“What’s the bloody joke, eh?”
“Only my thoughts, friend, only my thoughts and nothing to do with you.”
“Saucy,” the man said, sounding belligerent. “That’s what I bloody calls you, saucy. An’ I don’t like your bloody voice, so shut it.”
“Anything to oblige,” Halfhyde said mildly but with a gleam in his eye. “If you like, I’ll lick your boots. They could probably do with it.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind.”
The man was very drunk; he lurched and almost fell, then said, “That voice. It don’t fit with Iquique. Nor does your rig. Dressed like a seaman, sound like a bloody lord. What’s your game, matey? On the run—are you, eh?”
“No more than you, I dare say.”
Pig-like eyes stared at him, red-shot and bleary. There was a belch. “What you done, matey?”
“Nothing to do with you, my friend.”
“No?” A hand shot out and took him by the throat. It squeezed, but not hard, then it fell away. “Fix you up, I can…if you make it worth my while. What about that, eh?”
Halfhyde put a finger to his lips. “Not here, friend. Let’s be sensible. In any case, I’m not in need of assistance from you.” Once again the hefty hand came out and laid hold of his throat, this time squeezing hard. No one took any notice; the naked woman was now attempting to pick up a silver dollar thrown onto the stage and all attention was riveted. Savagely Halfhyde lifted a knee and jabbed vigorously in a vital place. There was an oath, and the squeezing figures came away, ready to ball into a fist, but Halfhyde grabbed the wrist before the man could strike. He decided to take a chance; it was a hundred pounds to a penny that the man was also on the run from the law. He said, “No help wanted. I’m fixed up. I come from Red Danny’s.”
“Red Danny’s, eh.” The eyes focused a little better on Halfhyde; the mention of Red Danny’s seemed to bring a touch of sobriety. “You’ll buy me a drink on that. Whisky.” The hand came down on Halfhyde’s shoulder, and he was pushed against the bar. The man shouted for whisky, and a bottle and two glasses were placed before them. Halfhyde’s new mate had also passed through Red Danny’s hands. When they’d had a skinful, he said, he would personally escort Halfhyde to the clearing house.
Although he had his directions from Trucco, Halfhyde acquiesced; partly because he now had no alternative, but also because to arrive with someone known to the establishment might give him some extra authenticity. He reckoned he could have struck lucky. But as it turned out, the luck was not due to last.
Chapter 6
IT WAS only a short walk. The man swayed along, not talking now. Halfhyde propped him up as the legs went in all directions. They turned off into a narrow, unpaved alley of mean dwellings; half of them appeared to be derelict but yet inhabited by poor families with many children and mangy, half-starved dogs that bared their teeth and snarled as the two men passed by. From here they turned into another alley; Halfhyde recognized his destination from Trucco’s description before his drunken companion had stopped at a heavy door set into a whitewashed wall with the roof of a building visible beyond.
The man banged at the door, and they waited.
The door was quickly opened by an old woman, bent and withered, dressed in black. As she admitted them she mumbled something in Spanish, something that Halfhyde didn’t catch. As the crone shut and bolted the door behind them, they made their way across a dirty, littered courtyard towards the building whose roof had been seen beyond the outer wall. Still lurching, the bearded man led the way to a door at the side, which he jerked open. It swung back; inside, a window, though dirty, gave some light. Three men were visible, sitting on an earth floor with their backs against the wall. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, Halfhyde saw more men to the left of the door.
Halfhyde’s companion gave a hiccup. “Brought a mate,” he said. “Where’s Espinoza?”
One of the sitters answered in English. “Gone down to the docks. Who’ve you brought, Raby?”
“He’s come from Red Danny’s.”
The sitter got to his feet and came close. He looked dangerous; he said, “Your friend’s supposed to say that for himself, Raby.”
“He did. Said it to me.”
“You’ve been drinking, Raby.”
“None o’ your business if I have.”
“No? We’re all dependent, one on another, so long as we’re here. You know that.” There was steel in the voice and a clear threat. The bearded man seemed subdued. The speaker turned to Halfhyde. “I’ll not ask your name since you’d not give your true one. But I want your story, and I want it now.”
“Certainly,” Halfhyde said. “May I know who I’m talking to?”
“You heard what I just said. What applies to you, applies to me. If you want a name, let’s say it’s Smith. All right?”
Halfhyde nodded. He had his story ready, and he gave it. He’d fallen foul of the law down south in Valparaiso:
