Дик Фрэнсис - Knock Down

My tongue felt huge and sluggish. I looked at the gun and could think of nothing useful to say.

‘You and Vic,’ he said. ‘You thought you had me in a corner. Too bad. Your mistake.’

I swallowed with difficulty. ‘I saw you,’ I repeated, ‘and the police know.’

‘Maybe. But they’ll have trouble making it stick when you’re not alive to give evidence.’

I looked desperately around for a way of diverting him. For a weapon to attack him with.

He smiled faintly. ‘It’s no good, Jonah. It’s the end of the road.’

He straightened his arm to the firing position adopted by people who knew what they were about.

‘You won’t feel much,’ he said.

The door behind him swung on its hinges while he was already beginning to squeeze the trigger. The sudden shift of my attention from sick fascination at the round hole from which death was coming to a point behind his back was just enough to jerk his hand.

Enough was enough.

The flame spat out and the bullet missed me.

Crispin stood in the doorway looking with horror at the scene. In one hand he waved a heavy green bottle of gin.

‘The old heave-ho,’ he said distinctly.

He wasn’t drunk, I thought incredulously. He was telling me to go right back to a rugger tackle we’d perfected in boyhood. Instinctively, faster than thought, I feinted at our visitor’s knees.

The gun came round and down towards me and Crispin hit him hard on the head with the gin bottle.

The pistol swung away from me and fired, and I snapped up and lifted the only heavy object within reach, which was my typewriter. I crashed it down with all my strength in the wake of the gin bottle, and the visitor sprawled on the floor with blood gushing from his scalp and the typewriter ribbon rolling across his unconscious face and away to the wall.

‘You old crazy loon,’ I said breathlessly, turning to Crispin. ‘You old blessed...’

My voice died away. Crispin half sat, half lay on the floor with his hand pressed to his side.

‘Crispin!’

‘I’m... not... drunk,’ he said.

‘Of course not.’

‘I think... he shot me.’

Speechlessly I knelt beside him.

He said, ‘Was he the one... who burnt the yard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hope... you killed him.’

His body sagged. I caught him. Eased him down to the floor and with one hand grabbed a cushion for his head. His pressing fingers relaxed and fell away, and there on the waist band of his trousers was the spreading patch of blood.

‘I’m... floating,’ he said. He smiled. ‘It’s better... than... being drunk.’

‘I’ll get a doctor,’ I said.

‘No... Jonah... Don’t leave me... you sod.’

I didn’t leave him. Three minutes later, without speaking again, he left me.

I closed his eyes gently and got stiffly to my feet, trying to fold numbness around me like a coat.

The pistol lay where it had fallen. I pushed it carefully with my toe until it was completely out of sight under the low-slung armchair. I didn’t want the visitor waking to grab it again.

The visitor hadn’t moved. I sat on the edge of my desk and looked down at the two of them, the unconscious and the dead.

Time enough, I thought, to call in those more or less constant companions, the busy and probing police. A quarter of an hour sooner or later, what did it matter. There was nothing any more to be gained. Too much had been irrevocably lost.

I didn’t care how much damage I’d done with the typewriter. The head I’d busted with it looked more bloody than dented, but I felt a strong aversion to exploring. In all my life I had never wanted to kill anyone; had never thought I could come within a mile of it. I had not even intended to kill with the typewriter, but only to stun. I sat quietly on the desk and shook with fury inside, and wished I could have that blow back again, so that I could make it heavier, avenging and fatal.

Whatever my brother had been, he had been my brother. No one had the right to kill him. I think at that moment I felt as primitive as the Sicilians.

From greed the visitor had set out to destroy me. Not because I’d done him any harm. Simply because I stood in his plundering way. He’d sent me a message; join or be flattened, an ultimatum as old as tyranny.

My own fault, as they had tirelessly pointed out, if the answer I’d chosen was flatten and be damned.

Kerry Sanders had been only a convenient door. Had she not thought of her equine birthday present, another way would have been found. The intention was the activating force. The means were accidental.

I remembered what Pauli Teksa had said at dinner that evening at Newmarket. I remembered his exact words. The classic law of the invader was to single out the strongest guy around and smash him, so that the weaker crowd would come to heel like lambs.

At various times I had thought of the man who lay on my carpet as ‘someone’, as the expert, as Vic’s friend, as the driver, and as the visitor; Pauli’s word — the invader — suited him best.

He had invaded the bloodstock game with gangster ethics. Invaded Vic’s life and business as a dangerous ally. Invaded mine as a destroyer.

The fact that I did not feel that I filled the role he’d cast me in had not mattered. It was the invader’s view which had mattered. My bad luck that he’d seen me as the strongest guy around.

There was no way of winning against a determined invader. If you gave in at once, you lost. If you fought to the death you still lost, even if you won. The price of victory was sore.

Pauli Teksa had said, just before he went back to America, that it was easier to start things than to stop them. He had been warning me that if I lashed back at Vic I could find myself in even more trouble than before.

He had been right.

But he had been speaking also of himself.

Pauli Teksa, the invader, lay face down on my carpet, my broken typewriter beside his bloody head.

The stocky tough wide-shouldered body looked a solid hunk of bull muscle. The crinkly black hair was matted and running with red. I could see half of his face; the strong distinctive profile with the firm mouth now slackly open, the swift eye shut.

His hands lay loosely on the floor, one each side of his head. He wore two thick gold rings. A gold and platinum wrist-watch. Heavy gold cufflinks. The tip of the gold mountain he had siphoned off through Vic.

I thought it likely that his British venture had been an extension of activities at home. The super-aggressive kickback operation had been too polished to be a trial run. Maybe he had set up Vic-equivalents in other countries. Maybe Vies in South America and Italy and Japan were rooking the local Constantines and Wilton Youngs for him and driving the Antonia Huntercombes to despair.

Vic and Fynedale had been amateurs, compared with him. Fynedale working himself into a white murdering manic state. Vic nearing apoplexy with easy rage. Pauli stayed cool and used his eyes and made his snap decisions, and when he saw the need to kill he did it without histrionics. An unfortunate necessity, best done quickly.

He had even with macabre kindness told me I wouldn’t feel much, and I believed him. I’d heard shot people say all they had felt was a sort of thud, and hadn’t realised they were wounded until afterwards. If you were shot through the heart there was no afterwards, and that was that.

He had himself urged me several times to throw in my lot with Vic, and to go along with the crowd. He’d warned me of the dangers of holding out. He’d given me the advice as a friend, and behind the smile there had been an enemy as cold as bureaucracy.

I realised slowly that perhaps at one point he had in fact done his best to stop what he’d started. He had said no to some demand of Vic’s, and he had gone home to America. But by then it was too late because in burning my stable he had switched me from tolerance to retaliation. Bash me, I bash back. The way wars started, big and small.