Fear to Tread by Michael Gilbert Page A

beside the door.”
    Mr. Wetherall looked up, and there it was, a large, old- fashioned key. He took it down, fitted it into the lock and turned it. The door opened and he stepped out into the street.
    Two seconds later he realised, with a sense of apprehension, that it had all been a waste of effort. He had been running like a rabbit in a circle. The men who were after him understood the geography of Soho better than he did. They were waiting for him in the street.
    “Just along here,” said the red-faced man, as calmly as if nothing had happened since the last time he had spoken.
    They turned into a short cul-de-sac between high buildings. The red-faced man held him by one arm, just above the elbow. The younger, black-haired man walked beside him, whistling very quietly, his hands in his pockets. As they turned into the cul-de-sac a lamp on the corner lit up his face. It was not a very good face, and Mr. Wetherall remembered where he had met it before. It was the man he had seen coming out of the telephone kiosk at the corner of Brinkman Road on the morning he had taken Crowdy to Waterloo”Where are you taking me?” he asked suddenly.
    “That depends on you,” said the red-faced man. As usual he did the talking. “We don’t want any trouble. It’s people like you who make trouble.”
    “What is it you want?”
    “A bit of information. Where have you put that boy?”
    “Which boy?”
    “Don’t stall. Which boy? Which boy? Do you kidnap three a week?”
    “Are you police officers?”
    “That’s right,” said the red-faced man. “We’re police officers. Now just answer the question.”
    “I don’t believe—” began Mr. Wetherall.
    It came from behind, a jolting blow of agonising force and precision, into his side, below the ribs and above the hip. He tried to turn, but the grip on his arm was too strong for him. He tried to speak, but his voice had gone.
    “Better answer the question,” said the red-faced man. “You don’t want to upset Sailor. Once you upset him he gets excited. He liked doing it, you know.”
    Mr. Wetherall got his breath back.
    “I can’t tell you.”
    The second blow was on exactly the same spot and was harder. Mr. Wetherall felt a red hot pain stabbing through the growing numbness. And again.
    “St. Christopher’s Home for Boys.” The words seemed to be jerked out of him.
    “Where’s that?”
    “At Woking.”
    “All right,” said the red-faced man. As though it was a signal, something heavy caught Mr. Wetherall on the side of his head. At the same moment the grip on his elbow loosened, and he dropped forward onto his knees.
    The black-haired man kicked him twice on the side of the head.
    “That’s enough,” said the other man.
    “I haven’t started yet,” said the black-haired man. It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was educated.
    “I said that’s enough.” The red-faced man leaned down and flicked the wallet out of Mr. Wetherall’s inner pocket. Then with the same neat studied movement, he took a flask out of his own pocket, unscrewed the lid, and emptied the contents down the front of Mr. Wetherall’s coat.
    He looked down at the crumpled figure on the pavement. Something seemed to be amusing him. “Looks as if he’s had quite a party,” he said.
    The two of them walked away. As they went the black-haired man trod hard on the back of Mr. Wetherall’s outstretched hand. Doing it seemed to cause him some sort of pleasure.
    In the distance a woman began to scream.
    It was this screaming that Mr. Wetherall noticed first. Then the warm salty taste of blood in his mouth and behind his nose. Then sickness. Then the hurt in his hand. Then the hurt in his side and back.
    The woman had stopped screaming and was bending over him.
    He had lost his glasses. He must find his glasses. He was helpless without them.
    “Here they are,” said the woman. “What a smell. You bin drinking?”
    One of the lenses was cracked across, but the glass was all there.