Comes the Dark Stranger - Jack Higgins [39]
He found himself standing at the end of the corridor leading to Steele’s office. The dressing-rooms were quiet as he passed them, and the far end of the corridor was shrouded in darkness.
He stood outside Steele’s office and listened intently, but there was no sound. After a moment he tried to open the door, but it was locked. There was another door a few feet away down the turning of the corridor. It opened easily to his touch, and when he switched on the light he found himself in a lavatory.
There was a narrow, frosted-glass window in the far wall, and he opened it and looked out on to a lead-covered flat roof. He switched off the light, and then eased himself out through the window and dropped down on to the roof.
He approached the window of Steele’s office and gave a grunt of satisfaction as he saw that it was ajar. He slipped a hand through the narrow opening, unhooked the catch inside, and threw a leg over the window-sill.
He paused, his eyes probing the darkness, and a voice said, ‘Hallo, old man. I’ve been expecting you to call again.’ The light flicked on, momentarily blinding him, and Steele was standing by the door, a slight smile on his face.
Shane started to move, his fists raised, and then something exploded on the back of his head, flooding him with agony, and the floor lifted to meet him.
There was a great roaring in his ears, and through it he heard Steele say, ‘Make it look good, Frenchy. Fill him up with whisky and then dump him on the railway line at the back of Market Street. When they find what’s left of him, they’ll think he got drunk trying to drown his sorrows and wandered down there in the dark. I’ll be at Hampton if you need me.’
Shane groaned and Steele dropped to one knee and grinned. ‘Don’t worry, old man,’ he said genially, ‘you won’t feel a thing.’
Shane summoned up everything he’d got, and spat in Steele’s face. Steele gave a smothered exclamation and got to his feet. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, and smiled viciously. ‘I always did hate your guts, you bastard.’ His foot lifted suddenly into the side of Shane’s neck, and he cried out in agony and plunged into darkness.
12
SOMETHING was burning its way into his throat, and he choked and tried to struggle, but a hand pushed solidly against his chest and he fell back, his head striking a wall.
He opened his eyes and focused on a face. He frowned, trying to remember where he was, and a voice said, ‘Maybe you hit him too hard, Frenchy?’
Frenchy grunted. ‘So what? He’s going anyway, isn’t he?’
He took a firm grip of Shane’s coat and lifted him into a sitting position. He grinned evilly. ‘O.K., Jack. Drink your medicine like a good boy.’
The neck of a bottle was rammed between Shane’s teeth, and whisky gurgled into his throat. A terrible nausea flooded through him. His body jerked convulsively and vomit erupted from his mouth in a fine spray.
Frenchy jumped up with a curse and kicked him viciously in the body. ‘The bastard’s ruined my coat,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll never get the stink of this stuff off.’ He hurled the bottle against a wall with a crash, and moved away. ‘I’m going for another bottle. When Joe arrives with the car, put laughing boy here in the back and wait for me.’ A door banged and he was gone.
It was quiet except for the steady sizzle of the rain, and Shane opened his eyes cautiously and looked around him. He was lying in a cobbled yard, and there was a man in a raincoat standing a few feet away from him facing a door. He decided he must be somewhere at the rear of the Garland Club.
He felt terrible. His head was splitting and there was a feeling of nausea in his stomach as if he were going to be sick again at any moment. He was utterly exhausted and all the strength seemed to have been drained out of him, and yet he knew that he was in deadly danger. If he were still here when Frenchy returned it was curtains and nothing