I stood on the edge of the kerb, looked up and down for a taxi. A
car swept around the corner, drove up to me fast, stopped with a
squeal of brakes. For a moment I was startled: it was the battered
Standard Fourteen.
Frankie sat at the wheel. A cigarette drooped from his lips, his
greasy hat rested on his thin nose. He looked at me out of the corners
of his eyes, a cold, vicious expression in them I didn’t much like.
“Bradley wants you,” he said in a nasal voice. “Get in the back and
make it snappy.”
I recovered from my surprise. “You’ve been seeing too many
gangster movies, sonny,” I said. “Tel Bradley if he wants to see me, he
can call at the Savoy some evening, I’ll try to be out.”
“Get in the back,” Frankie repeated softly, “and don’t talk so
much. You’ll do yourself a piece of good if you come without a fuss.”
I considered the proposition with some interest and not a little
thought. It might be worth while hearing what Bradley had to say. I
hadn’t anything to do at the moment, and I was curious to meet
Bradley again.
“Okay, I’ll come,” I said, opening the car door. “What’s he want to
see me about?”
Frankie engaged his clutch, shot the Standard away from the kerb
so fast I was flung against the back seat. I sorted myself out, promised
to smack his ears down should the opportunity arise, repeated my
question.
“You’ll find out,” Frankie said, drawing on his cigarette.
I decided he imagined himself to be a real tough egg, admired his
skill as a driver. He kept thirty miles an hour going all through the
heavy traffic, weaving his way in between cars, missing fenders by
split inches.
“Now did you like the way I shook you off the other day?” I asked
pleasantly. “You weren’t so smart then, were you?”
He took his cigarette from his mouth, spat out of the window, said
nothing.
“And the next time you try to bounce a tyre lever on my head, I’ll
wrap it around your skinny neck and tie a knot in it,” I went on less
pleasantly.
“The next time I come after you, you skunk,” he returned, “I’ll
make a better job of it.” He sounded as if he meant it.
That held me until we reached Bruton Mews, then I said, “Well,
thanks for the ride, sonny. It’s a pity they didn’t teach you anything
better than to drive a car at your approved school.”
He looked me over, sneered. “They taught me plenty,” he said,
moving towards the club. “Come on. I ain’t got all day to fool around
with a peep like you.”
I reached out, caught him by the scruff of his neck. He twisted,
wrenched away, swung at me. There was nothing slow about his
movements. His fist caught me flush on the chin. I back stepped fast
enough to keep from falling, but I took plenty of the punch. It was
meant to be a sockeroo, but late nights, physical wear and tear and
underfeeding don’t put iron into bones. It worried me no more than a
smack with a paper bag.
I sank my fist into the side of his neck just to show him what a real
punch felt like. He toppled over sideways, went down on hands and
knees, coughed, shook his head.
“Tough guy,” I sneered.
He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees
in a diving tackle. I side-stepped and reached for his neck, took it into
chancery. He tried to get his hands where he could hurt, but I’d been
through that stuff at school. I twisted him around and heaved him a
little higher, then I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and
turned my right hip-bone into him.
I had my right forearm against his windpipe and all the strength of
both my arms in it. He scratched at the cobbles with his feet, went
blue in the face.
I eased off; slapped his mug three or four times, back and forth,
put the heel of my hand on his nose and pressed. Then I let him go.
He sat down on the cobbles, blood running from his nose, his face
the colour of raw meat, his breath whistling through his mouth. It
must have been the toughest two minutes he’d ever experienced.
Tears came into his eyes. He put his sleeve to his face, sniffled: just a
soft, yellow kid who thought he was tough.
I reached out, grabbed his collar, heaved him to his feet.
“Come on, Dillinger,” I said, “let’s see Bradley, and don’t give me
any more of that gangster spiel; you can’t live up to it.”
He walked ahead, staggering a little, holding a dirty handkerchief
to his nose. He didn’t look back, but I could see by the set of his
shoulders he was crazy with rage and hate. I decided I’d keep an eye
on this lad in the future. He might try sticking a knife in my ribs the
next time we met.
He rapped on a door at the end of the passage, opened it, went
in.
I followed him, found myself in a big luxuriously furnished room.
There was a built-in upholstered corner seat by the window, a black-
and-chromium safe in the wall. There were some filing cabinets, a
small bar, and the usual broad, heavy executive desk with the usual
high-padded leather chair behind it.
Looking out of the window was a man in a dark lounge suit. He
had grey hair and plenty of it. He turned. He was going on for fifty and
his face was handsome in a dark heavy way. His eyes were slate grey,
unfriendly.
I remembered him now. It was Jack Bradley. I had only seen him
twice before and that was two years ago. I decided he had aged a lot
since last I saw him.
“Hello, Harmas,” he said, then caught sight of Frankie. His face
set. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled at Frankie.
“You’re bleeding over my goddamned carpet.”
“My fault,” I said, taking out my cigarettes, selecting one. “Your
boy made me nervous. I thought he was a tough egg. We fooled
around together just to see how strong we were. It turned out he
wasn’t strong at all.”
Frankie’s lips twitched. He said three words; one of them
obscene. His voice was not loud, but it was bitter.
Bradley took a step forward, snapped, “Get the hell out of here,”
to Frankie, who went.
I lit my cigarette, hooked a chair towards me with my foot, sat
down.
“You’d better watch that boy,” I said. “He’s in need of a mother’s
care.”
“Never mind him,” Bradley said, frost in his eyes. “It’s you I want
to talk about.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I like talking about myself. Where shall we
begin? Would you like to hear how I snitched the scripture prize when
I was a little lad?”
Bradley leaned forward. “Frankie may not be tough,” he said, “but
I am. You’d better not forget it.”
“That’s scared me right through to my jaegers,” I said. “May I go in
a corner and cry?”
“I’ve warned you,” Bradley said, sitting at his desk. “You’re getting
too inquisitive, my friend. I sent for you because I thought a little chat
off the record might clear the air, I advise you not to pass this on to
your friend Corridan. It wouldn’t be healthy.”
“You needn’t worry about Corridan,” I said. “He and I aren’t pals
any more. What’s biting you?”