Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [3]
When the detective had gone, Brady said, "Any chance of a cigarette?"
The constable hesitated and then unbuttoned his tunic and took out a battered silver case. He gave Brady a cigarette and a light without speaking, and returned to his post by the door.
Brady felt tired, really tired. The rain beat against the window and the cigarette smoke tasted of dead leaves and nothing made any sense. The door opened and Gower and Mallory came in.
Gower moved across the room quickly, a scowl on his face. "Who the hell gave you that?" he demanded, plucking the cigarette from Brady's mouth.
Brady tried to stand up and the detective hooked a foot in the chair and pulled it away, sending Brady sprawling to the floor.
Brady came to his feet, anger rising inside him. This was something tangible, something he could handle. He hit Gower hard beneath the breastbone and as the detective doubled over, lifted his right into the man's face sending him back against the opposite wall.
The young constable drew his staff and Gower scrambled to his feet, face contorted with rage. Brady picked up the chair in both hands and retreated into a corner.
As they advanced towards him, Mallory said sharply from the doorway, "Don't be a fool, Brady!"
"Then tell this big ape here to get off my back," Brady said savagely. "If he lays a glove on me again, I'll pound his skull in."
Mallory moved in between them quickly. "Go and get cleaned up, George," he told Gower. "Make a cup of tea in the kitchen--anything. I'll send for you when I need you."
"For Christ's sake!" Gower said. "You saw what he did to that girl."
"I'll handle it!" Mallory said, and there was iron in his voice.
For a moment longer, Gower glared at Brady, and then he turned quickly and left the room. Brady lowered the chair and Mallory nodded to the constable. "Wait outside."
The door closed behind the constable and Mallory took out a packet of cigarettes. "You'd better have another," he said. "You look as if you could do with one."
"You can say that again," Brady told him. He accepted a light from the inspector and slumped into a chair.
Mallory sat on the divan. "Perhaps we can get down to some facts now."
"You mean you want a statement?"
Mallory shook his head. "Let's keep it on an informal level for the moment."
"That suits me," Brady told him. "To start with, I didn't kill her. Didn't even know her name."
Mallory took a photo from his pocket and handed it across. "Her name was Marie Duclos, born in Paris, been living over here for about six years." He took out a pipe and started to fill it from a leather pouch. "A known prostitute. After the Act chased her off the streets, she did what a hell of a sight too many of them have done--got herself a flat and a telephone--or someone got them for her."
The photo was old and faded and Brady frowned and shook his head. "It doesn't look much like her."
"That's not surprising," Mallory said. "If you look on the back, you'll see it was taken when she was eighteen and that's ten years ago. You'd better tell me how you met her."
Brady told him everything, just the way it had happened, from his first awakening on the Embankment, to the events in the flat.
When he had finished, Mallory sat in silence for a while, a slight frown on his face. "What it really comes down to is this. You maintain you saw a man on the Embankment in the fog who you later saw again, here in this flat, standing behind Marie Duclos, just before you passed out."
"That's about the size of it."
"In other words, you're implying that this man committed the murder."
"He must have done."
"But why, Brady?" Mallory said gently. "Why pick on you?"
"Because I was here," Brady said. "I suppose it could have been any poor sucker she happened to be entertaining."
"But if he was here, where did he go afterwards?"