“Who indeed?” She rocked forward. “Is it true that he died of fright before they shortened him?”
“He had poison ready, knowing what was coming. But dead he was, before they pulled him out of his hole. The captain was furious.”
“If he was dead already, why shorten him?”
“Come, come, Auntie, the law must be served. Shorten him they did, though it’s not a job I’d relish.” The sergeant sighed. “It’s a sad world, Auntie. Think of that poor boy, led astray by that old rascal . . . and now the captain and the commandant both want to ask the lad questions they meant to ask the old man.”
“What good will that do them?”
“None, likely.” The sergeant poked gutter filth with the butt of his staff. “But if I were the lad, knowing the old man is dead and not knowing any answers to difficult questions, I’d be far, far from here already. I’d find me a farmer a long way from the city, one who needed willing hands cheap and took no interest in the troubles of the city. But since I’m not, why then, as soon as I clap eyes on him, if I do, I’ll arrest him and haul him up before the captain.”
“He’s probably hiding between rows in a bean field this minute, trembling with fright.”
“Likely. But that’s better than walking around with no head on your shoulders.” The police sergeant looked down the street, called out, “Okay, Roj. Right with you.” As he started away he glanced again at Thorby and said, “Night, Auntie. If you see him, shout for us.”
“I’ll do that. Hail to the Sargon.”
“Hail.”
Thorby continued to pretend to work and tried not to shake, while the police moved slowly away. Customers trickled out of the cabaret and Auntie took up her chant, promising fame, fortune, and a bright glimpse of the future, all for a coin. Thorby was about to get down, stick the gear back into the entranceway and get lost, when a hand grabbed his ankle.
“What are you doing!”
Thorby froze, then realized it was just the manager of the place, angry at finding his sign disturbed. Without looking down Thorby said, “What’s wrong? You paid me to change this blinker.”
“I did?”
“Why, sure, you did. You told me –” Thorby glanced down, looked amazed and blurted, “You’re not the one.”
“I certainly am not. Get down from there.”
“I can’t. You’ve got my ankle.
The man let go and stepped back as Thorby climbed down. “I don’t know what silly idiot could have told you –” He broke off as Thorby’s face came into light. “Hey, ifs that beggar boy!”
Thorby broke into a run as the man grabbed for him. He went ducking in and out between pedestrians as the shout of, “Patrol! Patrol! Police!” rose behind him. Then he was in the dark court again and, charged with adrenaline, was up a drainpipe as if it had been level pavement. He did not stop until he was several dozen roofs away.
He sat down against a chimney pot, caught his breath and tried to think.
Pop was dead. He couldn’t be but he was. Old Poddy wouldn’t have said so if he hadn’t known. Why . . . why, Pop’s head must be on a spike down at the pylon this minute, along with the other losers. Thorby had one grisly flash of visualization, and at last collapsed, wept uncontrollably.
After a long time he raised his head, wiped his face with knuckles, and straightened up.
Pop was dead. All right, what did he do now?
Anyhow, Pop had beat them out of questioning him. Thorby felt bitter pride. Pop was always the smart one; they had caught him but Pop had had the last laugh.
Well, what did he do now?
Auntie Singham had warned him to hide. Poddy had said, plain as anything, to get out of town. Good advice — if he wanted to stay as tall as he was, he had better be outside the city before daylight. Pop would expect him to put up a fight, not sit still and wait for the snoopies, and there was nothing left that he could do for Pop, now that Pop was dead — hold it!