She tried to struggle and Johnson said, “Go on, answer the man or I’ll give you a slapping.”
A voice called, “Put her down. I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been, does she? She might catch something.”
Dillon’s Zippo lighter flared as he lit the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth. He walked forward and Smith went to meet him. “You want trouble, you’ve got it, you little squirt,” and he swung a tremendous punch.
Dillon swayed to one side, reaching for the wrist, twisted it so that Smith cried out in agony, falling to one knee. Dillon’s clenched fist swung down in a hammer blow of tremendous force across the extended arm, snapping the forearm. Smith cried out again, fell over on his side.
Johnson said, “You little bastard.”
He threw Jenny to one side and took an automatic pistol from his left-hand raincoat pocket. Dillon moved in fast, blocking the arm to the side, so that the only shot Johnson got off went into the ground. At the same time the Irishman half-turned, throwing the other man across his extended leg, ramming his heel down so hard that he fractured two of Johnson’s ribs.
Johnson writhed on the ground in agony and Dillon picked up the automatic. It was an old Italian Beretta, small caliber, somewhere close to a point-two-two.
“Woman’s gun,” Dillon said, “but it’ll do the job.” He crouched down beside Johnson. “Who do you work for, sonny?”
“Don’t say a word,” Smith called.
“Who said I was going to?” Johnson spat in Dillon’s face. “Get fucked.”
“Suit yourself.”
Dillon rolled him over, put the muzzle of the gun against the back of his left knee and fired. Johnson gave a terrible cry and Dillon took a handful of his hair and pulled his head back.
“Do you want me to do the other one? I’ll put you on sticks if you like.”
“No,” Johnson moaned. “We work for Santiago – Max Santiago.”
“Really?” Dillon said. “And where would I find him?”
“He lives in Puerto Rico, but lately he’s been in Paris.”
“And you did the burglary at Lord North Street?”
“Yes.”
“Good boy. See how easy it was?”
“You stupid bugger,” Smith said to Johnson. “You’ve just dug your own grave.”
Dillon tossed the Beretta over the wall into the Thames. “I’d say he’s been very sensible. Westminster Hospital’s not too far from here, first-class casualty department and free, even for animals like you, thanks to the National Health Service.”
He turned and found Jenny staring at him in a daze and he took her arm. “Come on, love, let’s go home.”
As they walked away Smith called, “I’ll get you for this, Dillon.”
“No you won’t,” Dillon said. “You’ll put it down to experience and hope that this Max Santiago feels the same way.”
They emerged from the gardens and paused at the pavement edge, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Dillon said, “Are you all right?”
“My God!” she said wonderingly. “What kind of man are you, Sean Dillon, to do that?”
“They’d have done worse to you, my love.”
He took her hand and ran with her across the road.
When they reached the house she went straight upstairs and Dillon went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, thinking about things as he waited for it to boil. Max Santiago? Progress indeed, something for Ferguson to get his teeth into there. He was aware of Jenny coming down the stairs and going into the study, made the coffee, put the cups on a tray. As he went to join her he realized she was on the phone.
“British Airways? What’s the last flight to Paris tonight?” There was a pause. “Nine-thirty? Can you reserve me a seat? Grant – Jennifer Grant. Yes, I’ll pick it up at reservations. Yes, Terminal Four, Heathrow.”
She put the phone down and turned as Dillon entered. He put the tray on the desk. “Doing a runner are you?”
“I can’t take it. I don’t understand what’s going on. Ferguson, you and now those men and that gun. I can’t get it out of my mind. I was going away anyway, but I’m going to get out now while I can.”
“To Paris?” he said. “I heard you on the phone.”
“That’s just a jumping-off point. There’s someone I have to see, someone I want to take this to.” She picked up the black metal box containing the ashes. “Henry’s sister.”
“Sister?” Dillon frowned.
“I’m probably about the only person left who knows he had one. There are special reasons for that so don’t ask me and don’t ask me where I’m going after Paris.”
“I see.”
She glanced at her watch. “Seven o’clock, Dillon, and the flight’s at nine-thirty. I can make it, only don’t tell Ferguson, not until I’ve gone. Help me, Dillon, please.”
“Then don’t waste time in talking about it,” he said. “Go and get your bags now and I’ll ring for a taxi.”
“Will you, Dillon, honestly?”
“I’ll go with you myself.”
She turned and hurried out and Dillon sighed and said softly, “You daft bastard, what’s getting into you?” and he picked up the phone.
It was very quiet in the waiting room of the small private nursing home in Farsley Street. Smith sat in an upright chair against the wall, his right forearm encased in plaster and held in a sling. The half hour after their encounter with Dillon had been a nightmare. They couldn’t afford to go to a public hospital because that would have meant the police, so he’d had to go and get the van from the alley by Lord North Street from where he’d driven one-handed to Victoria Tower Gardens to retrieve Johnson. The trip to Farsley Street had been even worse. Dr. Shah emerged from the operating theater, a small, gray-haired Pakistani in green cap and gown, a mask hanging around his neck.
“How is he?” Smith asked.
“As well as can be expected with a split kneecap. He’ll limp for the rest of his life.”
“That fucking little Irish bastard,” Smith said.
“You boys can never stay out of trouble, can you? Does Mr. Santiago know about it?”
“Why should he?” Smith was alarmed. “Nothing to do with him this one.”
“I thought it might, that’s all. He phoned me from Paris the other day on business so I knew he was around.”
“No, not his bag this.” Smith got up. “I’ll get myself off home. I’ll be in to see him tomorrow.”
He went out of the glass front door. Shah watched him go, then walked past the reception desk, empty at that time of night, and went into his office. He always believed in covering himself. He picked up the phone and rang Santiago at the Ritz in Paris.
The traffic at that time in the evening was light and they were at Heathrow by eight o’clock. Jenny picked up her ticket at the reservation desk and went and booked in for the flight. She put her case through, but carried the traveling urn.
“Time for a drink?” Dillon suggested.
“Why not?”
She seemed in better spirits now and waited for him in the corner of the bar until he returned with an Irish whisky and a glass of white wine. “You’re feeling better, I can tell,” he said.
“It’s good to be on the move again, to get away from it all. What will you tell Ferguson?”
“Nothing about you until the morning.”
“You’ll tell him I flew to Paris?”
“No point in not doing, he’d find that out in five minutes from a check on British Airways’ passenger
