big. Who, Maxie, who?â
âEast End ⦠running stuff for someâuh! my chest! like a strap across me! ⦠I donât know who ⦠they use the muscle ⦠knocking small boys out â¦â
I shook him hard.
âI know that, Maxie, I know all that. You gave me that before. What I want now is names. Names, Maxie! If you want to get to that doctor give me some names!â
He spoke again but the sound was getting more and more feeble every time.
âDonât ⦠know ⦠names ⦠young feller ⦠moustache long hair ⦠a nigger ⦠big as houses ⦠big asâooh! pain! it was him as done ⦠as done me â¦â
The sound trickled off into a constant moaning.
I lifted his head and held it in front of mine.
âYou must know more than that , Maxie. More than if you want help.â
He slumped back and I felt as though he was slipping away from me. I looked at the whisky bottleâit was empty.
âMaxie!â
I pulled back my hand and slapped him hard across the face. Twice: across and back. The mouth-thing opened slightly. I bent my ear to it.
âDonât need ⦠no help ⦠no doctor ⦠now.â
I shook him. I pulled him upright. Shook him again. Laid him back on the table . Listened for apulse that no longer beat.
I went over to the sink and washed my hands; took up the whisky bottle and put it in my pocket; used the handkerchief smeared with his blood to wipe any of my prints from the tap, the table and the door. From the dirt and grease of his clothing they would learn nothing. Using the handkerchief, I closed the door on Maxieâs body.
The cat was still in the arcade. It sniffed its nose up in the air as I came out of the room. Slowly, gracefully, it walked towards me and went to rub itself against my leg. I swung back my foot and kicked at it, kicked at it as hard as I could. Then went out into the wet streets.
By the time I got home it was too late to go to bed, too early to do anything else. I made coffee and couldnât drink it. Everything I touched or tasted had the feel, the stench of decay. I ran a bath and lay in it and tried to think.
Candi was hooked on something: from the things I found in her flat it was probably something like amphetamines or barbiturates. She was hooked and she was broke, probably from having to pay for whatever she was hooked on. Then somebody killed her. It could have been because she was refusing to pay up any more; it could have been because she was threatening to bite back on her source of supply and whoever that was got scared. It could have been something else altogether. But suppose it was something to do with the drugs. What then?
I knew that Howard was involved with drugs in some way, but if he was pushing then he had to get his supply from somewhere. And if someone was moving in on the market and trying to get it sewn-up, they wouldnât stick to London. They would move out into the provinces as well. Which made it very likely that Howard had been squeezed out. Besides, I couldnât see him killing anyone himself and if Cook was typical of the kind of no-hope help he hired then he wouldnât get anyone to do it for him. No. It was far more likely to be someone from outside. Someone from this mob. Maxie had said an oversize Negro and a young moustache. The Negro I had certainly seen and from his looks and from the way he had dealt with Maxie, I couldnât imagine him using a little .32 on Candi. He wouldnât even have been able to hold it between his fingers.
But a young, long-haired moustache. There were hundreds and hundreds of them and they all looked alike. How could you tell one from the other? Until you knew one, of course.
I thought about dear John, opening the door with a servile smile and a gun bulging through his jacket. John with the trust of Mr Thurley with an âeyâ.
Altogether too smooth, Mr Thurley with his Eton and Guards airs
âEast End ⦠running stuff for someâuh! my chest! like a strap across me! ⦠I donât know who ⦠they use the muscle ⦠knocking small boys out â¦â
I shook him hard.
âI know that, Maxie, I know all that. You gave me that before. What I want now is names. Names, Maxie! If you want to get to that doctor give me some names!â
He spoke again but the sound was getting more and more feeble every time.
âDonât ⦠know ⦠names ⦠young feller ⦠moustache long hair ⦠a nigger ⦠big as houses ⦠big asâooh! pain! it was him as done ⦠as done me â¦â
The sound trickled off into a constant moaning.
I lifted his head and held it in front of mine.
âYou must know more than that , Maxie. More than if you want help.â
He slumped back and I felt as though he was slipping away from me. I looked at the whisky bottleâit was empty.
âMaxie!â
I pulled back my hand and slapped him hard across the face. Twice: across and back. The mouth-thing opened slightly. I bent my ear to it.
âDonât need ⦠no help ⦠no doctor ⦠now.â
I shook him. I pulled him upright. Shook him again. Laid him back on the table . Listened for apulse that no longer beat.
I went over to the sink and washed my hands; took up the whisky bottle and put it in my pocket; used the handkerchief smeared with his blood to wipe any of my prints from the tap, the table and the door. From the dirt and grease of his clothing they would learn nothing. Using the handkerchief, I closed the door on Maxieâs body.
The cat was still in the arcade. It sniffed its nose up in the air as I came out of the room. Slowly, gracefully, it walked towards me and went to rub itself against my leg. I swung back my foot and kicked at it, kicked at it as hard as I could. Then went out into the wet streets.
By the time I got home it was too late to go to bed, too early to do anything else. I made coffee and couldnât drink it. Everything I touched or tasted had the feel, the stench of decay. I ran a bath and lay in it and tried to think.
Candi was hooked on something: from the things I found in her flat it was probably something like amphetamines or barbiturates. She was hooked and she was broke, probably from having to pay for whatever she was hooked on. Then somebody killed her. It could have been because she was refusing to pay up any more; it could have been because she was threatening to bite back on her source of supply and whoever that was got scared. It could have been something else altogether. But suppose it was something to do with the drugs. What then?
I knew that Howard was involved with drugs in some way, but if he was pushing then he had to get his supply from somewhere. And if someone was moving in on the market and trying to get it sewn-up, they wouldnât stick to London. They would move out into the provinces as well. Which made it very likely that Howard had been squeezed out. Besides, I couldnât see him killing anyone himself and if Cook was typical of the kind of no-hope help he hired then he wouldnât get anyone to do it for him. No. It was far more likely to be someone from outside. Someone from this mob. Maxie had said an oversize Negro and a young moustache. The Negro I had certainly seen and from his looks and from the way he had dealt with Maxie, I couldnât imagine him using a little .32 on Candi. He wouldnât even have been able to hold it between his fingers.
But a young, long-haired moustache. There were hundreds and hundreds of them and they all looked alike. How could you tell one from the other? Until you knew one, of course.
I thought about dear John, opening the door with a servile smile and a gun bulging through his jacket. John with the trust of Mr Thurley with an âeyâ.
Altogether too smooth, Mr Thurley with his Eton and Guards airs
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