“Get going,” breathed Scouse warningly. “Time’s up.”
I sighed, prayed that my fingers and memory wouldn’t betray me, and got going. I began to play “Badinage,” one of Godowsky’s paraphrases of the Chopin études. All his material is horrendously difficult (the Apostle of the Left Hand, he was called a hundred years ago) and I had never dared to tackle one of his Chopin paraphrases in a public concert. But now I had to go for broke. My main worry was to get to the end without making a total hash of it. I drove along, all my attention in my fingertips.
After the final chords I took a deep breath and looked up at Pudd’n. His face was a picture.
“Well?” said Scouse. I could tell from his voice that he was impressed but not convinced. Pudd’n just stood there shaking his head. “Christ!” he said. “What was that?”
“A combination of two Chopin studies — the two in G Flat. Godowsky. He wrote fifty-three like that.”
“Christ! I never heard anything like it.” He shook his head again and turned to Scouse and Dixie . “There’s no way he could play like that an’ be just anybody. He’s a pianist.”
“Yeah. I thought so too.” Scouse looked annoyed, but not with me. I breathed a little bit easier, even though my fate was anything but clear.
“That gives me somethin’ to think about,” went on Scouse. He was frowning. “Damn it.” He turned abruptly and began to walk towards the door. “Look after him tonight,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in the morning. An’ don’t forget to tie him, unless you want to finish up like Jack and Des.”
“What about the Nymphs?” called Dixie .
Scouse turned in the doorway. “They’re not Nymphs, you daft bugger. Are you deaf? They’re some kind of medicine. Let him have ’em if he needs ’em. I’m going to get Zan. We’ve some thinking to do.”
I was still sitting on the piano stool. Dixie laid the tip of his knife on the nape of my neck, pricking it just a little to add to his point. “Come on,” he said.
Pudd’n was standing back warily, out of my reach. I walked meekly back to the chair and sat down.
“Not so tight this time,” I said, as Pudd’n began to tighten the ropes around my forearms and legs. He nodded, but he was too experienced to allow me to create any slack as he worked.
“There,” he said, and stood back. “What are we goin’ to do about food for ’im, Dix? He’ll be ’ere all night.”
“Let him bloody well starve,” said Dixie . He looked disappointed, as though he had been hoping for some attempt at resistance. That knife of his looked well used, and not just on inanimate objects. He would like to have a go at more than my shirt.
“We can’t starve ’im,” said Pudd’n. “He’s not Foss, he’s ’is brother.”
“He still did for Jack and Des, didn’t he?”
“Well, yeah — but they’d have done for ’im if he ’adn’t.” Pudd’n looked at me. I had risen in his eyes since I sat down at the keyboard. “I could do yer eggs an’ bacon. All right?”
I salivated at the thought. I was starving, and I nodded.
“Well, I’m not having anything to do with it,” said Dixie . “Fuck him. He’s all yours.”
He strode out of the room, rapidly and light on his feet. Pudd’n hesitated, and I could see his problem. If he left me to get food, I’d be unguarded, and I had no doubt that Dixie would tell that to Scouse when he came back. I jerked my head down towards my wrists. “I can’t get away, you know. You could leave me here.”
He shook his head. “Not allowed to do that. If Dixie would come back…” He looked at the door for a second, then shrugged. “Well, only one thing for it. Hold tight.”
He moved behind me, and the chair began to skate backwards over the polished floor. We went on past the room where I had awakened, and on to a long landing with deep carpeting. I heard a little grunt of effort, then I was carried, chair and all, on down the stairs. I made a mental note never to argue with Pudd’n. He was even stronger than his height and build suggested.
On the way downstairs and into the kitchen I was still trying to register everything that I saw. It seemed impossible to get away, but I couldn’t afford to give up. Maybe it was Leo’s influence, but my pulse was steady, my head was clear, and I have never felt more alert and sensitive.
There was little enough to see. We were in an old house, with eleven or twelve foot ceilings, thick and solid doors, and deep skirting-boards. I guessed it was late Victorian, and when we came to it the kitchen was enormous, with a great range all along one wall. The range had been converted from coal to gas, and Pudd’n set my chair next to it while he cooked about a pound of bacon and eight eggs.
“Bread an’ tea?” he said. “I’m going to feed both of us. I don’t want you untied.”
He gave me food skillfully and quickly, cutting up everything into the right bite-sized pieces. I shook my head after the third egg and he went on to finish everything and then washed up the pans and dishes. I had some vague hope that I might reach a knife and hold it under my forearm, but I couldn’t stretch my hand that far and anyway Pudd’n was watching every move I made.
“Right,” he said when he was finished. “Now back upstairs. That’ll be the hard bit.”
He didn’t call on Dixie for assistance. I could guess what the answer to that request would have been, and anyway the less I saw of Dixie , the better.
“Why not leave me down here?” I asked.
He considered it for a moment. “Don’t think so,” he said at last. “There’s a lock on the music room, and none on the kitchen ’ere. We’ll get yer back up there in a couple of minutes. Sit still.”
We retraced our steps to the stairs and on up, Pudd’n huffing a bit but not under any apparent strain. We were at the top when Dixie appeared. He was scowling.
“Scouse called while you were feeding your face down there,” he said. “He wants you to go over there tonight.”
“What for? An’ what about ’im?” Pudd’n laid one big hand on the top of my head.
“Don’t worry about that.” Dixie smiled so wide I could see the top of his dentures. “You can leave him to me.”
Pudd’n shrugged. “All right. I’ll leave in an hour, an’ I’ll hand over to you when I go.”
He dragged me back along the landing and on through into the music room. All the way there I looked for a sign of anything that might be useful later. There was nothing.
“It’s a big house,” I said to Pudd’n, after he had moved me over near the piano and seated himself on the stool. He grunted noncommittally.
“How many bedrooms?” I went on.
He swiveled round to face me. “Look here, mate, I’m younger than you but I wasn’t born yesterday. Don’t try an’ pump me, all right? If you’re relyin’ on me to tell you, you already know all about this house that you’re goin’ to know. Talk about something else.”
I shrugged and leaned back in the chair. “All right. I was just interested, that’s all. I’m surprised that you don’t take piano playing more seriously. I could tell that you didn’t have any trouble playing for Dixie — it didn’t stretch you at all.”
“Ah, he just wants easy stuff — dance tunes, mostly.” He sniffed. “Fancies himself as Fred Astaire, silly old fart. He’s past it. I play anythin’ he asks me to, but it’s not real music.”
“So why not play real music? How are you in sight-reading and improvising?”
“I’m good — ’specially improvising.” His expression was interested, and he was getting into the conversation more. I didn’t see how it could lead anywhere useful, but I had nothing better to do.