Doctor Who_ Atom Bomb Blues - Andrew Cartmel [84]
‘Do I have to?’ said Ray.
Lady Silk smiled indulgently, as if encouraging a child. ‘Just think, you’re going to be back home in no time, and with all these lovely records!’ She took the record bag from Ray. He watched her with suspicion and alarm as she carefully placed it in a corner of the room. Only when the bag was obviously safe did Ray select one of the crayons and hunker down on his fat thighs and begin to write on the white tiles of the floor.
‘What’s he doing?’ said Ace.
‘Writing the necessary calculations.’
‘The necessary incantations,’ said Albert Storrow firmly.
‘You say potato,’ said the Doctor.
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Just then an electric bell rang out, shrill and loud, echoing harshly and metallically in the big tiled basement. Silk and Imperial Lee exchanged a look, as did Albert and Elina Storrow.
‘Are you expecting. . . ’ said Lee.
‘No one,’ said Albert Storrow tersely.
‘Then you’d better go up and see who it is.’ Albert handed his machine gun to Elina and hurried towards the stairs in his ludicrous white robe. ‘Both of you,’ said Imperial Lee. ‘Take their guns, boys.’ Two of the young men in suits went to Elina and took the Thompson guns from her as she turned to join Albert. The couple made their way swiftly and silently to the staircase in their flowing robes. The young men with machine guns turned to aim them at the Doctor and Ace.
Albert and Elina hurried up the stairs as the bell rang again.
Butcher stood at the door, pressing on the bell. He could hear it ringing deep in the confines of the house – or the chapel, as the plaque beside the door called it. A porch light shone above Butcher with moths fluttering around it.
He wandered away from the front door, down the steps and out into the dark garden. He looked around the side of the house. There was a ceramic pot with a garden hose coiled in it and a pile of lumber with an axe beside it.
He went back around the corner and up the steps to the front door and rang again. The place seemed empty but there was a large car parked in the driveway and Butcher had checked the hood on it. The engine was still warm.
Somebody was inside, all right. He waited a moment, then pressed the bell again.
Before leaving the Hill, Butcher had contacted some old friends at the Pinkertons detective agency. He could have gone through military channels, but that would have had the twin disadvantages of being slower and of alert-ing his superiors to the fact that one of Butcher’s charges had slipped away from the Hill. It had been a simple enough matter for the Pinkertons to issue a description of Ray Morita – a difficult man to miss in a crowd – and once it had been established that he was travelling towards Los Angeles, Butcher too had set off in that direction. Of course, there were any number of other places where Ray might have been headed, but as the reports continued to come in, LA looked more and more likely.
Then Butcher had spotted a newspaper advertisement for the Ellington concert and had put two and two together. While he was still en route to LA he’d wired his Pinkerton contacts to keep an eye on the concert hall and they’d spotted Ray and tailed him back to this house – or chapel – on a quiet tree-lined street in Bay City. He’d borrowed a car and driven out there as soon as 147
he arrived. The Pinkertons had offered to help with the pick-up, but Butcher knew that he might at any moment have to start acting in an official capacity.
Also, he wanted to apprehend the fat buffoon himself.
Butcher was about to ring the bell again when the door suddenly sprang open. A small, neatly dressed man with wire-framed spectacles peered out.
His face was flushed. He smiled at Butcher. ‘Sorry about that. The Missus and I were just busy in the basement.’ He opened the door wide, revealing a shadowy, narrow entrance hall with potted palm trees and the glimpse of a staircase leading upwards. ‘What can I do for you?’
Butcher showed the man his credentials. The little fellow took his time scrutinising them, squinting