A Spoonful of Luger (19 page)

“I’d
like
a
word
with
him.”

“He
ain’t
here.”

“Then
where
is
he?”

She
considered
me
carefully,
and
I
realized
that
what
had
seemed
to
be
lovely
dark
eyes
were
actually
cold and
calculating,
and
I
recalled
that
the
female
leopard
is
no
more
cuddlesome
than
the
male.
Abruptly
she
drew
back
her
head,
tilted
it,
and
threw
out
one
word
of
menace.

“Mike.”

Her
slight
smile,
her
tiny
nod,
indicated
it
was
my
fault,
so
there.

There
was
a
sound
down
the
hall.
It
was
very
dark
that
end,
and
the
impression
was
that
the
far
wall
was
moving.
It
was
Mike,
advancing
in
a
sullen
shamble,
six
feet
two
of
Mike,
most
of
it
muscle
and
aggression,
but,
I
prayed,
atrophied
by
sloth.
He
was
wearing
filthy
jeans
and
an
ancient
T-shirt,
and
his
face
had
seen
the
sort
of
life
he
would
be
expected
to
see
—
violence
and
indifference.
Most
of
the
violence
had
left
its
mark,
a
broken
nose,
a
mouth
twisted
by
a
scar,
an
ear
that
looked
like
a
half-lopped
cabbage.

“Sod
off,”
he
said,
I
think,
something
of
that
general
mood.

“I’m
looking
for
Norman
Lyle,”
I said
in
a
friendly
voice.

“He
ain’t
here.”

“Then
where
can
I
find
him?”

“Somewhere
else.”

His
voice
was
deep
and
controlled,
with
nothing
of
the
slurred,
punchy
stupidity
that
I’d
expected.
He
came
closer
and
I
could
see
his
eyes,
narrow
and
deep-set,
but
with
a
hint
of
uneasiness
in
them.

“It
might
be
important,”
I
said.
“To
him.
Does
he
live
here?”

“You
a
copper?
Let’s
see
your
card.”

“I’m
not
a
copper.
I’m
simply
looking
for
Norman.”

“Whaffor?”

“To
tell
him
Dennis
is
dead.”

The
girl
suddenly
made
a
snarling
sound
of
impatience,
turned
away
angrily,
and
moved
down
the
hall.
Mike
was
thinking
about
it.
He
moved
his
shoulders,
and
one
huge
hand
became
a
bigger
fist.

“Dennis
who?”

“You
Norman’s
brother?”

“Yes.
Dennis
who?”

“I
wanted
to
tell
Norman
about
it.”

The
aggression
had
moderated
from
his
voice.
I’d
made
him
at
least
curious.
“He
ain’t
here.”

“Then
perhaps
I’d
better
tell
his
brother,”
I
suggested.
“You
can
pass
it
on
when
you
see
him.”

He
hesitated
some
more,
and
finally
backed
off.
“You
better
come
in.”
Then,
in
a
howl
of
distress:
“And
wipe
yer
bloody
feet.”

I
looked
down.
His
own
feet
were
bare,
which
must
have
been
uncomfortable
on
the
naked
red
quarries.
I
wiped
and
entered.

They
lived
in
the
back.
Somebody
had
knocked
down
a
wall
to
make
the
old
sitting
room
and
scullery
into
one
large
dining-kitchen.
There
was
a
modern
wide
window
in
the
rear
wall,
providing
a
picture
view
of
the
canal.
The
furnishings
were
worn
shiny
and
black,
and
the
surfaces
were
collapsing.
Mike
threw
himself
onto
a
settee.

“Talk,”
he
said.

I
glanced
at
the
young
woman.
She was
hacking
a
potato
to
pieces.
“My
wife,”
he
said.
“Rose.”

Breakfast
was
still
on
the
table.
A
newspaper
was
open
at
a
report
on
the
death
of
Dennis
Cleave.
There
was
a
sideboard
against
a
back
wall
with
a
modern
hi-fi
spread
on
it,
the
speakers
each
side
of
the
ancient
black
fireplace,
and
a
coloured
tele
in
the
corner.
Maybe
they
saved
on
rent.
A
delicate
clock
on
the
mantel
rotated
its
four
balls
under
a
dome
of
glass.
There
were
two
pictures
of
veteran
cars
on
the
wall.

“Perhaps
he
knows
that
Dennis
is
dead,”
I
said.
“In
which
case
I’ve
wasted
my
time.”

“Sure
you
ain’t
a
copper?”

“Why?
Are
you
expecting
one?”
He
blinked.
“Though
I
suppose
you
would
be.
I
mean,
a
man
gets
himself
shot ...
it’s
only
reasonable
the
police’d
be
looking
up
his
friends.”

“You
keep
talkin’
about
friends,”
he
complained.
“Rose,
what’s
he
on
about?”

“A
girl
died,”
I
said,
“two
years
ago.
Annabelle
Lester.
A
long
way
from
here.
Your
brother
Norman
and
this
Dennis
Cleave
were
together,
and
gave
each
other
alibis ... ”