The Detective Wore Silk Drawers by Peter Lovesey Page B

instruction from the Shoreditch professor Jago had learned how vulnerable the carotid artery was, either to persistent punching or to manual pressure. Fortunately the punches were slow in coming and he was able to deflect them easily. And as Judd in desperation bore down on him with fingers outstretched for a stranglehold, Jago turned his hip inwards, gripped his attacker’s right arm and guided him across his hip into a cross-buttock. Judd crashed against one of the stakes and lay still.
    “Neatly executed!” said D’Estin, genuinely pleased, when Jago returned to the corner. “You’re learning well.”
    He was not listening. His attention had returned to the face at the window, for it had now been joined by another, easily recognizable as Sergeant Cribb. The first face couldn’t be Thackeray’s. It was entirely clean-shaven.
    “Time.”
    Out for the ninth. Judd was slow to scratch, barely within the eight seconds allowed. This would need to be a less punishing round, or he would never come out for the tenth. Not a blow had been exchanged when both men were distracted by shouts from outside the ring. The bombardment of mingled abuse and encouragement they had learned to accept. It was integral to the fight; they heard it and dismissed it.
    This shouting carried a more urgent note that broke into the ritual. The fighters stood back from each other, and looked about them, trying to comprehend the scene. Spectators were abandoning the fight. Men were struggling to uproot the stakes. The ropes had already collapsed.
    D’Estin was at Jago’s side, wrapping a coat around him. “The blues, man! Can’t you hear? For God’s sake, get into the pub and hide. Here’s your trousers.”
    It was no time for a dignified exit. Jago could not see the police, but he sprinted for the door of the bar. He was prima facie evidence so was well looked after. Hands pushed him behind the bar counter and towards an open trapdoor. With difficulty (for he was still wearing spiked shoes) he descended a short ladder.
    Below, it was pitch-black at first. His eyes had been straining against the sunset for the last half-hour. Judd’s silhouetted form was imprinted on his retina, and now reappeared vividly in glowing orange in the darkness.
    He felt a cask behind him and sat on it. The place was full of people, and more were trying to come down. Shivering, he pulled off the spikes and struggled into his trousers.
    “Drink this. Do you good.” A tumbler was pushed into his hand. He gulped the contents thankfully.
    Gradually, his eyes adapted themselves. He was in a spacious wine cellar, rather larger than the ring he had just left, but there must have been forty men crammed in, talking in whispers. The trapdoor closed; it seemed inconceivable that the police should fail to search there.
    “Quiet!” A stage whisper from one of the last to descend.
    Everyone waited. Jago could now distinguish Judd’s bulk slumped across two barrels in obvious exhaustion. Most of the others were there. Judd’s second and bottleholder sat near him, taking turns to swig at his brandy bottle. D’Estin, the last to enter, stood on the ladder itself.
    Footsteps crossed the floor above, deliberate, heavy steps that left no doubt as to the occupation of their maker. The voices were inaudible. The referee and a few gallant regulars were up there trying to bluff their way through. Everyone waited for the trap to be lifted, each working out an original reason for being there. Someone winked at Jago from across the cellar. Thackeray again? Or a travesty of Thackeray, for why ever should he shave off his whiskers?
    Steps crossed again, several more this time, making the floor creak loudly. More voices.
    Then silence.
    Five agonized minutes.
    The trap was lifted.
    “All right, gentlemen. Out you come.” It was the landlord’s voice.
    They clambered up to daylight.
    “Only Sam Dalton on ’is new tricycle,” the landlord was explaining. “Coming over to show it off