LEO Boyle ran his finger down the list of names he had been given. “Another fourteen,” he said. His driver grunted, and Boyle glanced across at him. “You were McBride’s partner, weren’t you?” he said.
“That’s right,” Dooley replied. “He’s been suspended.”
“Why?”
Dooley scowled. “Lacks finesse, that Virgil. Can’t get the hang of arrest technique.”
Dooley drew the car to a halt.
“Is this it?” Boyle asked.
“You said number eighty. This is eighty. On the door. Eight. Oh.”
“I’ve got eyes.”
Boyle got out of the car and made his way up the pathway. The house was sizeable, and had been divided into flats. There were several bells. He pressed for J. Tredgold-the name on his list-and waited. Of the five houses they had so far visited, two had been unoccupied and the residents of the other three had born no resemblance to the malefactor.
Boyle waited on the step a few seconds and then pressed the bell again; a longer ring this time.
“Nobody in,” Dooley said from the pavement.
“Looks like it.” Even as he spoke Boyle caught sight of a figure flitting across the hallway, its outline distorted by the cobblestone glass in the door. “Wait a minute,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Somebody’s in there and not answering.” He pressed the first bell again, and then the others. Dooley approached up the pathway, flicking away an over attentive wasp.
“You sure?” he said.
“I saw somebody in there.”
“Press the other bells,” Dooley suggested.
“I already did. There’s somebody in there and they don’t want to come to the door.” He rapped on the glass. “Open up,” he announced. “Police.”
Clever, thought Dooley; why not a loudspeaker, so heaven knows too? When the door, predictably, remained unanswered, Boyle turned to Dooley. “Is there a side gate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get around the back, pronto, before he’s away.
“Shouldn’t we call-?”
“Do it? I’ll keep watch here. If you can get in the back come through and open the front door.”
Dooley moved, leaving Boyle alone at the front door. He rang the series of bells again and, cupping his hand to his brow, put his face to the glass. There was no sign of movement in the hallway. Was it possible that the bird had already flown? He backed down the path and stared up at the windows; they stared back vacuously. Ample time had now passed for Dooley to get around the back of the house, but so far he had neither reappeared nor called. Stymied where he stood, and nervous that his tactics had lost them their quarry, Boyle decided to follow his nose around the back of the house.
The side gate had been left open by Dooley. Boyle advanced up the side passage, glancing through a window into an empty living room before heading around to the back door. It was open. Dooley, however, was not in sight. Boyle pocketed the photograph and the list and stepped inside, loath to call Dooley’s name for fear it alert any felon to his presence, yet nervous of the silence. Cautious as a cat on broken glass he crept through the flat, but each room was deserted. At the apartment door, which let on to the hallway in which he had first seen the figure, he paused. Where had Dooley gone? The man had apparently disappeared from sight.
Then, a groan from beyond the door.
“Dooley?” Boyle ventured. Another groan. He stepped into the hallway. Three more doors presented themselves, all were closed; other flats, presumably. On the coconut mat at the front door lay Dooley’s truncheon, dropped there as if its owner had been in the process of making his escape. Boyle swallowed his fear and walked into the body of the hall. The complaint came again, close by. He looked around and up the stairs. There, on the half-landing, lay Dooley. He was barely conscious. A rough attempt had been made to rip his clothes. Large portions of his flabby lower anatomy were exposed.
“What’s going on, Dooley?” Boyle asked, moving to the bottom of the stairs. The officer heard his voice and rolled himself over. His bleary eyes, settling on Boyle, opened in terror.