path of an onrushing Bentley, traveling at extraordinary speed. McAuliff
felt a stinging pain on his face. Then man and vehicle collided; the
anguished scream was the scream at the moment of death; the screeching
wheels signified the incredible to McAuliff. The Bentley raced forward,
crushing its victim, and sped off. It reached the corner and whipped
violently to the left, its tires spinning above the curb, whirring as
they touched stone again, propelling the car out of sight. Pedestrians
screamed, men ran, whores disappeared into the doorways, pimps gripped
their pockets, and McAuliff stood above the bloody, mangled corpse in
the street and knew it was meant to be him.
He ran down the Soho street; he did not know where, just away. Away
from the gathering crowds on the pavement behind. There would, be
questions, witnesses … people placing him at the scene-involved, not
placed, he reflected.
He had no answers, and instinctively he knew he could not allow himself
to be identified-not until he had some answers.
The dead black man was the one who had confronted him in The Owl of
Saint George, of that he was certain: the man who had stunned him with a
savage blow to the stomach on the dance floor and twisted his wrist,
throwing him into the surrounding gyrating bodies. The man who had
stopped him from reaching Hammond in the narrow corridor that led past
the “Chicks” and the “Roosters” into the dark alleyway beyond.
Why had the black man stopped him? Why for Christ Almighty’s sake had
he tried to kill him?
Where was Hammond?
He had to get to a telephone. He had to call Hammond’s number and speak
to someone, anyone who could give him some answers.
Suddenly, Alex was aware that people in the street were staring at him.
Why? Of course. He was running-well, walking too rapidly. A man
walking rapidly at this hour on a misty Soho street was conspicuous. He
couldn’t be conspicuOus; he slowed his walk, his aimless walk, and
aimlessly crossed unfamiliar streets.
Still they stared. He tried not to panic. What was it?
And then he knew. He could feel the warm blood trickling down his
cheek. He remembered now: the sting on his face as the huge black hands
went crashing past him over the curb. A ring perhaps. A fingernail …
what difference? He had been cut, and he was bleeding. He reached into
his coat pocket for a handkerchief. The whole side of his jacket had
been ripped.
He had been too stunned to notice or feel the jacket ripping, or the
blood.
Christ! What a sight! A man in a torn jacket with blood on his face,
running away from a dead black man in Soho.
Dead? Deceased? Life spent?
No. Murdered.
But the method meant for him: a violent thrust into the street, timed to
meet the heavy steel of an onrushing, racing Bentley.
In the middle of the next block-what block?-there was a telephone booth.
An English telephone booth, wider and darker than its American cousin.
He quickened his pace as he withdrew coins from his pocket. He went
inside; it was dark, too dark. Why was it so dark? He took out his
metal cigarette lighter, gripping it as though it were a handle that, if
released, would send him plunging into an abyss. He pressed the lever,
breathed deeply, and dialed by the light of the flame.
“We know what’s happened, Mr. McAuliff,” said the clipped, cool British
voice. “Where precisely are you calling from?”
“I don’t know. I ran … crossed a number of streets.”
“It’s urgent we know where you are. When you left The Owl, which way
did you walk?”
“I ran, goddammit! I ran. Someone tried to kill me!”
“Which way did you run, Mr. McAulif?”
“To the right … four or five blocks. Then right again; then left, I
think two blocks later.”
“All right. Relax, now. You’re phoning from a call booth?”
“Yes. No, damn it, I’m calling from a phone booth! …
Yes. For Christ’s sake, tell me what’s happening! There aren’t any
street signs; I’m in the middle of the block.”
“Calm down, please.” The Englishman was maddening: imperviously
condescending. “What are the structures outside the booth? Describe
anything you like, anything that catches your eye.”
McAuliff complained about the fog and described as best he could the
darkened shops and building. “Christ, that’s the best I can do. I’m
going to get out of here. I’ll grab a taxi somehow; and then I want to
see one of you! Where do I go?”
“You will not go anywhere, Mr. McAuliffl” The cold British tones were
suddenly loud and harsh. “Stay right where you are. If there is a
light in the booth, smash it. We know your position. We’ll pick you up
in minutes.”
Alex hung up the receiver. There was no light bulb in the booth, of
course. The tribes of Soho had removed it. He tried to think. He
hadn’t gotten any answers. Only orders.
More commands.
It was insane. The last half hour was madness. What was he doing? Why
Was he in a darkened telephone booth with a bloody face and a torn
jacket, trembling and afraid to light a cigarette?
Madness!
There was a man outside the booth, jingling coins in his hand and
pointedly shifting his weight from foot to foot in irritation. The
command over the telephone had instructed Alex to wait inside, but to do
so under the circumstances might cause the man on the pavement to object
vocally, drawing attention. He could call someone else, he thought.
But who? Alison? No … He had to think about Alison now, not talk
with her.
He was behaving like a terrified child! With terrifying justification,
perhaps. He was actually afraid to move, to walk outside a telephone
booth and let an impatient man jingling coins go in. No, he couldn’t
behave like that. He could not freeze. He had learned that lesson
years ago—centuries ago-in Vietnam. To freeze was to become a target.
One had to be flexible within the perimeters of common sense.
One had to, above all, use his natural antennae and stay intensely
alert. Staying alert, retaining the ability and capacity to move
swiftly, these were the important things.
Jesus! He was correlating the murderous fury of Vietnam with a back
street in Soho. He was actually drawing a parallel and forcing himself
to adjust to it. Too goddamn much!
He opened the door, blotted his cheek, and mumbled his apologies to- the
man jingling coins. He walked to a recessed doorway opposite the booth
and waited.
The man on Hammond’s telephone was true to his word.
The wait wasn’t long, and the automobile recognizable as one of those
Alex and the agent had used several times. It came down the street at a
steady pace and stopped by the booth, its motor running.
McAuliff left the darkness of the recessed doorway and walked rapidly to
the car. The rear door was flung open for him, and he climbed in.
And he froze again.
The man in the backseat was black. The man in the back seat was
supposed to be dead, a mangled corpse in the street in front of The Owl
of Saint George!
“Yes, Mr. McAuliff. It is I,” said the black man who was supposed to
be dead. “I apologize for having struck you, but then, you were
intruding. Are you all right?”
“Oh my God!” Alex was rigid on the edge of the seat as the automobile
lurched forward and sped off down the street. “I thought … I mean, I
saw. . .”
“We’re on our way to Hammond. You’ll understand better then. Sit back.
You’ve had a very strenuous past hour.
Quite unexpectedly, incidentally.”
“I saw you killed!” McAuliff blurted out the words involuntarily.
“You saw a black man killed, a large black man like myself We do weary
of the bromide that we all look alike.
It’s both unflattering and untrue. By the way, my name is Tallon.”
McAuliff stared at the man. “No, it’s not. Tallon is the name of a
fish store near Victoria Park. In Kingston.”
The black laughed softly. “Very good, Mr. McAuliff. I was testing
you. Smoke?”
Alex took the offered cigarette gratefully. “Tallon” held a match for
him, and McAuliff inhaled deeply, trying to find a brief moment of
sanity.
He looked at his hands. He was both astonished and disturbed.
He was cupping the glow of the cigarette as he had once done centuries
ago as an infantry officer in the jungles of Vietnam.
They drove for nearly twenty minutes, traveling swiftly through the
London streets to the outskirts. McAuliff did not try to follow their
route by looking out the window; he did not really care. He was
consumed with the decision he had to make. In a profound way it was
related to the sight of his hands-no longer trembling-cupping the