A Spoonful of Luger (57 page)

I
flapped
my
arms,
stared
wildly
from
one
to
the
other,
and
Sprague
laughed
nastily.

“That
was
different ...
a
question
of
motive ... ”
I
said,
aware
my
voice
was
faltering.
“But
I’m
obliged
for
the
explanation
of
how
the
gun
got
into
the
box.
Oh
yes.
And
for
how
it
proves
the
murderer
didn’t
know
Norman
Lyle
was
dead,
because
I
can
prove
that Randall
didn’t
know.
Cleave
wouldn’t
have
told
Mike,
wouldn’t
have
dared,
so
he’d
never
have
told
Randall
either.
There’s
only
Tony
he
could
have
told, and
with
his
evidence
— ”

“Mr
Bycroft,”
said
Tony.

We
turned
and
looked
at
him.
He
swallowed
nervously.

“I
did
tell
him,
you
know,”
he
whispered.

Sprague
growled
deep
in
his
throat.
I
slapped
Tony
on
the
shoulder.
It
was
a
good
try,
but
he’d
never
be
able
to
sustain
it.
I
turned,
laughing,
to
Bycroft.

“You
see,
Frank.”

“He’s
lying,”
Bycroft
barked.

“You
can’t
touch
my
client
if
Tony
insists
— ”

“He’s
bloody
lying!”
Sprague
shouted,
and
he
threw
himself
at
the
boy.

There
was
a
crash
as
the
two
of
them
fell
back
against
the
corrugated
iron
wall.
Tony
gave
one
cry
of
pain,
then
he
was
silent,
and
I
saw,
when
Sprague
straightened,
that
Tony
would
have difficulty
crying
out
again.
Sprague
had
both
hands
clenched
into
Tony’s
collar,
the
knuckles
pressed
into
his
neck
beneath
the
chin,
forcing
his
head
up.
Tony’s
eyes
were
wide
with
terror
and
pain.

Sprague
shook
him
like
a
dog.

“You
lying
little
bleeder.”

I
turned
to
Bycroft
in
appeal.

“Frank!”

But
Bycroft
was
within
three
words
of
success.
If
he
had
them
he
was
home,
and
he
wasn’t
going
to
flinch
from
a
little
old-fashioned
violence
at
this
stage.

“Come
on,”
Sprague
shouted,
“let’s
have
some
bloody
truth.”

He
had
Tony
bent
awkwardly
so
that
he
was
reaching
down
for
support,
his
hands
not
available
for
any
sort
of
defence.
Tony’s
face
was
twisted
close
to
the
bench,
close
to
where
the
inspection
lamp
lay,
his
features
hot
in
the
harsh
light.
Hard
planes
of
agony
were
cut
into
his
features.
Sprague
ground
his
cheek
into
the ravaged
surface
of
the
bench,
and
Tony
choked.

“That’s
enough.”

I
went
at
Sprague,
jerking
at
his
shoulder,
and
for
one
moment
he
turned
his
face
up,
the
scar
on
his
forehead,
now
without
plaster,
livid
with
effort.

“Stay
out
of
this,”
he
said,
his
lips
back
over
his
teeth.

But
he’d
released
Tony
sufficiently
for
the
lad
to
speak.
It
was
not
much
more
than
a
croak.

“He ...
he
didn’t
know.”

And
Sprague
threw
him
away
with
casual
viciousness,
so
that
his
head
caught
against
a
projecting
vice.
He
straightened,
sneering,
wiping
his
hands
down
the
back
of
his
legs,
and
I
hit
him
in
the
stomach.

Then
I
think
I
went
mad.
I’d
realized
a
lot
of
things
suddenly,
from
the
near
view
of
that
fresh
scar.
Those
things
pounded
through
my
mind
and
mounted
in
intensity,
and
left
me
no
room
for
normal
control.
All
I
knew
was that
I
had
to
kill
Sprague
with
my
bare
hands,
and
with
anything
else
I
had
that
was
part
of
me.
As
his
face
came
down
with
the
instinctive
reaction
to
my
fist,
I
kneed
him
in
the
mouth.
He
straightened,
staggering,
blood
pouring
from
his
lips,
and
fleetingly
his
face
was
fully
in
the
light.
I
saw
that
he
realized
that
I
knew,
and
that
he
must
keep
me
silent.
He
hurled
himself
at
me.

I’ve
learned
a
lot
of
dirty
tricks
in
a
long
and
violent
life.
He
swept
a
fake
swing
at
me,
a
chop
with
his
poised
hand,
which
I
knew
was
only
intended
to
bring
him
into
position
for
a
kick.
I
swept
aside
the
hand
and
caught
the
foot
coming
up,
and
stepped
forward
onto
his
other
one
—
and
heaved.
There
was
a
crack,
and
he
screamed.
I
spun
the
foot
away
from
me
and
he
teetered,
tried
to
recover,
but
I
stepped
forward
and
kicked
him
precisely
on
the
kneecap.
He
went
down,
writhing.
I
fell
on
him,
knees
first
into
the
belly,
and
chopped
him
hard
under
the
nose.
He
was
almost
finished,
but
I
swung down,
fist
after
fist,
clubbing
into
his
face,
going
on
long
after
he
was
limp,
with
a
haze
in
front
of
my
eyes.
Then
Bycroft
was
dragging
me
off,
shouting
in
my
face.