Дик Фрэнсис - Knock Down

On the floor, Pauli stirred.

Not dead.

Across the room the gin bottle lay where Crispin had dropped it. I shoved myself off the desk and went over to pick it up. If Pauli were to return to consciousness, groggy or not, I’d trust him as far as I could throw the Empire State Building. A reinforcing clunk with green glass would be merely prudent.

I looked closer at the bottle. It was full. In addition the seal was unbroken.

I returned to the desk and set the bottle on it, and looked down with impossible grief at my brother. I knew that I had needed him as much as he needed me. He was at the roots of my life.

Pauli stirred again. The urge to finish off what I’d started was almost overwhelming. No one would know. No one could tell whether he’d been hit twice or three times. Killing someone who was trying to kill you was justifiable in law, and who was to guess that I’d killed him ten minutes later.

The moment passed. I felt cold suddenly, and old and lonely and as tired as dust. I stretched out a hand to the telephone, to call the cops.

It rang before I touched it. I picked up the receiver and said dully, ‘Hello?’

‘Mr Crispin Dereham?’ A man’s voice, educated.

‘I’m his brother,’ I said.

‘Could I speak to him?’

‘I’m afraid...’ I said, ‘he’s... unavailable.’

‘Oh dear.’ The voice sounded warmly sympathetic. ‘Well... this is Alcoholics Anonymous. Your brother telephoned us earlier this evening asking for help, and we promised to ring him back again for another chat...’

He went on talking for some time, but I didn’t hear a word he said.