A Spoonful of Luger (4 page)

The
bus
started.
I
found
myself
staring
back
until
my
neck
ached.

I
saw
nothing
more
of
the
route,
even
missed
the
stop
where
Dulcie
would have
waited
to
get
on.
They
dropped
me
where
I’d
get
one
back
to
town,
he
said,
and
I
waited
for
some
time.
I
don’t
know
how
long.
The
cold
was
deep
in
my
bones.

The
market
had
disappeared
and
parked
cars
had
taken
its
place.
The
dining
room
at
the
Bedford
turned
out
to
be
a
restaurant
and
was
packed.
The
food
was
terrible.
Afterwards
I
forced
my
heavy
stomach
into
a
booth
in
the
lobby,
and
actually
got
as
far
as
dialling
Randall’s
number.
Then
I
put
my
tuppence
back
in
my
pocket,
and
went
out
to
discover
what
they
could
tell
me
at
the
police
station.

They
hadn’t
moved
it,
only
rebuilt
it.
The
reception
was
all
light
and
welcome,
with
a
sliding
window
and
a
bell-push
in
front
of
the
desk.
Everything
was
quiet.
The
old
wanted
poster
on
the
wall
had
been
preserved
reverently.

They
had
a
woman
Station
Sergeant.
She
smiled
when
I
said
I
wanted
to
see
whoever
was
in
charge
of
the
Dulcie Randall
search.
She
used
just
the
right
amount
of
encouragement.
After
all,
I
might
have
come
to
confess.

“You
can
tell
me.”

She
hadn’t
said
he
wasn’t
there.
I
knew
how
it
would
be.
He’d
be
just
about
living
at
the
office
on
a
case
like
this.
I
shook
my
head,
and
then
I
knew
she’d
recognized
me
for
an
ex-copper.
There’s
something
about
the
way
we
stand.

“Inspector
Bycroft’s
busy.”

“Bycroft?
Frank
Bycroft?”

“Yes.”

I
got
out
a
card
and
gave
it
to
her.
“I
think
he’ll
see
me.”

She
looked
at
it,
looked
back.
Then
she
went
away.

He’d
see
me
all
right,
if
only
for
old
times’
sake.
But
what
his
attitude
would
be
I
wasn’t
sure.
He’d
want
to
show
me
how
important
he’d
become,
maybe
condescend
a
little
to
an
ex-sergeant.
Well
fine,
that
didn’t
worry
me,
just
as
long
as
I
got
what
I
wanted.
But
he
had
always
been
sharp,
and
he’d realize
at
once
that
I
was
superfluous
in
this
case.
He
would
resent
wasting
time
on
an
interfering
amateur.

She
came
back,
and
held
open
the
little
door.
If
I’d
go
up
the
stairs,
turn
right,
it
was
the
third
on
the
left
...
But
Bycroft
was
at
his
open
door
when
I
got
to
the
top,
and
his
hand
was
stuck
out
before
I’d
got
half
way
there.
His
expression
was
not
welcoming,
but
his
grip
was
still
firm.

“I
might
have
guessed,”
he
said,
flicking
my
card
in
his
left
hand.
“Any
money
in
it,
is
there?”

I
shut
the
door
behind
me.
“I
live.”
There
was
no
point
in
telling
him
that
luxuries
can
become
two
tins
of
beans
on
toast
instead
of
one.
I
was
looking
round.

“You’re
putting
on
weight,”
he
told
me.
He
was
staring
me
up
and
down,
taking
in
the
age
of
the
raincoat,
assessing
the
touch
of
grey
over
my
ears.

“It
helps,
in
my
line.”

It
helps
when
you
have
to
walk
over people.
You
don’t
need
speed,
just
bulk.
I
reached
over
and
took
back
my
card.
They’re
expensive
to
print.

The
office
was
modern.
It
had
probably
been
stark
and
new
a
year
or
so
before,
but
Bycroft
had
imposed
his
personality
on
it.
His
desk
was
chaotic,
papers
overflowing
onto
the
floor.
He’d
cleared
a
patch
in
the
middle
for
a
folded
newspaper
with
the
crossword
exposed.
Two
phones
acted
as
paperweights.
His
low
bookcase
was
bulging,
half
the
stuff
on
its
side,
with
Police
Gazettes
tossed
in
a
pile
beside
it.
The
cabinet
had
the
top
drawer
stuck
open
with
files
half
in
and
half
out,
and
one
of
his
spare
chairs
had
his
coat
over
the
back,
on
its
seat
his
hat,
which
he’d
sat
on
in
a
moment
of
absentmindedness.
On
the
hat
was
a
full
ashtray.
The
other
chair
was
cluttered
with
rolled
maps
and
an
open
chess
set,
on
which
at
one
time
he’d
been
working
at
a
problem.
There
was
a
black
cat
asleep
in
a
wire
basket
on
the
top
of
the
filing
cabinet.