The Loo Sanction

Jonathan recalled an incident in Yokohama in which his assailant had ended with a Ticonderoga #3 driven in four inches between his ribs. But he grinned sheepishly at The Sergeant's derision.

For his part The Sergeant no longer felt anger toward Jonathan. It was now scorn. He had seen this kind before. All lip and sass until it came down to the mats.

'No, now really, Sergeant. There must be a dozen useful weapons in this room,' Jonathan protested through the light laughter of the lookers-on.

'Like what, for instance?'

Jonathan looked around almost helplessly. 'Well, like... I don't know... like this magazine, for instance.'

The Sergeant looked disdainfully at the Punch on the table between them. 'And what would you do with that? Read him the jokes and make him laugh himself to death?' He was pleased with himself for getting off a good one.

'Well, you could... well, look. If I rolled it up tight, like this. See? Now, wait. You have to get it tight. And when it's compact it weighs more than a stick of wood of the same size. And you know how sharp the edges of paper are. The end here could really cut a fellow up.'

'Could it just? Well—'

Eight seconds later he was on his back in a litter of table and chairs, and Jonathan stood over him, the back of an inverted chair crushing hard against his larynx. Blood oozed from The Sergeant's eye socket, where the end of the magazine had been jabbed home with a cutting, twisting motion. The thrust into his stomach had brought The Sergeant's hands down and had left his nose undefended for the crunching upward smash of the magazine that broke it with pain that eddied to his gut and the back of his throat. The flat-handed cymbals slap on his ears had punctured the eardrums with air implosion, so he could barely hear what Jonathan growled at him from between clenched teeth.

'What are you going to do now, Sergeant?'

The Sergeant couldn't answer. He was gagging under the pressure of the chair in his throat, and his temples throbbed with the pulse of blocked blood.

'What are you going to do now?' Jonathan's voice was guttural and subhuman. He was in the white fury necessary to key himself to put bigger men away so totally that they never thought of coming back after him.

The Sergeant managed a strangled sound. He couldn't see well through the blood, but he caught a terrifying glimpse of Jonathan's glassy, gray green eyes.

Jonathan closed his eyes for a second and breathed deeply, calming himself from within. The adrenaline rush was still a lump in his stomach.

He spoke quietly. 'I could have done that with half the punishment. But I figured the apologetic little man in my bathroom owed you something.'

He released the pressure and set the chair aside. As he pulled down his cuffs so that the proper one-half inch protruded from his jacket, he said, 'I'll bet I know the words you're looking for, Sergeant: not qualified, but passed. Right?'

Jonathan was sitting alone in the hotel bar, sipping a double Laphroaig when Yank joined him.

'Oh, brother! You really whipped his pudding for him. Had it coming, I reckon.'

Jonathan finished his drink. 'You reckon that, do you?'

Yank slid onto the barstool next to him. 'I guess you'll be going back to London in the morning. When you get to your flat, you'll find a list of telephone numbers there—one for each day. You can use them to keep me informed of your progress, and I'll pass the good word on to the Guv. Any questions?'

None small enough for Yank to handle.

'Oh, yeah,' Yank said. 'About this Vanessa Dyke. I suppose you'll be getting in contact with her to get an angle on entree into The Cloisters. Do you want me to have her watched until you get there?'

'Christ, no.'

'But the Guv said that she—'

'She probably met your Parnell-Greene by coincidence.'

'Maybe. But she was the last person he reported having met before we found him dead. Of course, you could be right. Maybe it was just a case of two queers getting together to compare notes. Right?'

Jonathan tilted his head back and looked at him coldly. 'Miss Dyke is an old friend.'

'Sure, but—'

'Get out of here.'

'Now, wait a minute. I have—'

'Out. Out.'

Yank shuffled nervously for a moment, then he cleared his throat and tried to make an exit without loss of face. 'OK, then. I'll be getting back to the city.' He made a slow fanning gesture with the fingers of one hand. 'Later, sweet patater.'

Yank had gone back to London, and Henry had taken The Sergeant to a doctor in the village to attend to his nose and eye, and to see if anything could be done about his hearing, so Jonathan and Maggie had the dining room to themselves. A heavy rain had descended with the evening, enveloping the inn in the white noise of frying bacon. A draft fluttered the candle between them, and she rubbed her upper arms as though she were cold. She wore the muted green paisley gown she had worn on their first evening together—only three nights ago, was it?

Despite moments of laughter and animation, their contact was uncertain and frail, and several times he realized that they had been silent for rather a long time, each in his own thoughts. With a little effort he would pick it up again, but the chat invariably thinned into silence again.

'...they tend to be blue this time of year, don't they?'

He had been staring at the rain streaks on the window. 'What? Pardon me?'

'Tangerines.'

'Oh. Yes.' He looked out the window again, then he frowned and looked back to her. 'Blue?'

She laughed. 'You were miles away.'

'True. I'm sorry.'

'You're leaving in the morning?'

'Hm-m.'

'Going to take up this line of contact through your friend... ah?'

'Vanessa Dyke. Yes, I suppose so. It seems the only angle we've got on getting me into The Cloisters. I can't believe she really has anything to do with all this, though.'

'I hope not. I mean, if she's a friend of yours, I hope not.'

'Me too.' He tilted back his head and looked at her for a moment. 'The Vicar told me you were to be placed inside The Cloisters.'

She nodded, then she examined the cheese board with sudden discretionary interest. He realized that she was trying to pass over the thing, make it seem less important than it was. 'Yes,' she said. 'They've found a way to locate me inside by tomorrow night. Would you like a little of this Brie? It's Brie de Meaux, I think.'

'Brie de Melun, actually. It'll be dangerous inside there, you know.'

'You know, I'm as bad at cheese as I am at wine.'

'The Vicar said you volunteered to work inside.'

'Did he?' Her arched eyebrows and playful green eyes slowly dissolved to a calmer, less protected gaze, then she lowered her lashes and looked at the cheese knife, which she aimlessly pushed back and forth with her finger. 'I guess I lack great moral strength. I can't carry such burdens as guilt and shame very far. By helping you now, I hope I'll be able to convince myself that I've made up for getting you into this thing. Because...' She looked up at him and smiled. 'Because... I've grown a little fond of you, sir.' The saccharinity of this last was diluted by her broad comic brogue.

Her hand was available for pressing, but that was hardly the kind of thing Jonathan would do.

They got through coffee and cognac without any need for conversation. The rain had stopped, and the enveloping sound that had gone unnoticed was palpable in its absence. The new, denser silence contributed to the emptiness of the drafty dining room and the dimming of candle flames drowning in melted wax to produce a voided, autumnal ambience.

'They've put a car at my disposal,' Jonathan said, voicing the last step of a thought pattern. 'I suppose I could go into London tonight. Get my mind sorted out against tomorrow.'