Why Pick On ME? by James Hadley Chase

his undoing. A figure moved out of the shadows, and he almost walked into it.
    “That you, Bill?”
    Corridon found himself face to face with a policeman. The man scarely gave him a glance. He was staring up at the flood-lit roofs.
    “They’ll have him now,” he said with satisfaction. “But they’ve taken their time about coming, haven’t they?”
    The up-turned face and the pointing chin was too good a target to miss. Corridon knew once the man took a good look at him the game would be up. He set himself, and his fist smashed against the policeman’s jaw. The man reeled, then fell over on his back.
    Corridon made a dash down the alley.
     
    II
     
    Corridon dodged into a doorway near the Piccadilly end of Dover Street. He paused for a moment to look up and down the street. Satisfied no one was paying any attention to his movements, he groped his way down a passage and began to mount a flight of steep stairs. He was breathing heavily. Knightsbridge, the Park and Piccadilly had been alive with police. Patrol cars were prowling the back streets; plain-clothes men were watching the various underground station entrances along the route from the Albert Hall to Piccadilly.
    It had taken him more than an hour to reach Dover Street. For twenty minutes or so he had lain in the bushes in the Park waiting for a chance to dart across Piccadilly to the darkness of Shepherd Market. From there he had gone to Berkeley Square, slipped down a back alley leading to Brewer Street, and from there to Dover Street.
    Marian’s flat was on the top floor. He pressed the bell push, and then stepped across the passage to look over the banisters.
    Marian opened the door, and he turned. For a moment he didn’t recognize her without the heavy make-up she had worn when they had first met.
    “Hello,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Can I come in?”
    She stood aside.
    “Of course.”
    He entered a gaudily furnished sitting-room where an electric stove was burning.
    “Get Ritchie here,” he said, as he took off his overcoat. He tossed it on a chair. “I’m in plenty of trouble.”
    “They may be watching the flat,” she said. “Is it as urgent as all that?”
    He grinned.
    “I’ll say it is. You’re supposed to have gentlemen visitors, aren’t you? I’ve got to talk to him.”
    She looked at him sharply, then went over to the telephone. She dialled, waited, then spoke rapidly and softly. Corridon stood before the electric stove, warming the back of his legs.
    She replaced the receiver and turned.
    “He’s coming.”
    Corridon nodded.
    “Have you heard the news yet?”
    “What news?”
    “Lestrange was murdered tonight.” He tapped himself on the chest. “I’m it.”
    “I’ll get you a drink. You must need it,” she said, and went out of the room.
    No fuss, no questions, but only a thought for his needs, Corridon thought approvingly. She moved up even higher in his estimation. He flopped down on the settee, and rubbed his face with his hands. The side of his head ached where Huey had hit him, and his legs felt heavy. The climb over the roof and the excitement of the chase had tired him.
    She came back with whisky, a glass and a soda syphon. She put them on the table within reach of him.
    “Would you like something to eat?” she asked.
    He shook his head and poured a stiff drink.
    “I’m fine. He won’t be long, will he?”
    “Ten minutes.”
    Corridon drank some of the whisky, felt in his pocket for cigarettes, made a half move to offer them and smiled.
    “You don’t smoke, do you?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “I don’t think Ritchie’s going to be pleased with me. I led with my chin this time,” Corridon said, frowning. “Well, he got me into this, and he’ll damn well have to get me out of it.”
    “He will,” Marian said with quiet confidence.
    “I’m not so sure. There’s going to be a row about this. Someone may want my blood.”
    “I’m afraid they’ll want his blood, too,” Marian said. “He