him. It caught him on the chest, and he went over, upsetting a chair.
Standing off, I pelted him with books until he took cover behind a
settee. I went in after him, met his bull-like charge as he rushed at me,
swept his feeble right lead out of the way, socked him in the other
eye, steadied him as he reeled back, hit him in the mouth. My
knuckles scraped along his teeth. I felt them give. He staggered away,
spitting blood, his lips ballooning up, his eyes closing.
He made a wild dive for the telephone. I let him get his paw on it,
then made a flying tackle, grabbed him around the knees, brought
him down.
He caught me a glancing blow as we broke, but it had no more
iron in it than could be expected from a fat, middle-aged rat who fed
on whisky for breakfast.
I tore the telephone wire out by its roots, hit him with the
receiver until it shattered in my hand.
I stood off, looked around the room to see if there was anything
standing. There wasn’t, so I grabbed an oil painting of a fat dame in
her birthday suit off the wall, broke it over Bradley’s head as he came
up for air.
I grabbed the lamp standard, hit him with that.
He lay flat on his back, gasping and wheezing, his face a lot less
pretty than mine.
I waited hopefully for him to get up, but he didn’t. As I was trying
to make up my mind whether to call it a day or stand on his face,
Frankie came in. He looked murderous. In his right hand he had a
carving knife, and he handled it as if he meant to use it.
He didn’t rush at me, but came slowly, the knife held in front of
his skinny body, his lips off his teeth, his eyes glittering.
“Hello, Marmaduke,” I said, “didn’t your ma tell you it was
dangerous to play with knives? You might cut yourself.”
He crept towards me, snarling.
I decided it wouldn’t be healthy to let him get too close. My hand
groped behind me for a book, selected one, shot it at him. It hit him
on the shoulder, but it didn’t stop him. He kept coming, so I gave
ground. I suddenly realized that if I didn’t watch my step he’d murder
me.
We moved around the room, each stepping over the ruins, careful
not to trip, never taking our eyes off each other. I guessed he was
manoeuvring me close to Bradley, and that Bradley would try to grab
my legs. If that happened, Frankie would have plenty of opportunity
to ventilate my hide.
I stopped giving ground, crouched.
This move startled Frankie for a moment: he stopped too. I moved
a step forward. He made a feeble poke at me with the knife,
undecided whether to go back or rush me. I rushed him while he was
making up his mind.
I felt the knife slit my shirt-sleeve, scratch my biceps, but by then I
had hold of his wrist. He clawed my face as I bent his arm back. It hurt,
and I lost my temper for a moment. I snatched him up by the slack of
his pants, threw him at Bradley as Bradley was slowly levering himself
to his feet.
While they were sorting themselves out, I tossed the knife
downstairs.
Both Bradley and Frankie were on their feet when I faced around.
Bradley seemed to have found a little courage now Frankie had joined
him.
“Kill the swine,” he mumbled to Frankie, pushed him forward.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Frankie was pint-sized and without his
knife he wouldn’t have scared a midget. He had plenty of guts though,
and rushed at me, fingers like claws. My fight wasn’t with Frankie; it
was with Bradley. I stood off, waited for him, clipped him as kindly as I
could on his jaw. I caught him, lowered him to the floor, put a cushion
under his head, shook mine at Bradley.
“You shouldn’t let a kid like that fight your battles,” I said,
advancing on him. “Now, let’s see if you can answer a few questions.
That was Netta here, wasn’t it?”
He grabbed a chair, threw it at me. I got out of the way, caught it
by its legs, smashed it across his back. I knelt on him, slapped his fat
face four or five times, took hold of his ears and banged his head on
the carpet.
“Open up, you rat,” I said, continuing to hammer his head on the
carpet. I wished the floor was concrete, but I put a lot of steam into it
and it seemed to hurt his ears, which was something. “That was
Netta, wasn’t it?”
“Stop it!” he bellowed. “Yes, it was, damn you!”
“Netta hack from the dead, eh?” I said, letting go of his ears, but
cuffing him to keep him soft. “What did she want?”
“Money,” he snarled.
“Did you give her any?”
“Three hundred pounds.”
“What did she want it for?”
“To keep out of the way of the police.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I took hold of his ears, bashed his head on the carpet again.
“Why?” I repeated.
“I don’t know,” he howled. “Honest to God I don’t know.” I sat
down hard on his chest, flicked his nose with my fore-finger. “Don’t
tell me you gave her all that dough just because she asked you for it.
Why did you give it to her?”
“She sold me some rings,” he moaned.
“Where are they?”
“Over there.”
I dragged him to his feet, steadied him.
“Come on, don’t he coy,” I said. “Show me.”
He staggered over to the smashed desk, pulled open a drawer.
“There,” he said, collapsed on the floor.
I picked out four diamond rings, turned them over in my hand,
looked at him.
