A Spoonful of Luger (26 page)

“Frank,”
I
said,
“just
wait
a
bit.
You’ll
be
getting
a
report
from
the
ballistics
people
on
the
gun
and
the
bullet
and
the
cartridge
case.
You’ll
see,
they’ll
all
fit
together.
It
can’t
be
any
other
way.”

“And
they
can’t
have
come
from
that
gun.
No
thank
you.
I’ll
take
the
more
likely
possibility.”

“The
coincidence?”

“Call
it
that
if
you
like.
Even
if
you
don’t
like.
Now
get
out
of
here,
George,
you’re
in
the
way.”
And
he
turned
to
the
super.
“It’s
like
this ... ”

I
didn’t
wait
to
hear
what
it
was
like.
He’d
said
it
himself
—
get
out
of
there.
He
was
offering
me
a
break.
I’d
get
a
bit
of
a
lead
on
them,
and
you
can
do a
lot
in
a
few
minutes,
especially
if
you
make
it
a
few
more
by
nearly
breaking
your
neck
driving
like
mad
on
slippy
roads
—
when
it
doesn’t
seem
to
be
any
great
loss
if
you
do.

6

BY
the
time
I
got
there
the
engine
was
making
protesting
sounds.
I
drew
in
and
looked
at
the
house.
It
was
not
what
I’d
expected.
Somehow,
Tony’s
personality
had
suggested
a
smaller
house,
in
a
terrace
somewhere,
maybe
in
a
poorer
part
of
the
town.
Or
at
least,
his
job
had.
Connaught
Street
was
old,
on
the
industrial
side
of
the
town,
but
buried
in
ancient
trees,
the
short
drives
rising
steeply
to
large,
solid
houses.
Semis,
mind
you,
but
substantial.
There
was
an
estate
car
parked
in
the
drive
of
number
11.
I
lit
my
pipe
and
thought
about
it
before
I
made
a
move.
Nothing
I’d
done
so
far
had
helped.
There
was
no
likelihood
that
I’d
get
anywhere
with
Tony.

I
wasn’t
sure
what
I
was
after,
only
that
there
was
something
I
needed
to
knoI
looked
in
the
estate
car
as
I
went
past.
There
were
a
lot
of
heavy-looking
tools
lying
in
the
back,
the
rear
seat
being
tilted
forward.
I
moved
on
and
stepped
into
the
deep
porch.
The
sides
were
patterned
with
tiles,
and
the
front
door
was
in
leaded
stained
glass.
I
discovered
the
bell
push.

A
man’s
voice
was
coming
closer,
and
as
the
door
opened
and
he
caught
sight
of
me
he
shouted
back:

“Didn’t
I
tell
you
then?
They’ve
come
for
you.”

“I
haven’t
come
for
anybody,”
I
said.
“If
Tony
Finch
lives
here,
I’d
like
a
word
with
him.”

“I’m
his
father.”

He’d
have
been
nearly
as
heavy
as
me,
but
all
his
weight
was
bone
and
muscle.
Fortunately
he
didn’t
seem
aggressive.
Angry,
maybe,
but
not
with
me.

“I
reckon
he’s
home,”
I
said.

He
stood
back
and
I
followed
him
inside.

“And
I’m
not
from
the
police,”
I
told
him.

“But
I
bet
they’re
not
far
behind.”

The
hall
was
quarried
in
a
complex
design,
wide,
with
an
old
hall
stand
to
one
side.
There
was
a
solidness
around
me
that
suggested
our
voices
wouldn’t
travel
far,
so
I
didn’t
hurry.
A
few
private
words
first.

“You
expecting
them
to
be?”
I
asked.

“That
young
fool!”

“So
you
know
what
he’s
been
doing?”

“I
don’t
know
even
now.
Can’t
get
a
word
out
of
him.
Listen ...
you
come
and
have
a
try.”

“I
ought
to
explain,
I’m
a
private
investigator,
employed
by
somebody
else.”

“But
you
can
help
me.
You’d
know
the
questions
to
ask.”

I
knew
the
ones
I’d
like
answers
to.
“Some.”

He
slapped
a
fist
into
his
other
palm.
“Well
then
—
you
ask
’em,
and
if
he
don’t
answer
I’ll
belt
him
till
he
does.”

“I
hope
that
won’t
be
necessary.”

“You
don’t
know
him.”

But
I
was
beginning
to.
“Perhaps
you
should’ve
belted
him
before.”

He
shrugged.
“There
was
nothing
I
could
pin
down.
But
I
just
felt
...
You
know
the
impressions
you
get.
Just
felt
there
was
something
not
quite
right.
Else
why’d
he
hang
on
to
that
rotten
job
for
eighteen
months
—
sure
to
be
— all
this
time?
I
could
have
started
him
up
in
a
man’s
job.
Three
A
levels
and
he
packed
it
all
in.”