Neon Madman (13 page)

Mitchell the delivery boy.

The door at the top of the flight of stairs was shut. I stood beside it and listened. Nothing. If Murdoch was in there he was being very patient, very still. I drew a breath and did what every good delivery boy should do. I knocked. Once.

Knocked and waited. Still nothing. I had a quick look back down the stairs. At the landing they divided, the main flight carrying on down to the street, the other turning right down to the restaurant.

There was no sign of anyone about to come up. I turned the brass handle on the door and it moved with my hand. The door eased open. I let go and allowed it to swing. I could see a single bed with a gaudy red and gold cover draped across it, an easy chair with frayed upholstery, a wooden table marked with cigarette burns. I put my hand on the door and pushed it right back as far as the hinges would take it. They took it back to the wall. There was nothing to prevent it. No one.

I went in fast and pulled the door to behind me. I put the packet down on the table and looked round the room. There was little to add to my first impression. A further door led off from the back of the first room. I went through that one with all of the precautions I had used the first time. The result was the same. More drab, over-used furniture, and no Murdoch. Nobody at all. Two empty rooms.

I searched for a sign that someone had been there recently but there wasn't any. Just the emptiness and the heat.

If James P. Murdoch had ever been here it hadn't been for very long and it hadn't been very recently. Which meant
… 
? Which meant
… 
?

I remembered the look of assured determination on his face in the photograph. Remembered Marcia looking up at him adoringly. Remembered the touch of Caroline's fingers as she handed me the packet that lay on the table.

Remembered all those things and came close to realising how stupid I had been. Only close. I'd probably never realise it all.

I picked up the packet and walked out of the flat. I was three paces from the landing when one of the toilet doors sprang open and the hot evening air was filled with that high animal laugh. The laugh of an animal on the hunt; one that has cornered its prey.

I stared at Charlie's face, the one eye that flickered haphazardly, the other which glared glassily back at me. I stared too long. His right hand streaked towards my body and the block I dropped on it was purely, instinctive. It knocked the knife down, but not away. I felt the blade dig into the top of my thigh, before his arm pulled it away.

I wasn't about to let him get a second try. My left hand opened towards where the knife was waiting, my arm half stretched outwards. At the same time I threw a punch with my right that he tried to avoid but it still caught him close to the edge of his chin. He stumbled back against the open door and I saw the knife hand dip.

That was enough. Both hands dived towards it, gripping the wrist and twisting hard. He moved back into me and rammed his knee up into my groin. It made my eyes shut for a couple of seconds and when they opened again they were watering. But I still had tight hold of his right arm.

He tried to bring his knee up into me again but I blocked it with my own, then lifted the arm high and hammered it against the wall. I got my fingers out of the way as much as I could, but even then it hurt like hell. It must have hurt him more. Especially when I did it a second time, then a third.

He wasn't laughing now. I looked at his face and the one good eye was working overtime and there was a gurgle of foam around the edges of his mouth. He was making a noise all right, but it wasn't one I'd heard before. It was a cross between a growl and a hissing of breath and it was a sound no human should make.

I did it to his arm a fourth time. The strange noise became a scream and the fingers opened. I watched the knife fall to the floor and kicked it away.

There was a moment's stillness when we both listened to it bouncing down the steps.

He launched himself at me, the white streak of hair jutting hard into my face. I fell back on to the stairs and sensed his fingers going for my throat. I pulled them away and his head came up in front of mine. I butted it. Hard. There was a sharp splintering sound and he staggered backwards both hands now to his own face trying to stop the flow of blood. I lay back and swung both feet upwards, levering myself against the stair edge.

His body went several inches off the floor as my feet struck home between his legs. He smashed back against the still open toilet door, flattening it against the wall. I pushed myself up and dived at him head first. The impact sent him along the landing and down on to the flight of stairs that led to the street.

Hands reached out for the bannister rail that ran down at one side. Hands found it. His hand. My hands. His face looking up at me again. His nose a mass of split skin and gristle, pumping blood. His eye looked at me unbelievingly. Charlie's face. I didn't like it. Didn't want to see it again. Ever.

I kicked out with my right foot and the toecap snapped his head back hard. Arms flailed wildly, even as he fell. There was nothing for him to hold on to. Not any more. And he wasn't about to fly. Not Charlie.

I stood there for several minutes leaning against the wall, recovering my breath. Voices behind me made me turn around. Four Italian waiters were gazing down in disbelief. I pushed my way back through them and picked up the packet I had been entrusted with. Then I walked down to where Charlie's body was jammed across the bottom of the stairs. He could have been trying to stand on his head
…
and had not quite made it.

Something glittered up at me from the pavement. Charlie's glass eye stared back up at me blindly; the neon lights from the strip club reflected in it, flashing off and on, off and on incessantly. I stepped over Charlie's body and brought my foot down on the eye, enjoying the crunching feeling beneath my foot.

Good night, Charlie!

Back at the Murdoch place everything seemed pretty much back to normal. I rang the doorbell and the little Chinese answered the door. He was in as talkative a mood as usual. He nodded towards the stairs this time, then made his normal graceless exit.

So what could I do? I climbed up the stairs and what do you know? She was in the bedroom. The white satin cover was in use again only this time she didn't look as though anything in the whole wide world would ever shock her again.

‘Scott,' she said with a sort of husky eagerness, ‘did you give James the
…
'

I pulled the packet from behind my back and tossed it on to the bed. I thought it would be a shame not to let her go through her piece. I watched it with more than a little admiration. She was good. She was very good. On another night she could have convinced me that she was as surprised as she was making out. But this wasn't another night.

I stood there unmoved and unmoving and eventually even Caroline Murdoch realised that it wasn't working. She stopped talking and let the cover fall a few more inches down her body. This time she certainly wasn't dressed underneath it.

‘Scott,' she said, in a way that meant everything and nothing.

I looked at that perfect face and then I talked to it as though it wasn't there. ‘All right, Caroline, I don't pretend to understand everything. But one thing I do know. Your husband was never going to be at that place tonight. It was part of a pretence that was probably going to end with a statement about his disappearance and the supposition that he'd been killed. He wasn't going to be there because he hasn't been in this country since Thursday, after he said his goodbyes to Marcia Pollard. He's abroad somewhere under an assumed name and with a fake passport. I reckon he's also got enough with him to put all the Mancor people down for a long time if necessary.

‘I haven't any good ideas why he did it, but if Everyman Insurance goes bust in a month or so I won't be surprised in the least. I do know that both you and Marcia knew where he was yet you allowed your lives to be put at risk rather than tell a lunatic with a knife. I don't know why you did that and I don't want to so don't waste your breath telling me.'

She looked up at me as though I'd been reading her the weather report.

Then she smiled and said, ‘Scott, you won't tell your suspicions to anyone else, will you?' She paused and gave a half smile. ‘You know how much money there is in there.' Her eyes flicked to the packet at the bottom of the bed. ‘You can keep it.' She looked at me and her eyes dilated. ‘You can
…
'

The voice disappeared and the white satin cover slipped down further until all of her breasts were exposed. She was very beautiful. I walked over to her and reached down with my hand. I pulled the cover right back and gazed at her totally naked body.

I gazed at it for a long time. I didn't want to forget it. Then I turned around and walked out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind me.

Outside, I sat in the car and looked back at the house. What was it that made a woman die for a man, a man for a woman? Whatever it was there was one thing I was sure of: I didn't want it.

I put the car into gear and pressed the button on the car radio. A friendly guy with a nice friendly voice told me it was going to be hotter than ever tomorrow. I thanked him and drove on home.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1977 by John Harvey

Cover design by Julianna Lee

978-1-5040-3886-7

This edition published in 2016 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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