Free The Tick of Death by Peter Lovesey Page B

Post on a table beside a decanter of whisky; a number of books, including the London Directory, and a collection of sporting impedimenta—Indian clubs, chest-expanders, even two throwing-hammers—stacked in a corner of the room from which all furniture and ornaments had been cleared, evidently to provide a small gymnasium.
    Cribb bent to examine one of the hammers, an item of personal luggage unlikely to be tolerated in less exclusive hotels, he thought, particularly when it belonged to a whisky-drinking Irishman. On picking it up, he was surprised to find it lighter in weight than the hammers he had handled at Lillie Bridge. There was half a stone difference, at least. As he turned it over thoughtfully in his hand, he noticed a join midway along the wooden handle. He twisted the two halves away from each other and felt them give, and unscrew. They were hollow. Inside, were four glass tubes he recognised at once as detonators. It might have been a throwing-hammer he was holding, but it was also an infernal machine. He did not need to prise open the head to know that it was stuffed with dynamite.
    The moment when a man discovers that the object in his hands is a bomb is not the best to take him by surprise. It says much for Cribb’s cool-headedness that he did not drop the ‘hammer’ altogether at the sound of the lock turning in the door of the room. He swung round, still reassembling the handle, prepared to point out that any shot that felled him would surely account for his attacker too, and watched the door open. A young girl, not more than fifteen years old, marched boldly in, carrying a pillow-case.
    ‘Oops! I’m sorry, sir! Thought you was out. I’m only the chambermaid, wanting to turn back the sheet on your bed.’
    Cribb nodded. ‘You carry on, young lady. Don’t mind me. Just taking my daily exercise. I was about to go out, anyway.’
    She bobbed a small, blushing curtsey and scuttled through to the bedroom. Cribb replaced the hammer in its original position and moved just as quickly out of suite 206 and into the corridor. Stopping only to retrieve his hat and coat, he located the main staircase and passed rapidly downstairs, heartily relieved when he reached the bottom without meeting Malone coming up, but retaining sufficient presence of mind to raise his hat to the receptionist as he crossed the foyer. He had done it, by Heaven! Single-handed, he had run a dynamiter to earth within hours of being assigned to the case. Inspector Jowett was due for the surprise of his career!
    He hailed a four-wheeler that had appeared in the square. ‘Great Scotland Yard,’ he told the cabman. ‘Make haste, man. Important business. Double fare!’
    He climbed inside, sat down and found that he was not alone. Devlin was sitting opposite him. There was a gun in his hand directed at Cribb’s chest.

CHAPTER
6
    THE WINDOWS ON THE right were covered. Devlin leaned forward and pulled down the blinds on the left without shifting gaze or aim from Cribb. A small rear window some six inches square admitted sufficient light for the two men to see each other, but it was impossible for Cribb to follow which direction the cab was taking without turning in his seat and craning for a view, a manoeuvre he decided in the circumstances not to attempt.
    ‘Now, Mister,’ said Devlin, as the cab began to move, ‘I’ll thank you to remove your jacket and waistcoat and put them on the seat here beside me. I shan’t hesitate to shoot if you try anything irregular.’
    Was there anything more irregular than disrobing in a public carriage? Cribb obeyed without comment, leaving his top hat conspicuously in position. He wanted there to be no misunderstanding of his movements. Devlin had the look of a man who was not bluffing; he checked the pockets of each surrendered garment with his left hand, but the gun in his right remained steady.
    ‘I’ll have your braces and boots as well,’ he told Cribb. ‘To discourage you from trying anything