Charles Todd - The red door

They had reached her house. He slowed the motorcar, stopped, was getting out to open her door, and the moment was lost.

"At least," she said, smiling brightly, "it isn't raining this time. Thank you, Ian. This was very kind of you."

And she strode up the walk, opening her door, disappearing inside.

He stood there, Hamish hammering at him, and then turned and got in his motorcar.

Afterward, he wasn't sure how he got as far as Windsor without knowing it. He had to turn around and drive back to London.

Chief Superintendent Bowles had given some thought to the trap he intended to lay for the murderer they knew only as Billy.

He said, as Rutledge reported to him, "Good, you're early."

"How is Cummins?"

"Out of the woods, but not thanks to Billy. He came damned close to severing an artery. We've got to stop this maniac, and you're to be the bait. At least that's the current thinking-that it's you he's after."

"I don't think he's a maniac."

"Stands to reason that he is. Hunting people like an animal. Then taking his knife to them."

Rutledge let it go. Instead, he asked Bowles, "Was there any information on that man Hood, who is our witness for Bynum's killing?"

"The address he gave us was false, a stationer's shop. Like many of his kind, he doesn't want to be found."

So, Rutledge thought, little more than he'd known already. "Have you spoken to Gibson or one of the older sergeants? The man may have a past. I've seen him before or dealt with him somewhere."

"It doesn't matter. We shan't need him until the trial. Here's the plan. You'll drive over to the police station in Lambeth, and speak to the sergeant on duty. It's a routine question, about one of the men Billy robbed earlier on. I want you to be seen, and then return here. At nine o'clock, I want you to dine with Mickelson, walking with him to that pub on the far side of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Then you'll return alone on foot as darkness falls, and walk along the Embankment. Failing any sighting of our friend Billy, you'll walk to the bridge and stand where you did before."

"He's not going to fall easily into a trap," Rutledge warned. "He's seen your men, he knows he sent Cummins to hospital. Here's a better choice." And he outlined what he had in mind.

Bowles was willing to compromise, and at eight o'clock Mickelson and Rutledge left the Yard on foot for their meal. It was a stilted dinner, neither man feeling much like opening a conversation, the animosity between them making even a request for a saltcellar sound like a declaration of war.

Their dislike of each other went back to an inquiry in Westmor-land, where Mickelson misjudged a volatile situation and nearly got an innocent bystander killed. Rather than acknowledge his mistake, he'd rushed to London and laid full blame at Rutledge's door. Circumstances had cleared Rutledge, but Bowles had not been swift to act on the information and still favored Mickelson.

Rutledge finished first, and went on foot back to the Yard. He felt like dozens of eyes watched his progress, but from street level he could see no one.

He went into the Yard. A quarter of an hour later, Constable Miller, dressed as a sweep, was drunkenly making a nuisance of himself in front of the House of Commons. A single constable was dispatched to deal with him, but the noise level didn't abate. Rutledge, with another constable in tow, strode down to Commons and reasoned with the drunken man. Miller, young and excited, nearly overplayed his role, but in the end, the two constables marched him back to the Yard, protesting every step of the way at the top of his considerable lungs. A small crowd gathered to watch, laughing at the spectacle, and Miller played to his audience, offering to kiss the pretty girls and bring them a sweep's luck. He dropped one of his brushes, bent over to retrieve it, and fell on his face. The two constables, one on either side, brought him to his feet and kept the bundle. By this time, Miller appeared to be turning a little green, and the onlookers moved away as he knelt and was sick in the gutter. The constables, waiting impatiently, urged the last two or three people who were lingering to see how the situation turned out, to be about their business. A decidedly uncomfortable Miller, holding his stomach, and complaining that he'd meant no harm, shambled between his captors and was soon hauled through the door at the Yard.

Rutledge, inside Commons, walked out talking to a well-dressed man who could have been as important as he looked. They stood together for a good five minutes, as the last of the light was fading from the sky, sped on by a heavy bank of clouds in the west.

The man with Rutledge finally took his leave and walked back to the Commons and disappeared through the door. Rutledge stood there looking after him for a moment, then walked back toward the Yard. Halfway there, one of the constables came out to meet him, passed on a message, and went back the way he'd come. Rutledge went down toward the water, studying the clouds that were already blotting out the western stars and moving downriver. A flash of lightning in the darkest part of the clouds lit them from within, and a cool breeze picked up to herald the storm. A roll of thunder followed.

"There's no' much time before the rain comes," Hamish said. In the distance, somewhere near Trafalgar Square, a motorcar's horn blew sharply. Rutledge started back toward the bridge and paused to watch a river skiff expertly run the gantlet of the stone arches, and voices carried to him across the water, three men as far as he could tell, and young enough to like the excitement of danger.

He had come to the bridge and stood there, as if debating what to do next. Another roll of thunder reached him and the flashes of lightning were brighter and more often. Taking off his coat and slinging it over his shoulder, he turned and walked back in the direction of the Yard.

He never knew where Billy came from. There was more thunder, a hiss of warning from Hamish, and suddenly the boy was there, arm round Rutledge's neck, jerking his head back. Rutledge fought then, with every skill at his command. The boy was strong and driven by obsession. Rutledge had his hands full. And where, he wondered in a corner of his mind, was Mickelson with a half dozen constables?

" 'Ware!" Hamish yelled.

The knife flashed, and Rutledge caught the arm wielding it, twisted, and brought his weight down on it.

The boy screamed, letting Rutledge go, and then kicked out viciously with all his strength, grazing Rutledge's kneecap as he leapt back.

There was more thunder, and Rutledge could hear the German guns.

His attention on the boy, looking for an opening to bring him down once and for all, Rutledge felt arms flung around his shoulders, hauling him back. He thought it was one of his own people and relaxed his guard.

Billy hit him then with locked fists, across the face.

Behind Rutledge, someone said, "Will. For God's sake-"

"No, I'll kill him. And you as well." His face was green in the lightning.

"Listen to me, Will. I'll help you, I swear to God I will."

"I don't want your help."

Billy lunged with the knife, straight at Rutledge's exposed chest, but the man behind him shoved Rutledge to one side with such force that both went down, and the knife plunged into the man's left side.

Rebounding, Rutledge was already on his feet, and before Billy could react to what he'd done, he had the boy in a grip that brought him to his knees. Billy yelped in pain. The man lying on the pavement looked up and cried, "Don't hurt him."

Rutledge said through clenched teeth, "I'd like to throttle him."

But he was referring to Mickelson, for the sound of boots pounding belatedly in his direction was none too soon.

The first constable to reach the three men held a torch in the face of the fallen man, and Rutledge nearly lost his grip on Billy as he recognized Charlie Hood.