Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [69]
In spite of telling the police that I hadn’t seen Herb’s killer, I knew him instantly. And here he was, standing outside my front door in Finchley. And I didn’t think he was visiting to inquire after my health.
My heartbeat jumped instantly to stratospheric proportions, and I stifled the shout that was already rising in my throat. I started to turn away from him but not before our eyes had made contact and I had glimpsed the long black shape in his right hand: his trusty gun, complete with silencer.
Bugger, I thought.
I turned and ran as fast as I could back up Lichfield Grove towards Regent’s Park Road.
Lichfield Grove may have been used as a busy shortcut during the rush hour, but it was sleepy and deserted at four o’clock in the afternoon, with not even any schoolchildren on their way home.
Safety, I thought, would be where there were lots of people. Surely he wouldn’t kill me with witnesses. But he had killed Herb with over sixty thousand of them.
I chanced a glance back, having to turn my upper body due to the restricted movement in my neck. It was a mistake.
The gunman was still behind me, only about thirty yards away, running hard and lifting his right arm to aim.
I heard a bullet whizz past me on my left.
I ran harder, and also I started shouting.
“Help! Help!” I shouted as loudly as my heaving lungs would allow. “Call the police!”
No one shouted back, and I needed the air for my aching leg muscles. Oh, to be as fit as I once was as a jockey.
I thought I heard another bullet fly past me and zing off the pavement ahead as a ricochet, but I wasn’t stopping to check.
I made it unharmed to Regent’s Park Road and went left around the corner. Without breaking stride, I went straight into Mr. Patel’s newsagent’s shop, pushed past the startled owner and crouched down under his counter, gasping for air.
“Mr. Patel,” I said, “I am being chased. Please call the police.”
I didn’t know why, perhaps it was because of his Indian subcontinent cultural background, but he didn’t become angry or question why I had invaded his space. He simply stood quietly and looked down at me, as if in slight surprise at the strange behavior of the English.
“Mr. Patel,” I said again with urgency, still breathing hard, “I am being chased by a very dangerous man. Please do not look down at me or he will know that I am here. Please call the police.”
“What man?” he said, still looking down at me.
“The man outside the window,” I said. Mr. Patel looked up.
Suddenly, I remembered that I had my mobile in my pocket. As I dialed 999 for emergency I heard the shop door being opened, the little bell ringing once.
I held my breath. I could feel my heart going thump, thump in my chest.
“Emergency, which service?” said a voice from my phone.
I stuffed the phone into my armpit, hoping that the newcomer into the shop hadn’t heard it.
“Yes?” said Mr. Patel. “Can I help you, sir?”
The newcomer made no reply, and I went on holding my breath, my chest feeling like it was going to burst.
“Can I help you, sir?” Mr. Patel said again but more loudly.
Again there was no reply. All I could hear were faint footsteps.
I just had to breathe, so I let the air out through my mouth as quietly as I could and took another deep breath in.
I wished I could see what was happening in the shop. After a few seconds I heard the door close, ringing the bell once again, but was the gunman on the inside or the outside?
Mr. Patel stood stock-still above me, giving me no indication either way.
“He has gone outside,” he said finally without changing his position.
“What’s he doing?” I asked.
“He is standing and looking round,” Mr. Patel said. “Who is he and why is he chasing you? Are you a criminal?”
“No,” I said, “I am not.”
I remembered the phone under my arm. The operator had obviously got fed up waiting and had hung up. I dialed 999 again.
“Emergency, which service?” said a voice again.
“Police,” I said.
“Police Incident Room, go ahead,” said another voice.
“There