hurried past the doorway. Frey caught a glimpse of the whores, hidden behind a dresser with a double-barrelled shotgun poking over the top. They held a pair of white, pink-eyed dogs on leashes, for extra protection. One of the whores waved and made a kiss-face as he passed, but he was out of sight too quickly to respond.
He headed up the stairs, Malvery close behind. The coiled-brass motif from the hallway continued on the upper level, but here the walls and floor were panelled in black wood and lit by electric bulbs in moulded sconces. The place had a dark, grand feel to it. Frey was feeling pretty dark and grand himself right now.
As they approached Quail’s study they heard something crash inside. The sound of a desk tipping over. Presumably he was making a barricade. Frey remembered the bars on the windows from his last visit. They couldn’t be opened from the inside. Quail wasn’t going anywhere.
They took position either side of the door. Frey kicked it open and stepped back as a pistol fired twice. The door rebounded and came to rest slightly ajar. There were two coin-sized holes in the wood panelling of the corridor at chest-height.
‘Anyone comes through that door, they’ll be sorry!’ Quail cried. His attempt to sound fierce was woeful. ‘I’ve got a couple of guns and enough ammo for the whole night. The militia will be here sooner or later! Someone will have heard the racket you made downstairs!’
Frey thought for a moment. He waved at Malvery. ‘Give me the bottle.’
‘What?’ Malvery said, feigning ignorance.
‘The bottle of alcohol in your bag. Give it here.’
Malvery opened his bag reluctantly. ‘This bottle?’ he asked querulously, rather hoping Frey would reconsider.
‘I’ll buy you another one!’ Frey snapped, and Malvery finally handed it over. He snatched it off the doctor and pulled out the stopper. ‘Now a rag.’
‘Oh,’ Malvery murmured, divining Frey’s plan. He passed Frey a bit of cloth with the expression of one about to witness the cruel extinction of some lovable, harmless animal.
Frey stuffed the rag into the neck of the bottle and upended it a few times. He pulled out a match - one of several that had lived in the creases of his coat pocket for many years - and struck it off the door jamb. He touched it to the rag and flame licked into life.
‘Fire in the hole,’ he grinned, then booted open the door and lobbed the bottle in. He ducked back in time to avoid the gunfire that followed.
The throw had been pitched into the corner of the room - he didn’t want to incinerate Quail quite yet - but the whispermonger started howling as if he were on fire himself, instead of just the bookshelves.
Frey and Malvery retreated a little way down the corridor to another doorway, where they took shelter and aimed. Black smoke began to seep out of Quail’s study. They could hear him clattering around inside, cursing. Glass smashed, bars rattled. The smoke became a thick, churning layer that spread out along the ceiling of the corridor. Quail began to cough and hack.
‘You think this is gonna take much longer?’ Malvery asked, and an instant later Quail burst from the room, his good eye watering, waving a pistol in one hand.
‘Drop it!’ Frey yelled, in a voice so loud and commanding that he surprised himself. Quail froze, looking around, and spotted Frey and Malvery with their guns trained on him. ‘Drop it, or I’ll drop you.’
Quail dropped his gun and raised his hands, coughing. His smart jacket was smoke-stained and his collar had wilted. His sleeve was ripped, revealing the polished brass length of his mechanical forearm.
Frey
