A Spoonful of Luger (50 page)

His
eyes
went
past
me.
“I’ve
had
an
idea,
George.
It
might
be
old-fashioned,
but
it
usually
works.
Sprague’s
fetching
him
in
now,
and
I’m
going
to
ask
him
the
how
and
the
why.
I’ve
got
all
night,
and
by
heaven
I’ll
use
every
minute.
Sooner
or
later
he’ll
tell
me.”

“He
can’t
stand
too
much — ”

“Then
he’ll
tell
me
sooner.”

I
went
to
the
door,
and
paused.
“Did
Tony
tell
you
anything?”

It
had
to
be
a
guess
that
they’d
have
had
Tony
in,
but
of
course
Bycroft
wouldn’t
miss
any
possibility
of
breaking
him
on
the
key
business.

He
gave
me
a
bleak
smile.
“Nothing
that
helps.
I
was
just
about
to
run
him
home
when
you
turned
up.”

“Nobody
else
knew,”
I
warned
him.
“Don’t
count
on
anybody
else
knowing
about
the
duplicate
pouch.”

“Oh,
I’m
not.
It
doesn’t
really
matter,
George.
I’ve
got
an
idea
about
that,
anyway,”
he
said
smugly.

I’d
got
the
door
half
open.
I
looked
back.
He
raised
his
eyebrows,
challenging
me
to
ask.
I
didn’t.

“Cleave
was
shot
Friday
evening,”
he
amplified.
“Not
found
until
Saturday
evening.
That’s
twenty-four
hours.
A
long
time,
George.
Think
about
it.”

Then
his
phone
rang.
It
gave
me
a
good
exit
point,
but
all
the
same
I hesitated,
because
he
started
off,
“not
at
his
home?”

Did
he
mean
Randall?
But
I’d
left
him
there.

“Then
try
the
garage,”
said
Bycroft.
So
he
did
mean
Randall.
“Oh,
you’re
at
the
garage ... Well,
he
may
have
gone
round
to
the
hospital ...
have
you
thought
about
that ... ?
Right,
let
me
know.”

He
slammed
down
the
phone,
and looked
at
me
with
grim
satisfaction.
“Skipped.
You
can
bet
on
it — skipped.”

Oh
no!
Driven
away
by
me.
Scared
stiff
—
by
me.
But
how
scared
would
he
have
to
be
to
leave
his
wife
at
this
time?
Perhaps
she
would
open
her
eyes
and
fail
to
see
him
at
the
bedside ...

I
backed
out
of
the
door.
“Well ...
see
you
around.”

I
lifted
a
hand
in
salute,
and
got
out
of
there
before
Bycroft
thought
of
the
one
other
place
Randall
might
have
gone.

A
last
look
round?
A
last
check?

I
got
in
the
car,
quite
ignoring
what
the
young
copper
was
saying,
and
splashed
water
over
his
boots
no
doubt.
I
heard
him
shout,
but
I
was
busy
cursing
because
I’d
got
third
gear
instead
of
second.

12

THE
rain
had
set
in
to
a
steady
downpour.
The
wipers
couldn’t
cope
with
it,
because
I
was
driving
too
fast,
but
I
headed
there
from
memory.

The
lane
was
almost
flooded.
The
Saab
crashed
and
splashed
through
the
potholes
dangerously.
Down
at
the
scrapyard
the
lights
were
not
on.
The
corrugated
iron
fence
loomed
over
me,
and
I
swung
in
through
the
one
open
gate.

A
small,
dark
car
was
parked
to
one
side.

I
could
see
no
movement.
It
was
quiet
when
I
cut
the
engine.
The
silence
seemed
to
press
in
on
me.
I
got
out
of
the
car.
Mud
was
up
to
my
ankles.
I
stood
beside
the
car.
It
seemed
airless
in
the
shadows
behind
the
headlights.

“Randall,
are
you
there?”

I
listened.
My
shout
gradually
became
absorbed
and
died
away.
Then,
from
the
direction
of
the
large
empty
shed,
I
heard
a
sound.
It
was
a
metallic
sound,
hollow
and
booming,
as
though
a
steel
drum
had
fallen
to
its
side.
I
began
to
run.

A
little
light
escaped
from
the
shed,
the
light
from
an
inspection
lamp
he’d
plugged
in
and
laid
on
the
bench.
There
was
enough
to
illuminate
the
centre
of
the
main
crossbeam,
high
overhead,
so
that
he
could
climb
up
there
and
tie
the
end
of
a
length
of
rope
to
it.
Then
he
had
fashioned
a
loop.
The
sound
I
had
heard
was
the
drum
being
kicked
from
beneath
his
feet.

He
was
swinging
and
wrenching.
At
the
final
second,
when
his
weight
had
dug
the
thin
rope
into
his
throat,
he
had
comprehended
the
agony
of
it,
and
he
had
changed
his
mind.
Now
he
was
fighting
it.
His
face
was
distorted,
the
mouth
wide
open
but
the
breath
caught,
unable
to
penetrate
to
his
lungs or
be
expelled
as
a
shout
for
help.
His
fingers,
already
dabbled
in
blood,
were
clawing
vainly
into
the
flesh,
but
unable
to
reach
down
to
the
penetration
of
the
noose.