“Never heard of the Beatles, Tommy?”
“Give us ‘My Old Dutch’,” one old woman called. “Me and me old china’s bin married fifty years.”
“You never got married in your life!” another oldish woman yelled, and the resultant roar of laughter was almost deafening. A man’s voice sounded above the din.
“Her six kids’ve got something to complain about, then!”
There was another eruption of laughter, everyone joining in. The-potmen moved about, carrying trays crammed with glasses and tankards, showing unbelievable balance and dexterity. The bar itself was so crowded that Lemaitre was pressed hard against a corner. He lit cigarette after cigarette from the previous butt and kept glancing at the door, ostensibly on the look-out for his wife. But Charlie Blake did not come.
An hour earlier, Charlie Blake had left his tiny house in Whitechapel and started out for the Old Steps.
He was a man in his middle fifties, not unlike Lemaitre to look at, but smaller and more dapper, with thick hair, dyed jet-black, and slightly fuller in the face. A card-player of remarkable skill, he crossed the Atlantic two or three times each year, playing cards and making nearly enough money to live by. He made still more by picking up racing information and passing it on. He knew better than most people how much loose talk there was in the big smoking-rooms of the transatlantic liners, especially at the end of an evening of heavy drinking, and he made full use of this.
He was in many ways a nice little man. His wife was fond of him, although she entertained lovers quite shamelessly whenever Charlie was away. She kept his small but pleasantly-appointed house in good order, and fed him well. He was generous with the children of his neighbours -he himself was childless — and he greatly enjoyed walking.
On this hot summer night, he was dressed as coolly as anyone in London, wearing a beige-coloured linen jacket and tropical-weight trousers, with openwork brown-and-white shoes. Now and again he eased his collar: the heat always gave him a rash on the neck and he used a special ointment to soothe the irritation; but in such heat as this, the collar seemed to stick to the ointment. He walked quite briskly and it did not enter his mind that he was in any kind of danger.
Still less did the possibility of danger occur to him when he saw a taxi driven by an acquaintance pull up.
“Want a lift, Charlie?”
“I’m okay,” he said cheerfully. “My plates of meat are good for a lot of miles, yet!” He looked down at his<brown-and-white shoes.
“Give yourself a rest,” urged the driver. “Hop in!”
He was at the kerbside, and it was very hot and although he would never have admitted it, Charlie’s feet were not as comfortable as usual. And free rides did not come every day. So he opened the door and got in — and stumbled over the leg of a man sitting tucked away in the corner behind the door.
“What the hell . . . I” he began, but before he could go on the man hit him a vicious blow on the side of the head.
He gasped and flopped down. In a flash, his assailant had his right arm twisted behind him in a hammer-lock, forcing him into a curious, half-kneeling, half-crouching position.
Charlie, sweating freely, tried to turn his head, but he could not see his captor’s face.
“What — what’s going on?” he squeaked.
‘‘Just answer a few questions, Charlie,” the man said.
“Who — who are you?”
“Never mind who I am. What have you been telling the cops?”
“I-I never tell the cops anything, I-God! Don’t!” The man had twisted his arm so hard that it felt as if it would snap.
“You’ve been talking to Lemaitre,” the man stated, flatly.
Charlie was so astonished that he did not even deny it.
“What was it about, Charlie?” The calm voice was very insistent.
“It-it wasn’t anything, I-don’t do that!” he shrieked. “You’ll break my arm!”
“That isn’t all I’ll break if you don’t tell me the truth!” threatened the man in the corner. “What did you tell Lemaitre about?”
“It-it wasn’t—” Charlie gasped again and then almost screamed, the pain was great. “It was only a joke! I told him some Derby horses were going to be fixed-it was only a joke!”
“That’s one of the best jokes you’ve ever told,” the man said, and for the first time he sounded deadly. “What exactly did you tell him?”
“It was a joke! I never told him anything!”
“Who told you about the doping?” The tormentor demanded.
“I — I heard a coupla chaps talking on the QE 2. You know, the new Cunarder. But it was only a joke, I tell you!”
“Charlie,” said the other, “you’ve been nosing around one of Jackie Spratt’s shops for two days, picking up a lot of information about things you shouldn’t know about. Who’s going to dope the horses?”
“I-I don’t know, I tell you! I don’t know!”
“So why are you going to the Old Steps tonight? To see Lemaitre?”
“No! Oh, God, no!”
