Songs in the Key of Death by William Bankier Page B

and dragged him from the car. “You’re going, too,” he said. “I want you with me until I find my daughter.”
    The light changed. They were in one of the middle lanes and Birtles had to dodge cars as traffic began to move. Lucy had no choice but to drive on. When they reached the sidewalk, Merlot laughed in a high shrill voice. “Fabulous!” he screamed. “You incredible sonofabitch, that’s the sort of thing I’d do!”
    He was still laughing when they reached an Underground station. As they went down the steps, Merlot’s arm firmly held by Birtles, the Eurasian said: “That’s how I got away from the police in Rajasthan. Impulse. A window was open, so I climbed through and ran across a yard and out the gate. You keep your eyes open and you take quick, decisive action.”
    They missed a Central Line train heading east and had to wait on a deserted platform. Merlot glanced at the hand locked onto his upper arm. “Getting tired?” he asked. “I know how hard it is to hold somebody who doesn’t want to be held. That’s why I use a lot of drugs. You should buy me a coffee and put a few capsules in it.”
    Birtles pushed Merlot onto a bench and knelt before him. He took his right foot in both hands and twisted sharply. “Oh, Christ, no—” Merlot groaned. The bone snapped and Birtles released the foot.
    “Now you won’t run,” he said. “Not on a broken ankle.”
    Merlot threw his head back so hard it hit the tiled wall. His eyes were glazed. “Sadistic bastard, you didn’t have to do that.”
    “I think I did. Anyway, you killed that horse, don’t talk to me about sadism.”
    Merlot struggled to get a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “Want to know why we killed the horse? It was Lucy’s idea. She’s worse than both of us put together.”
    A train was approaching. Birtles drew Merlot up and supported him on the lame side. They boarded the train and the doors closed. They sat on a double seat.
    “The horse,” Merlot said. “I needed money and Lucy got it for me by selling some of her parents’ things. Her father threatened to sell her horse to recoup the money. That was what made up her mind to come away with me. Before we left, she decided to kill the horse so they couldn’t sell it.”
    “I think you two deserve each other,” Birtles said grimly. “But God help the world if you should spawn.”
    Merlot laughed. “You think I’d marry or have children? Put more life into this rotten world? Have no fear.”
    When the train arrived at Queensway Station, Merlot’s eyes were closed. As Birtles helped him onto the escalator, he asked: “How’s the ankle?”
    Merlot seemed still to be thinking of the absurdity of his marrying Lucy Feather. “She’s just a contact for me in London—a source of money while I hide. A gang of English kids in Katmandu gave me her name. When I broke jail the last time, it gave me a place to come and stay.”
    The three-block walk to the hotel took time. Merlot gritted his teeth and limped on. His weight was light but his slender, supple frame reminded Birtles of the aluminum tent poles he used to erect on camping trips. They were practically unbreakable.
    Approaching the Candide, he kept a lookout for a police presence. There was no sign of vehicles or uniformed men. Of course, Merlot had been gone for some time—Anitra would have returned with the police to be told their man had checked out. By now she and the police would be on the way to the airport.
    Inside the hotel, on the stairs to his first-floor room, Merlot said: “Your daughter is O.K., I promise you that. When you’re satisfied, will you let me go?”
    “All I care about is Barbie,” Birtles said. But did he mean that? The man on his shoulder was a murderer, escaped from police custody. He was a psychopath, capable of killing a horse with a knife. How could he be let free? He was smug and con-fident, holding in contempt the laws and the society that Birtles