He didn’t rush at me, but came slowly, the knife held in front of
his skinny body, his lips off his teeth, his eyes glittering.
“Hello, Marmaduke,” I said, “didn’t your ma tell you it was
dangerous to play with knives? You might cut yourself.”
He crept towards me, snarling.
I decided it wouldn’t be healthy to let him get too close. My hand
groped behind me for a book, selected one, shot it at him. It hit him
on the shoulder, but it didn’t stop him. He kept coming, so I gave
ground. I suddenly realized that if I didn’t watch my step he’d murder
me.
We moved around the room, each stepping over the ruins, careful
not to trip, never taking our eyes off each other. I guessed he was
manoeuvring me close to Bradley, and that Bradley would try to grab
my legs. If that happened, Frankie would have plenty of opportunity
to ventilate my hide.
I stopped giving ground, crouched.
This move startled Frankie for a moment: he stopped too. I moved
a step forward. He made a feeble poke at me with the knife,
undecided whether to go back or rush me. I rushed him while he was
making up his mind.
I felt the knife slit my shirt-sleeve, scratch my biceps, but by then I
had hold of his wrist. He clawed my face as I bent his arm back. It hurt,
and I lost my temper for a moment. I snatched him up by the slack of
his pants, threw him at Bradley as Bradley was slowly levering himself
to his feet.
While they were sorting themselves out, I tossed the knife
downstairs.
Both Bradley and Frankie were on their feet when I faced around.
Bradley seemed to have found a little courage now Frankie had joined
him.
“Kill the swine,” he mumbled to Frankie, pushed him forward.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Frankie was pint-sized and without his
knife he wouldn’t have scared a midget. He had plenty of guts though,
and rushed at me, fingers like claws. My fight wasn’t with Frankie; it
was with Bradley. I stood off, waited for him, clipped him as kindly as I
could on his jaw. I caught him, lowered him to the floor, put a cushion
under his head, shook mine at Bradley.
“You shouldn’t let a kid like that fight your battles,” I said,
advancing on him. “Now, let’s see if you can answer a few questions.
That was Netta here, wasn’t it?”
He grabbed a chair, threw it at me. I got out of the way, caught it
by its legs, smashed it across his back. I knelt on him, slapped his fat
face four or five times, took hold of his ears and banged his head on
the carpet.
“Open up, you rat,” I said, continuing to hammer his head on the
carpet. I wished the floor was concrete, but I put a lot of steam into it
and it seemed to hurt his ears, which was something. “That was
Netta, wasn’t it?”
“Stop it!” he bellowed. “Yes, it was, damn you!”
“Netta hack from the dead, eh?” I said, letting go of his ears, but
cuffing him to keep him soft. “What did she want?”
“Money,” he snarled.
“Did you give her any?”
“Three hundred pounds.”
“What did she want it for?”
“To keep out of the way of the police.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I took hold of his ears, bashed his head on the carpet again.
“Why?” I repeated.
“I don’t know,” he howled. “Honest to God I don’t know.” I sat
down hard on his chest, flicked his nose with my fore-finger. “Don’t
tell me you gave her all that dough just because she asked you for it.
Why did you give it to her?”
“She sold me some rings,” he moaned.
“Where are they?”
“Over there.”
I dragged him to his feet, steadied him.
“Come on, don’t he coy,” I said. “Show me.”
He staggered over to the smashed desk, pulled open a drawer.
“There,” he said, collapsed on the floor.
I picked out four diamond rings, turned them over in my hand,
looked at him.
“Jacobi’s loot, eh?” I said.
He flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. She said
they were her rings. I don’t know anything about Jacobi.”
“Yes, you do, you rat,” I said. “You haven’t much longer to live
outside a cell. You’d better talk fast. Where did she get these from?”
“I didn’t ask her,” he blubbered. “She offered me the stuff for
three hundred. I could see they were worth more so I bought them.”
“I’m going to hand these over to Corridan,” I said, slipping the
rings into my pocket. “You know what that’ll mean.”
“They’re mine,” he snarled, shaking his fist at me. “I’ll have you up
for stealing.”
“Be your age,” I said. “You know as wel as I do that they’re part of
Jacobi’s loot. Where can I get hold of Netta?”
“I don’t know,” he returned, holding a blood-stained handkerchief
to his nose. “She didn’t say where she was going. You came in at the
wrong moment, blast you!”
I thought maybe that was the truth.
“Get up,” I said.
He hesitated, but as I threatened him with my foot, he climbed to
his feet, stood before me.
“Okay, Bradley,” I said, “we’re quits. The next time you think of
teaching someone a lesson be more careful who you chose for a
subject.”
I looked him over, decided my face was now handsome compared
with his, hauled off, hit him on the point of his fat chin, watched his
flop. Then I unrolled my sleeves, put on my coat, walked to the door
and scrammed.
Chapter XVIII
I PAID off the taxi at the corner of Hampden Street, walked down
the narrow cul-de-sac. Three of the big buildings were blitzed, mere
shells of charred brick and wood. The last building was a small
printer’s shop; the windows were boarded up, and the shop had a
forlorn, neglected appearance. A door on the far side of the shop was
numbered 311.
I stood back, looked up at the curtained windows. The place was
in darkness.
I tried the door, for it, as I expected, locked. I stepped back again,
surveyed the upper windows. There was a stack- pipe running close to
one of them. I tested it, decided it was strong enough to take my
weight, glanced back down the alley, saw no one.
I started to climb, wished I had on a less expensive suit, managed
to hoist myself on to the sloping roof above the printer’s shop. From
there it was easy to reach the window. I looked into the darkness,
listened. The traffic hummed in Russell Square, someone in the
distance shouted “Taxi!” No sound carne from Selma Jacobi’s flat.
I took out my pocket knife, levered back the window-catch,
pushed up the window. One more glance behind me, then I stepped
down into darkness.
I found myself in a bedroom. Immediately my skin began to tingle.
There was a distinct smell of lilac in the room. I drew the blind, then
the curtains. I groped for my cigarette lighter, thumbed the flint. The
feeble flame showed me the electric light switch. I crossed the room,
turned on the light.
The room was small, but comfortably furnished. There was a
divan bed in one corner, turned down, inviting. Across the foot of the
bed was a blue silk nightdress; on the floor by the nightdress was a