping a slice of cheese.
I lifted the window sash and let the cool night air playing on my sweaty brow stimulate some thinking. I could stay and fight with the element of surprise on my side, or run. That didn’t take much thinking; Mrs Matthews’ friends were big and at least one of them looked canny, and I still had some kind of drug drifting around in my system that might take the power from my strong right arm. Run then, but where to? I had nothing that would interest the cops and there didn’t seem much point in knocking on Mrs Matthews’ door and asking for an explanation. Jacobs? Charles Herbert? The names did set me thinking and prompted action. I re-possessed my wallet, buttoned my ripped shirt sleeve, rubbed my sore ear and climbed out on to the balcony to sniff the air.
It was after eight o’clock, and quiet the way hospitals should be at that hour given that they wake the patients up with the sparrows. I sidled along the balcony to the back wall and gave the vine I’d noticed before a tentative tug-solid like the Country Party vote. I trusted the vine and the trellis all the way down to the ground.
I slunk along in the shadows, made it across to the fence and followed that along to a back gate. A dog barked across the street as I swung myself over the locked gate, but I toughed that out. Hardy rampant; I tested the physical equipment by jogging back to my car.
I stopped for some medicinal brandy and it was near enough to nine o’clock when I reached Jacobs’ place of business and abode. I cruised around a bit sizing it up; there was a section at the back that looked like the flat Mrs Wetherell had mentioned. I parked up the street, put my. 38 in my pocket and walked back. There were lights on in the flat; behind that was a garage big enough to house the Jag and a couple of hearses. I rubber-soled it along the side of the garage and looked in. Some street light fell on the Jag gleaming like a butler-polished tea pot.
‘What’re you doing?’ It was the goon I’d seen here before; he was in short-sleeves and bare feet now and he held a hammer. He didn’t look in any mood for discussion and I didn’t feel conciliatory myself. I felt strong enough and angry enough at the mistreatment I’d had at the hospital to take it out on him. I charged and hit him in the chest with a dropped shoulder; he went back against the concrete wall of the garage and bounced off it swinging the hammer. I kicked a leg out from under him and he went down hard. He’d lost wind when he hit the wall and he fell awkwardly, his head thumped the ground, the hammer clattered away and he lay still. I waited in the shadows but nothing stirred in the flat. I bent down by the man and checked him over in the half light. His breathing was okay, and his eyes looked normal under the lids. I slid him up into a sitting position by the wall-tongue free, nothing constricting neck or mouth, no blood to speak of.
At closer range I could hear music coming from the flat, something classical and relaxing. I imagined Jacobs with brandy and Beethoven-good. I took out the Smith amp; Wesson and rapped on the door with it. After a while another light came on inside, and a voice came from behind the door.
‘Herb?’
I grunted something affirmative-sounding imitating Herb’s voice as best I could. The bolt slid back and the door swung open. I crowded him and put the muzzle of the gun into the fold of flesh between his first and second chin.
There’s nothing here’, he gulped. ‘No money, nothing.’
‘I’m glad to hear it’, I said. ‘You’re going visiting.’
He was wearing a dressing-gown over his shirt and trousers, his feet were in slippers and he passed his hand over his hair while he looked down at himself. ‘Now? Like this?’ It struck me forcibly that vanity was his middle name; just possibly he was vain enough to tackle the gun. I prodded his neck.
‘Now. Come on.’
‘I can’t go out like this.’
‘You look wonderful; don’t make me put blood all over you.’
He came out and I pulled the door shut behind him.
‘Where’s Herb?’ he said.
‘Sleeping.’
I urged him across the street and up to the car; as he lowered himself on to the torn vinyl in the passenger seat he looked like a bedouin without his camel.
Jacobs put a few questions to me as I drove to Charles Herbert’s address but I ignored them. He jumped when I checked the. 38 over before getting out of the car. It was a street that treated its cars to garages and car ports, but there was a big Fairlane station wagon outside Matthews’s place. There were two letter boxes on the front gate and the number one stood out iridescently on the house’s front porch. Matthews had given his address as flat two. I opened the gate quietly and we went up the drive towards the back. When we were almost there we stopped as a sound cracked sharply inside the house. It came again, and then there was a long, thin howl like a cat trying to sound human. A voice was raised, then I heard a laugh and the sharp crack sounded again. I pushed Jacobs ahead of me and I could feel him shaking; I felt a bit shaky myself.
The commotion kept me up, and I moved fast around the back of the house to a door at the top of a short flight of steps. I motioned to Jacobs to stand still, he watched the muzzle of the gun like a roulette player watching the ball and nodded quickly. The crack again, the howl again, only going up this time, hanging mid-way and breaking. I went up the steps, wrenched the door open and stepped inside with the gun ready and my teeth bared too.
I was in a long, narrow kitchen that had a sink, dresser, table and chairs. Charles Herbert Matthews, with his pants down and his fat, white bum showing, was stretched across the table. The foreigner held his arms and Dennis was standing behind him with a thick leather belt, studded like a dog collar, in his hand. Mrs Matthews, the angel of St Mark’s, was sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. I pointed the gun at Dennis.
‘Drop the belt.’
He looked at Mrs Matthews, who shrugged, and he moved towards me with the belt swinging. I let him come. He whipped the belt at me clumsily, and I moved inside it; I set the catch on the. 38 with my thumb and smashed the gun against his cheekbone; he grunted, sagged, and I ripped him hard and low with my left. He went down and dropped the belt. I picked it up and let the heavy buckle dangle an inch above his nose.
‘Sit’, I said.
The other guy was still holding Matthews, who’d screwed around to see what was happening; there were three or four broad, red stripes across his buttocks running up to the pads of fat at his waist. I jerked the gun up and the foreigner let go. Matthews crumpled down and adjusted his clothes. When his face came up again it was tear-stained, but by no means unhappy. He was breathing heavily, his mouth was open and moist and he was staring at his mother.
I looked at her too. ‘Assault, kidnapping, conspiracy, you’re in trouble, Mrs Matthews.’
She blew smoke at me. ‘Ridiculous’, she said.
Matthews struggled for some dignity. ‘What are you talking about, Hardy?’ he snapped.