Comes the Dark Stranger - Jack Higgins [47]
The man who had been on duty in the foyer on the first night Shane had visited the club, walked into the room. He was wearing a dinner jacket and carried a sheaf of papers in his hand. He frowned, his eyes travelling rapidly over the room and Shane took a quick step forward and smashed his fist into the unprotected jawline. As the man sank to the floor with a low groan Shane closed the door quietly and walked rapidly along the corridor.
When he emerged into the alley, the rain had increased into a solid downpour. He moved towards the square and halted under the lamp that lighted the alley. His pulse was racing with excitement and he was filled with elation. He took out the manilla envelope, and tore open the flap.
He withdrew several sheets of paper. He unfolded the first one and held it up to the light of the lamp. It was filled with the same, rather feminine handwriting that he had first seen on the envelope and there was a heading at the top of the sheet - The True Facts Concerning The Death of Simon Faulkner.
Shane frowned and held the paper a little closer to his eyes. As he started to read, there was a faint movement behind him. Even as he turned, something thudded against the back of his neck, sending a wave of agony flooding into his brain to explode in a cascade of coloured lights.
The cobbles rose to meet him as he fell and he raised an arm to cover his face protectingly. There was no further blow. Someone stepped over him and the papers were plucked out of his hand and as Shane tried to struggle to his feet, his attacker disappeared into the fog, his club foot sliding over the wet pavement behind him.
Shane dragged himself up by the lamp-post and leaned against it, his head swimming. One thing above all others drummed its way insistently into his brain. The man with the club foot existed. He was real and not a phantasy conceived in the nightmare of his years of agony. He lurched towards the end of the alley as an engine coughed into life and a moment later, a car moved away through the fog. He slammed a hand against the wall in impotent fury and stayed there for a little while until he felt better.
He started to walk along the pavement, a peculiar deadness creeping through his limbs and the sounds of the traffic through the fog seemed to recede and grow still, leaving him alone in a vacuum of quiet. As he turned the corner into the main road, the pain moved inside his skull and he cried aloud in agony and grabbed for some iron railings.
It was worse - worse than he had ever known and he remembered what the specialist had told him. Severe pains, growing progressively worse heralded the final crisis and he moaned aloud in fear and staggered across the road to a taxi rank.
He gave the driver Jenny Green’s address and crouched in the back seat, his head in his hands. When they reached the flat he thrust a pound note into the driver’s hand and went up the drive towards the front door.
The stairs stretched into eternity and he went up them painfully on his hands and knees, clawing at the banister for support. When he reached the landing, he pulled himself upright and lurched across to the door.
It swung open to his touch and he managed to open his mouth and croak, ‘Jenny?’
A hand grabbed him by the shoulders and he was hurled violently across the room. He tripped over a chair and fell heavily to the floor and as he closed his eyes against the white hot pain that moved behind them, he heard the slow dragging of the club foot as the limping man crossed the room. The door clicked softly as he went out and a moment later, Shane heard him descending the stairs.
He lay with his head pillowed against the carpet, hands tightly clenched together and it was with an effort that he finally opened his eyes.
There was blood on the carpet, a great wide, irregular stain