Peter Lovesey - The Tick of Death

The corridor was as deserted as the rest of the hotel. He stepped boldly along it, counting the numbers on the doors until he came to 206. To be quite sure it was locked, he tested the handle; a pity his training at Woolwich had not included the forcing of locks. Short of sitting down to wait outside the door for Malone’s return, there was one other expedient left to him. It called for the kind of heroics he would normally have entrusted to Thackeray, but this afternoon he had to take the initiative himself. He walked to the end of the corridor, pushed up a window, and peered out.

Thirty feet below, a pigeon was crossing Arundel Place. From Cribb’s position, its waddling progress looked awkward in the extreme. Strange how a change of perspective altered the appearance of everyday things. . He looked left along the side of the building, on a level with the second floor. More pigeons were clustered there, perched proprietorially along a ledge projecting some nine inches from the wall. It provided exactly what he required: a means of reaching the window of suite 206.

He removed his jacket and placed it neatly out of sight with the silk hat behind the folds of the curtain. He folded his shirt-sleeves and lowered himself from the window to the ledge without another glance downwards. He hoped anyone who chanced to see him would suppose him a window-cleaner or house-painter going about his lawful employment. The square was deserted, so far as he could tell. He flattened his palms against the wall and began to move sideways. The pigeons did not disdain to leave the ledge as his feet appeared among them, but contrived to find a way around the invading shoes, grumbling chestily at the inconvenience. A small stone was dislodged and he heard it hit the pavement below. He wondered whether anyone was down there by now, looking up at him. He thought of Malone, and pondered how long it took to complete a shot-putting contest. He began to move with more urgency.

The window of 206 was partially open, and easy to push up far enough for him to climb inside. Secure again, he looked down into Arundel Place to satisfy himself that his manoeuvre had not been observed. The pigeon was still in sole occupation.

Devlin had been right when he said Malone lived in style. The bedroom in which Cribb found himself was half as large again as any hotel-room he had been in before. He felt the pile of the carpet respond to the weight of his feet as he got up from the window-sill and crossed to an enamelled ash tallboy. The drawers contained clothes-collars, shirts and under-garments-and nothing to interest Scotland Yard. He tried the wardrobe and found two suits and an overcoat. The pockets were empty except for handkerchiefs.

He crossed to the bathroom. The luxury extended there in a gleaming chrome and enamel hot water geyser and a flawless white galvanised bath, but Cribb’s attention was claimed at once by a bottle on the shelf over the wash-basin. It contained a purple-coloured liquid. He removed the top and sniffed it: methylated spirit, without any doubt at all. He sniffed it again for pure relish-the virtual confirmation that Malone was the man Thackeray had met in The Feathers in Rotherhithe. And beside it on the shelf was a box containing an ivory-handled manicure-set.

There was one more room to examine: the sitting room. It bore more traces of its tenant than the others, a pile of copies of The Irish 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.

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 foolish.’

He got them.

‘Now, Mister. I think certain explanations are due. When you left me last you were going back to Lillie Bridge to watch the shot-putting. Instead, you took the first cab available to Malone’s hotel and when you came out you were in a devil of a hurry to get to Great Scotland Yard. But first things first. What’s your name?’

‘Sargent.’ It was the first time Cribb had resorted to a false identity, but he had more than once speculated on the possibility and decided this was the most convenient name to adopt. It had the advantage of being unlikely to catch him out in an unguarded moment.