'Here comes the Ear,' Marler observed. 'I'll introduce him as a friend.'
The little man was shuffling towards them. He glanced over his shoulder twice. A cautious chap, Newman thought – which was probably why he had survived so long. He was close to them when he crossed the street and looked back again to see round the corner where the attackers had vanished. A shot rang out. One single shot.
The Ear staggered, stumbled against the wall of a house, slid down the wall, his legs extended in front of him. He lay slumped there, very still, as Marler ran to him with Newman at his heels, the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. Marler bent over the prone form. A red patch was blossoming on the forehead. He opened his mouth, staring at Marler. Blood gurgled.
'Basil…' Another grim gurgle. 'Schwarz…'
Then nothing. Marler checked his neck pulse. He stood up slowly, gazed at Newman. There was sorrow in his eyes – something Newman had never seen before.
'He's dead,' Marler said slowly. 'Not one of the thugs – he looked back towards us a fraction of a second before the bullet hit him. From the angle he was facing, the shot came from the roof of those houses. The Phantom.'
'I'll kill that bastard when the moment comes,' Newman said.
'No, you won't.' Marler placed a hand on Newman's arm. 'He's my meat.'
9
The taxi taking Paula home arrived close to the entrance to her flat. The driver had overshot the mark by a few yards. She got out into the quiet street, paid the driver, thanked him. She turned and walked the short distance back to the cul-de-sac.
Several cars were parked illegally by the kerb. It happened often at this late hour – wardens were rarely on duty at this time of night. An old lady approached her with a wrinkled hand held out.
'A fiver to save a soul,' she whined. 'I ain't eaten in two days. I'm droppin' with 'unger.'
The old woman had matted grey hair which hadn't been washed for Heaven knew how long. Her clothes were rags, held together in places with safety pins. Her beady eyes were pleading, at the end of their tether. Her thin lips trembled and her extended hand shook with the cold.
Paula tried to do two things at once. She pulled her shoulder bag in front of her, then used both hands to extract a five-pound note from her purse. Tired as she was she saw her shadow thrown by a street light on the damp pavement. Then she stiffened. There were two shadows.
With both hands holding her purse, she couldn't reach for her Browning in the special pocket. A rough hand grasped her throat. She lifted one foot to scrape it down the shin of her assailant. Then a pad was pressed against her face, covering her nose. She smelt chloroform. She tried to breathe out but the cold air had forced her to breathe in.
The old lady, bad teeth bared in an evil grin, blurred. Paula, as in a dream, was aware of the sound of a car door opening. Then she sagged, lost consciousness, knew nothing.
She was woozy, her eyes closed, her stomach threatening to erupt. She forced it to behave. She appeared to be sitting against some sort of couch. She kept her eyes closed. The fabric of the couch was well worn. She felt the hard edge of a wooden strut pressing against her back. It was icy cold. She forced herself to keep still.
She could hear the clump of hard shoes on a wooden floor. She opened one eye, then both eyes. A few yards away she could see who was making the clumping noise: The back of a short, thickset man with a bald head. The room was huge, like an old warehouse. She closed her eyes quickly as her captor began to turn round.
During her quick survey of her prison she had seen a large beam spanning the width of the warehouse, about ten feet above the floor. She felt sleepy, willed herself to keep awake. Something had been slung over the beam. She heard the clank of a chain.
That was what she had seen, a gleaming new chain with links about three inches wide. He was clumping about again, further away. Without moving her feet, she wriggled her toes. Anything to bring herself back to normal. The bald man had been holding something in his hand. A Colt automatic.
She became aware she no longer had her shoulder bag. He had her Browning somewhere. The feet came towards her. She knew when he stopped he was standing, gazing down at her. She kept her eyes closed, her body limp. He began to talk. Then she knew he was American, a coarse voice.
'Wake up, lady. You and I are going to have a fun time. You've got things to tell me. Questions to answer. What the hell is the matter with you? Wake up!'
He began to slap both sides of her face with his rough hand. She let her head flop from side to side with each blow. I have to get back to normal before he knows I'm conscious, she kept telling herself. The slapping stopped. He swore foully.
He was walking away from her again. She took in deeper breaths of the cold air without moving. Got to clear my head, get my strength back. I need more time. The clumping came back in her direction. She wasn't going to get more time. There was a musty smell which suggested a building that hadn't been opened for a long time. The heavy footsteps stopped in front of her.
'Wake up, you friggin' twist,' the coarse voice ordered. 'If you don't you'll get a bucket of cold water over you. You're going to be sodden wet soon, whatever you do or don't tell me.'
Inwardly she cringed. What was he talking about?
There had been something very sinister in those last words.
Then his hands grasped her shoulders and he was shaking her from side to side. She kept her eyes tightly shut. His grip was strong and painful. She kept her body loose, let him go on shaking her. She was breathing in and out slowly, clearing her mind.
'OK. You get the bucket of water…'
She moaned, moved shakily, opened both eyes. He was very ugly. His bald head gleamed in the light from the naked bulbs suspended from the rafters high above them. His eyes glittered with anticipation at some pleasurable experience. He hauled out the Colt from a wide leather belt under his windcheater.
'Try any funny tricks with me and you get a bullet in the head. Can you hear me?'
'Where am I? Who are you?'
'My bloody pals call me Baldy. Guess why?'
'I can't move.' She slurred the words. 'Can't see you. Where am I?'
'In a place where we won't be disturbed. You and I are going to have fun and games.'
'My head's swimming.'
She closed her eyes again. He administered several more hard slaps to both sides of her face. The pain was helping her to become more alert. She heard his feet clump a short distance, realized he was behind the couch. Then something cold and weighty was dropped round her neck. A chain. She fought down the terror which was threatening to overwhelm her. Now she was able to think, she realized her desperate situation. She was going to end up dead. Kidnappers who intended to release their victims were careful never to show their faces. Baldy hadn't even attempted to cover his face. She felt even more helpless with the chain round her neck.
'OK. You can get up now. Or I'll drag you up like a dog.' He giggled. 'Dawg on a chain. That's what you are.'
She opened her eyes. He was holding a length of chain in one hand. It must be attached to the collar of chain round her throat. She placed both hands on the couch as though for support.
'I don't think I can stand up.'
'So I'll drag you.'
'Give me a minute.'
'Get on your friggin' feet!' he screamed at her.
She stood up slowly, more slowly than she needed to. She stood still, bracing her legs to strengthen them. Now she could see far more. She appeared to be in an ancient warehouse used to dump unwanted furniture. There were a number of couches scattered round the planked floor. She saw her coat thrown carelessly over the back of a battered old wooden chair. Her shoulder bag dangled beside it. The clasp was still fastened. She felt sure he hadn't even bothered to rummage inside it. Which meant her Browning was still in the secret pocket. It could have been a mile away for all the hope she had of getting her hands on it.