The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [185]
I took a deep breath and leaned forward to press the starter button. As I did so I glanced into my wing mirror and saw a Packard parked on the other side of the road. There was a well-dressed figure leaning on the wing, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette and looking in my direction. It was Schitt-Hawse. He appeared to be smiling. Suddenly, the whole plan came into sharp focus. Jack Schitt. What had Schitt-Hawse threatened me with? Corporate impatience? My anger reestablished itself.
Muttering Bastard! under my breath I jumped out of the car and walked briskly and purposefully towards Schitt-Hawse, who stiffened slightly as I approached. I ignored a car that screeched to a halt inches from me and as Schitt-Hawse took a pace forward I put out both hands and pushed him hard against the car. He lost his footing and fell heavily to the ground; I was quickly upon him, grabbed his shirt lapels and raised a fist to punch him. But the blow never fell. In my blind anger I had failed to see that his associates Chalk and Cheese were close by, and they did their job admirably, efficiently and yes, painfully, too. I fought like hell and was gratified that in the confusion I managed to kick Schitt-Hawse hard on the kneecap—he yelped in pain. But my victory, such as it was, was short-lived. I must have been a tenth of their combined weight, and my struggles were soon in vain. They held me tightly, and Schitt-Hawse approached with an unpleasant smile etched upon his pinched features.
I did the first thing I could think of. I spat in his face. I’d never tried it before, but it turned out delightfully; I got him right in the eye.
He raised the back of his hand to strike me, but I didn’t flinch—I just stared at him, anger burning in my eyes. He stopped, lowered his hand and wiped his face with a crisply laundered pocket handkerchief.
“You are going to have to control that temper of yours, Next.”
“That’s Mrs. Parke-Laine to you.”
“Not anymore. If you’d stop struggling, perhaps we could talk sensibly, like adults. You and I need to come to an arrangement.”
I gave up squirming, and the two men relaxed their grip. I straightened my clothes and glared at Schitt-Hawse, who rubbed his knee.
“What sort of arrangement?” I demanded.
“A trade,” he answered. “Jack Schitt for Landen.”
“Oh yes?” I retorted. “And how do I know I can trust you?”
“You can’t and you don’t,” replied Schitt-Hawse simply, “but it’s the best offer you’re going to get.”
“My father will help me.”
Schitt-Hawse laughed.
“Your father is a washed-out clock jockey. I think you overestimate his chances—and his talents. Besides, we’ve got the summer of 1947 locked down so tight not even a transtemporal gnat could get back there without us knowing about it. Retrieve Jack from ‘The Raven’ and you can have your own dear hubby back.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“You’re a resourceful and intelligent woman—I’m sure you’ll think of something. Do we have a deal?”
I stared hard at him, shaking with fury. Then, almost without thinking, I had my automatic pressed against Schitt-Hawse’s forehead. I heard two safety catches click off behind me. Associates Chalk and Cheese were fast, too.
Schitt-Hawse seemed unperturbed; he smiled at me in a supercilious manner and ignored the weapon.
“You won’t kill me, Next,” he said slowly. “It’s not the way you do things. It might make you feel better, but believe me, it won’t get your Landen back, and Mr. Chalk and Mr. Cheese would make quite sure you were dead long before you hit the asphalt.”
Schitt-Hawse was good. He’d done his homework and he hadn’t underestimated me one little bit. I’d do all I could to get Landen back, and he knew it. I reholstered my pistol.
“Splendid!” he enthused. “We’ll be hearing from you in due course, I trust, hmm?”
10.
A Lack of Differences
Landen Parke-Laine’s eradication was the best I’d seen since Veronica Golightly’s. They plucked him out and left everything else exactly as it was. Not a crude