A Spoonful of Luger (12 page)

“Or,”
said
Tony,
“you
could
use
the
duplicate
key.”

Bycroft
was
very
gentle
with
him,
considering.

“
What
duplicate
key?”

“He’s
got
a
spare,
taped
under
the
table.”

Bycroft
fell
to
his
knees.
He
screwed
his
head
under
the
table.
I
crouched
down
and
joined
him.
You
could
see
the
four
bolt
heads
holding
the
box,
and
sunk
deeply
into
the
wood,
and
against
the
inside
surface
of
the
end
ledge
a
square
leather
pouch,
held
there
with
a
wide
strip
of
sticky
tape.
I
reached
over.

“Don’t
touch
it,”
Bycroft
snapped.

So
I
just
watched.
Bycroft
inserted
a
finger
nail
under
the
edge
of
the
tape
and
peeled
it
away.
We
stood
up,
me
breathing
a
little
hard,
the
pouch
dangling
from
the
nails
of
his
finger
and
thumb.

“You
didn’t
say,”
he
accused
Tony.
“You
never
said
a
blind
word.”

This
pouch
was
a
duplicate
of
the
other,
except
that
this
one
was
nice
and
new,
the
leather
grain
still
clean.
Bycroft
gingerly
squeezed
the
edges
and
shook
it.

But
there
was
nothing
in
that
one,
either.

“I
thought
you
said ... ”
 
He
was
furious.

Tony
shrugged.
“I
didn’t
know
it
hadn’t
got
a
key
in.
I
just
spotted
it
there
when
I
did
the
bolting
job.”

“Which
was
when?”

“Two
or
three
months
ago.
Did
a
good
job,
didn’t
I?”

“Oh
fine,
son,
fine.”

They
sent
him
off
just
after
that.
Tony
seemed
to
have
recovered
considerably
from
the
shock.
I
went
out
after
him
and
watched
him
climb
on
his
bike.
He
turned
and
saw
me
watching
and
gave
an
unfriendly
signal.
I
hoped
his
saddle
was
ice-cold.

Then
I
wandered
off
casually
to
have
a
look
round,
if
only
to
establish
my
independence.
Bycroft
wasn’t
going
to
involve
me
in
his
power-struggle
with
Sprague,
not
if
I
could
help
it.
I
peered
into
the
sheds
and
worked
my
way
along
them,
just
wasting
time.
There
was
nothing
that
I
had
not
expected.

Cleave
had
stripped
down
crashed
and
worn-out
vehicles,
salvaging
any
useful
spares.
One
shed
contained
rows
of
rear
axles
and
wheels,
the
next
engines,
the
next
dials
and
gauges,
and
so
on.
There
was
a
nearly
empty
one
with
a
normal
work
bench,
a
spray
plant,
and
the
oxy-cutter
Tony
had
mentioned.
Presumably
they
had
worked
in
there
when
it
rained.
It
was
high
and
roomy.
I
went
back
out
into
the
yard
and
strolled
around,
because
I
didn’t
want
to
go
back
and
watch
Bycroft
in
action.

There
had
been
something
that
Tony
Finch
was
holding
back.
I
didn’t
want
to
think
about
that,
because
it
got
me
nowhere
with
Dulcie,
but
that
had
been
masking
tape
holding
the
second
pouch
in
position.

It
was
two
more
hours
before
Bycroft
and
Sprague
packed
in.
I
watched
the
lights
go
on
in
the
rest
of
the
bungalow
as
they
went
through
it.
I
waited,
stamping
up
and
down,
listening
to
the
masses
of
metal
creaking
in
the
frost.

Sprague
left
first.
He
stumped
across the
yard,
deviating
when
he
saw
me
so
that
I
was
in
his
direct
course.
I
stood
still.
I’m
heavier
than
him.
He
limped
round
me,
and
I
was
still
in
exactly
the
same
spot
when
Bycroft
left,
after
sealing
the
building.

“You
still
here?”

“Waiting
for
a
lift.
Find
anything?”

“The
bungalow
had
been
ransacked.”

“All
of
it?”

A
complete
search
usually
meant
that
the
searcher
had
come
to
the
end
disappointed,
a
part
search
that
he’d
found
what
he
was
after.

“Most
of
it.”
He
looked
at
his
watch.
“Better
get
back.
Plenty
to
think
about.”

It
was
very
quiet,
with
just
an
odd
man
left
by
the
gate
to
watch.
The
town
was
an
orange
glow
in
the
mist.

“Maybe
you
could
spare
a
thought
for
Dulcie?”
I
said.

“I
hadn’t
forgotten.”

“You’re
not
searching
for
her,”
I
insisted.
“You’re
going
to
take
men
off
that
and
put
them
in
this
yard, looking
for
some
piddling
key
and
a
gun
that
won’t
be
here.
You’ve
about
forgotten
Dulcie
Randall.”