A Spoonful of Luger (43 page)

There
was
a
phone
box
in
the
corner
of
the
car
park.
Randall
wasn’t
at
the
garage,
but
I
got
him
at
his
home.

“It’s
George
Coe.
Have
the
police
been
to
see
you?”

He
mumbled
no.

“What’s
the
matter
with
you?”

“I
was
just
leaving
for
the
hospital.
She’s
bad,
awful
sick,
they
tell
me.”

“I’m
sorry.
Look,
I’ve
got
to
see
you.”

“Not
now.
Don’t
you
understand
— ”

“Perhaps
too
well.
Listen,
if
they
get
to
you
before
I
do,
don’t
try
to
tell
lies.
And
Mr
Randall,
don’t
try
to
run.
Don’t
do
anything
stupid.”

“Stupid?”
he
said.
Sense
and
nonsense
were
no
doubt
confused
in
his
mind,
along
with
right
and
wrong.
“What
can
I
do?
What
is
there
to
do?”

“I
don’t
know.
I’ll
have
to
think
of
something.”
But
there
wasn’t
anything
coming.
My
brain
was
like
cotton
wool.
There
was
only
the
inevitable.

I
drove
to
the
one
place
I
had
left
to
go.
Anne
was
the
only
one
I
could
confide
in.
She
was
the
only
one
I
could
go
to
and
confess
I
was
beaten.

She’d
encountered
it
before.

I
drove
to
the
bungalow
and
parked
in
front,
opened
the
gate,
walked
up
to
the
front
door.
She
had
it
open
before
I
could
knock.

“Anne,”
I
said,
“I
don’t
know
what
to
do.
I
think
my
client’s
a
murderer.”

10

“BUT
George,
you
always
know what
to
do.”
She
spoke
with
quiet
satisfaction,
mentally
subtracting
half
the
effect
of
my
statement.
I
followed
her
into
the
hall.
It
was
a
neat
little
bungalow,
two
bedrooms,
a
small
terrace
out
back.
We
weren’t
going
to
sit
out
there in
this
weather,
but
I
remembered
that
terrace.

“You’ve
got
a
different
car,”
she
said,
leading
me
into
the
sitting
room.

“Not
on
purpose.”

“I’m
sure
not.”

I
had
my
hat
in
my
hand,
my
raincoat
still
on.
She
made
an
apologetic
gesture.
“I
didn’t
take
your
coat.”

“I
didn’t
know
I
was
stopping
long.”

“But
of
course
you
are,
George.
If
you
don’t
know
what
to
do,
it’s
sure
to
take
a
while
to
sort
out.”

I
handed
over
my
hat
and
struggled out
of
the
raincoat,
and
tried
to
smile.
“I
didn’t
really
come
about
that,”
I
said,
trying
to
decide
whether
that
was
true.

“Didn’t
you?”

“It’s
just
as
well,
it
seems.
You’re
in
your
facetious
mood,
Anne.”

I’d
not
intended
it
as
a
criticism,
but
she
paused
in
the
doorway,
looking
back
at
me,
and
there
was
pain
in
her
eyes.
She
had
always
enjoyed
teasing
me;
the
only
thing
different
was
that
now
a
touch
of
cruelty
had
crept
in.
The
years
can
change
you,
mellow
or
harden.

“I’m
sorry,”
she
said
quietly.

“No.
It
was
my
fault.
Bringing
you
my
troubles.”

She
went
back
into
the
hall
with
my
things,
and
was
long
enough
for
me
to
assume
she
was
dropping
the
subject.
But
no.
Merely
considering
it.

“It’s
not
the
first
time,”
she
said,
coming
back
in
and
shutting
the
door
firmly
behind
her.

“Those
troubles
weren’t
really
mine. I
didn’t
bring
them.
They
were
here.”

“But
you
made
them
yours.”

The
french
window
was
facing
me,
the
terrace
desolate
outside,
with
grass
sprouting
between
its
flags
and
tufted
with
snow.

“Have
you
had
lunch?”
she
asked.

“Thank
you,
yes.
I’ve
eaten.”

“But
you
wouldn’t
say
no
to
a
cup
of
tea?”

“I
wouldn’t
say
no
to
sitting
down
quietly
and
talking,”
I
said.
“Wasn’t
it
what
you
wanted?
Talk.”

“Not
in
your
present
mood,
George.”

“My
mood?”

I
considered
it,
and
while
I
did
she
gave
me
a
quick,
cool
smile,
and
disappeared
into
the
kitchen.
Then
I
knew
what
she
meant.
I’d
got
to
the
stage
where
you
duck
in
your
chin,
lift
your
shoulders,
and
just
keep
walking
forwards,
the
stupid,
stubborn
stage,
when
reason
and
logic
get
thrust
aside,
and
you
prayed
for
something
to
happen.
So
I’d
walked
into
her
house
with
that
expression
on
my
face.
Not contrition,
no
sign
of
meek
expectancy,
but
simply
an
indication
that
she,
and
what
she
stood
for,
were
to
be
disregarded,
to
make
room
for
the
important
job
I
was
on.