A Spoonful of Luger (39 page)

“Now
don’t
be
awkward.”

“And
there’s
nothing
to
be
gained,”
I
went
on.
“Really
Anne,
it’s
been
nice
seeing
you
again
— ”

“You’re
a
fat,
self-opinionated,
thoughtless
slob,
George.
Do
something
for
somebody
else,
for
once.”

“Hardly
a
favour
to
you,
is
it,
bringing
along
a
fat,
self-whatever-you-said ... ”

“Oh,
do
stop
arguing.
When
can
I
meet
you?”

“I
don’t
know.
I’ll
be
busy.”

“Busy
how?
Doing
what?”

“Details.
I
must
see
Randall
again.
It’s
tricky.”

“Very
well,
then,
I’ll
find
you.”

“Now
Anne ... ”

“I’ve
done
it
before.
Good
night
George.
And
get
some
sleep ...
you
big
idiot.”

Sleep?
How
could
she
say
such
a
thing,
when
she’d
ruined
all
possibility?

I
went
up
to
my
room
and
sat
on
the
edge
of
the
bed.
I’d
have
given
the
world
for
a
pot
of
tea,
but
it
was
hours
too
late.
Her
words
had
shocked
me.
Was
that
what
she
thought
of
me?
I
went
and
got
my
pipe
and
tapped
it
out
on
the
radiator.
Then
I
realized
I’d
probably
woken
the
whole
hotel,
so
I
tapped
out
‘sorry’
in
morse,
then
decided
I
didn’t
want
to
smoke
after
all.

I
fell
into
the
bed,
and
slept
at
once.

9

OVER
breakfast
I
began
to
wish
I
had
agreed
to
meet
her.
You
know
how
it
is
—
there’s
the
nervous
business
of
wondering
when
she
will
suddenly
appear.
But
I
came
out
of
the
Bedford
safely
enough,
and
there
was
no
sign
of
her
when
I
climbed
into
the
car.
The
noise
from
the
camshaft
—
I
was
sure
it
was
that — was
worse
than
ever,
but
it
fired,
and
it
got
me
round
to
Randall’s
garage.

I
drew
onto
the
forecourt.
I
didn’t
reckon
there
would
be
much
chance
he
was
around,
but
I
couldn’t
continue
with
that
car,
anyway.
The
girl
on
the
pumps
said
he
was
in
his
office.
Not
doing
anything,
I
found,
just
sitting.

“Shouldn’t
you
be
home?”
I
asked.

“What
for?”
There
wasn’t
much
left,
just
utter
emptiness.
“They’ve
got
her in
hospital.
I
wouldn’t
want
to
be
in
an
empty
house.”

“Of
course
you
wouldn’t.”
He’d
have
gone
on,
justifying
himself,
if
I
hadn’t
cut
him
short.
“I’ve
brought
the
car
in.”

“You’re
leaving?”
He
tried
to
get
a
grip
on
reality.
“You’ll
want
your
money.
I’m
sorry,
I’m
not
used
to
this.
Do
you
send
a
bill?”

“I’m
not
going
yet.
I
just
brought
in
the
car.
I
think
the
camshaft’s
had
it.”

He
stared
at
me,
trying
to
decide
what
the
devil
camshafts
had
to
do
with
anything.

“I
thought
you’d
lend
me
another.”
He
was
still
silent,
so
I
went
on:
“I
don’t
usually
ruin
the
cars
I
drive.”

“No.
No,
of
course
not.
But
the
job’s
finished.
Why
should
you
need
another
car?”

“It
isn’t
finished.
Do
you
want
the
engine
number?”

“What?”

“To
order
spares.
You’ll
need
the engine
number.”

He
lifted
his
hand
wearily
and
waved
it
from
side
to
side.
Nothing
I
said
seemed
relevant.
“It
doesn’t
matter.
I’ll
get
a
camshaft ...
down
at
the
... ”
He
stopped.

“Down
at
the
scrapyard?
But
it’s
closed
now.
Didn’t
you
realize?”

“What
the
devil
does
it
matter?”
he
said
angrily.
“Take
another
car.
I
don’t
care.”

I
sat
on
the
edge
of
his
desk,
and
waited
for
him
to
calm
down.
“What
matters,”
I
told
him,
“is
that
you
were
confident
there
were
spares
for
that
particular
model
down
at
the
yard.
I
don’t
know
—
I
haven’t
checked
—
but
the
engine
number
of
that
Victor
out
there
might
not
check
with
the
number
in
the
log
book.
It’s
not
a
big
point.
But
it
could
just
be
a
stolen
vehicle,
Mr
Randall,
replacing
a
wreck
that
Cleave
took
in.
In
that
event
you’d
know
there
were
spares
at
the
yard.
You
get
what
I
mean?”

If
I’d
punched
him
in
the
mouth it
would’ve
been
kinder.
For
a
few
moments
he
couldn’t
get
a
word
out,
fighting
for
it,
his
eyes
creased
up
and
his
lips
quivering.
Then
at
last: