Yellowthread Street (12 page)

‘Then why don’t you come home to a little of it?’

‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘Is that the best response you can manage?’

Feiffer smiled.

‘Are you smiling?’

‘Yes.’

The phone on O’Yee’s desk rang. He said, ‘Yellowthread Pol—’ He held the instrument up to Feiffer. He said, ‘Guess who?’

‘It isn’t Nicola,’ Feiffer said, and Nicola said, ‘Then who
the bloody hell do you think it is?’ Feiffer said, ‘The other phone.’ He said, ‘Can you hold on a bit?’

‘No,’ Nicola said. She hung up. Feiffer said, ‘Shit!’ and picked up the other phone. He said into it, ‘This had better be of bloody earth-shattering importance or I’ll stick it up your—’

‘Good evening, Inspector Feiffer,’ Sister Sung’s voice said, ‘this is Sister Sung from St Paul de Chartres Hospital and you should be ashamed.’

‘I am,’ Feiffer said, ‘I was having a very randy telephone conversation with my wife.’

‘How is Nicola?’

‘Simmering with sexuality.’

Sister Sung said, ‘Are you trying to embarrass me, Inspector?’

‘Yes,’ Feiffer said, ‘I apologise.’

‘I wasn’t always a nun, you know.’

‘I know. I wasn’t always rude to people. I’m sorry, Sister. How can I help you?’

Sister Sung said, ‘I can well imagine Nicola simmering with sexuality. She’s a very healthy girl.’

‘Hmm,’ Feiffer said.

Sister Sung said, ‘You know of course that Alice Ping discharged herself?’

‘I didn’t, as a matter of fact.’

‘You weren’t told?’

‘There wasn’t any reason. She was the victim, wasn’t she? This time. So far as I know at the moment she’s officially as pure as the driven snow.’

‘Quite,’ Sister Sung said, ‘The only thing is, she discharged herself without telling us and one of our wheelchairs is missing.’

‘Alice pinched a wheelchair?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,’ Sister Sung said with the full weight of her Christian understanding. ‘Let us say that she was given a wheelchair in which to rest and she
may have decided that she could rest better at home. I wonder if you could ask her to bring it back? They’re in rather short supply.’

‘I will,’ Feiffer said.

‘Give my regards to Nicola.’

‘I will,’ Feiffer said. He thought it best not to add anything.

Sister Sung waited for him to add something. He resisted the temptation. She said, ‘Thank you, Inspector, and goodnight. I’ll pray for you.’

‘Thanks,’ Feiffer said and his own phone rang again.

Feiffer’s voice felt like an old tennis shoe that had lost its bounce. He said, ‘This is the Lone Ranger, who’s that?’

‘I’m going to get you anyway!’

‘Oh, Christ, not you again!’ He hung up and the phone immediately rang again.

When Auden and Spencer arrived in Camphorwood Lane the first thing they saw was a gaggle of middle-aged gangsters on the sidewalk holding on to their ears. They thought it was a funny sight. Then they saw Cho dead on the road and they did not think that was funny at all. A fusillade of gunshots echoed inside the old building across the road and on the road there was a Government Medical Examiner with a Roman nose taking cover half a dozen yards from the detached arm of a dead Japanese assassin. Auden drew his Colt Python and took cover behind the shotgun-riddled second car of the gangsters. A second eruption of gunshots came from inside the building and he began running down the street past the crouching middle-aged gangsters towards a telephone. The only shop still open was
Edgar Tan and Company
and he kicked the half-open glass door off its hinges and reached for the telephone on the counter. He glanced across and couldn’t see Spencer. He began dialling the number of Yellowthread Street.

Feiffer picked up the ringing telephone. He said, ‘Yes?’

‘Riot Squad,’ a voice said. ‘Who is this?’

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Feiffer,’ Feiffer said. He thought, ‘People keep ringing me up.’

‘Riot Squad,’ the voice said again. Maybe he liked the sound of it. ‘This is Constable Yan of the Riot Squad’—he did like the sound of it—‘I have a message from Superintendent Algy.’

‘O.K.,’ Feiffer said, ‘then let’s have it.’

Constable Yan took a deep breath at the other end of the phone. Feiffer thought he was thinking of a way to get ‘Riot Squad’ into his conversation again. Constable Yan said, ‘The Riot Squad have taken up positions at the water tap near the Hong Bay resettlement area—’

‘I already know that.’

‘—and this is to inform you that at present elements of the—’

‘Riot Squad,’ Feiffer said helpfully.

‘Yes. Elements of the Riot Squad are at present dealing with a disturbance in that area.’ He paused. ‘That’s the message.’

‘Sir,’ Feiffer prompted.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sir. You say, “Sir”, to an Inspector, even if he is only a member of the ordinary, non-Riot Squad variety. Don’t they teach you that at Fanling?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Constable Yan snapped. ‘Sorry, sir. Yes, sir, they do teach that.’

Feiffer thought, ‘I sound like Captain Queeg.’ He said, ‘I used to be a member of the Squad myself at one time.’

‘Really, sir?’ Yan was impressed.

‘I’ll send some men down right away,’ Feiffer said. ‘Pass that on to Superintendent Algy, would you?’

‘No—!’ constable Yan said. He sounded shocked at the suggestion. ‘We don’t need any assistance—’ (‘So much for the “Sir”,’ Feiffer thought) ‘We have the matter entirely under control.’

‘Then why tell me about it?’

That fazed him. Constable Yan couldn’t think of a reason in the world why a permanent member of the Riot Squad
would want to tell a member of the ordinary, foot-slogging variety of unchosen policeman anything. He said, ‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll tell Superintendent Algy that,’ Feiffer said and hung up as the telephone on O’Yee’s desk rang again and O’Yee handed it over wordlessly.

‘I’m just around the corner—’ Lop’s voice said.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’

‘—and I’m coming to get you!’

‘You’re driving me bloody mad!’

The telephone on Feiffer’s desk rang. Feiffer took O’Yee by the scruff of the neck and propelled him to it. ‘You!’ Feiffer said to O’Yee.

‘Am I?’ Lop asked.

‘Are you what?’

‘Driving you mad?’

‘Yes!’

‘Good,’ Lop said. ‘Then I’m temporarily satisfied. Goodnight.’ And he hung up.

O’Yee said, ‘Inspector O’—’ then listened.

‘If I ever get my hands on that Cat Street bar-owning bastard Lop I’m going to murder him!’ Feiffer said to O’Yee.

O’Yee wasn’t listening. He held the receiver away from his ear and said, ‘Cho’s dead. They’re in Camphorwood Lane with guns.’ He said, ‘People have been killed.’

Through the instrument, five feet away, Feiffer could actually hear the shots.

The Mongolian was still in the building. He was on the fourth floor. The gangsters were still in the building. They were on the ground, first, second and third floors. Coming up. The Mongolian craned his head over the rickety wooden balustrade on the fourth floor and saw the gangsters form a knot at the beginning of the corridor on the third floor. They
had a hurried conference and then went to kick all the doors down.

He heard the doors go smash! smash! smash! one after another then there were three simultaneous bursts of gunfire and then nothing. He saw the gangsters go back to the start of the corridor (saw their shadows reflected on the wall in the light of the single naked bulb on each floor). The gangsters had another conference then went back down the corridor. They must have found another door. It went smash! as they kicked it in. There was no gunfire. It must have been a closet or a toilet. The closet or toilet door went smash! again as one of the gangsters kicked it a second time for good measure.

The Mongolian started laughing: harsh, rasping cackles. The gangsters made a series of surprised noises to each other and looked up at the fourth floor. The Mongolian ducked his head back and went into the third room on the fourth floor and left the door ajar a quarter of an inch. Then he opened the far window in the mattress-crowded room, turned the light off, and stood to one side of the door.

He waited.

Auden saw Spencer. Spencer was against the wall of the building, moving towards the door with his gun out. Auden yelled, ‘Spencer!’

Spencer looked over.

Auden yelled, ‘Get back here!’

Spencer hesitated. He glanced towards the open door to the building and then down to his cocked service revolver. He glanced back along the street to the pellet-holed cars and then he looked again at Auden.

‘Get back here!’ Auden yelled. He had cover in the doorway of
Edgar Tan and Company.
He yelled, ‘Bloody well get back here!’

Spencer ducked his head and started to run across the road. He glanced at Cho’s body as he went past. Cho was dead. He glanced at
Doctor Macarthur’s body as he went past. Doctor Macarthur was alive. Spencer said, ‘Come on, Doctor!’

‘Like hell I will!’

Spencer stopped. He reached down and took Macarthur by the arm. He said encouragingly, ‘I’ll look after you—come on now—’

‘Like hell you will!’ Macarthur said and didn’t move.

From inside the building across the road there was a burst of gunfire as one of the gangsters sprayed the stairway to the fourth floor with automatic fire. He had an old Thompson sub-machine gun. The bullets went chop! chop! chop! into the rotting staircase and tore strips of splintered wood off it.

‘Get into cover!’ Spencer said. ‘They’ll kill you here!’

‘Like hell they will!’ Macarthur said and got to his feet. He ran across the road into cover.

‘Hell!’ Spencer said, and ran after him.

The doctor made it to the doorway of
Edgar Tan’s.
Auden said, ‘Doctor—’ but the doctor did not stop. He continued directly into the store and threw himself down alongside what was left of Edgar Tan. The floor of the room was like a postmortem table after a post-mortem. He felt at home.

‘What did you think you were doing?’ Auden demanded. He pulled Spencer into the doorway and waved irritably at him to holster his cocked revolver.

Spencer said—

‘You’re a cop, not a bloody member of the bloody KGB!’ He said, ‘Are you out of your bloody mind?’

Spencer said—

There was another heavy, slow burst from the Thompson.

‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’

Spencer said—

Auden looked quickly down the road.

Auden said, ‘We’re not going in there until reinforcements arrive. What the blazes did you think you were playing at?’

Spencer did not reply.

Auden said, ‘What we’re going to do is go down and find out from Mr Boon and his friends just what the hell’s
happening in there. No private heroics, all right?’

Spencer said—

‘Down the road,’ Auden said, and push-started Spencer in the right direction.

‘I just thought—’ Spencer said.

Auden said, ‘Shut up, stupid!’

The gangsters—there were six of them including Crushed Toes, The Club (With Nails) and the four who had come from the cars at the eastern end of the street—stopped in front of the first door on the fourth floor.

The Mongolian heard them. They were two doors away. He cackled quietly to himself.

‘O.K.,’ The Club (With Nails) said. The man with the Thompson took aim at the centre of the door. The others moved aside to give him room. The man with the Thompson was called The Chopper Man.

Auden reached the quivering, laid-side-by-side figures of Mr Boon and his two friends. He grabbed the first of them, who happened to be Low Fat, under the arms and dragged him to his feet. Low Fat’s legs were jelly. Auden propped him up against the side of the car.

‘How many?’ Auden said. He held up Low Fat with his outstretched arm.

‘Aye?’ Low Fat said. His ears were poor. All those gunshots.

‘Your people,’ Auden said. He said again, ‘How many?’

‘Aye?’ Low Fat said. ‘Not my people.’

‘Whose people?’ He indicated Hernando Haw with a jerking movement of his head. He said to Spencer, ‘Pick him up!’

Spencer picked him up. He went into position alongside Low Fat on the car like the second in a row of encoffined murderers in Madame Tussaud’s waxworks.

Auden said, ‘How many?’ and hit Low Fat.

Auden said to Hernando Haw, ‘How many?’

Hernando Haw looked at the hit Low Fat.

Auden said to Spencer, ‘Hit him.’

‘Six!’ Hernando Haw said. ‘Six!’

‘Not our people,’ Mr Boon said from the sidewalk. Auden went over to pick him up. Low Fat fell down.

‘Not our people,’ Hernando Haw said.

Auden said to Spencer, ‘Hit him!’

Spencer hesitated. He said, ‘I couldn’t do that, Phil—’

‘Who killed the cop?’ Auden said to Mr Boon. He dragged Mr Boon to his feet. He said, ‘Which one of you bastards killed the cop?’

Spencer said, ‘I just can’t bring myself to hit someone who’s—’

‘The Mongolian,’ Mr Boon said. He was afraid of being hit, ‘The Mongolian killed him. We’re on the side of law and order—’

‘You’re innocent?’

‘We are,’ Mr Boon said. ‘There isn’t a reason in the world why you should hit any of us—’

‘Right,’ Auden said. He hit Mr Boon.

The Chopper Man kicked the door down and chopped the room to pieces with the Thompson gun. The room fell to bits and spewed out smoke and dust. A flurry of empty cartridge-cases flew out from the ejection port of the big gun, tinkled on to the floor, and rolled away over the edge of the corridor, a fortune in brass gone down three flights of nothingness to the ground floor, and scattered to the four winds and the rats.

The smoke cleared and the six gangsters glanced in.

‘Empty,’ Crushed Toes pronounced. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the next room, ‘Next.’

The Chopper Man fitted another magazine of rimless .45 calibre cartridges into his chopper. He hauled back on the cocking lever.

Auden pulled his Colt Python on the three gang bosses and snapped, ‘Don’t move.’

Low Fat was still doubled up in pain on the sidewalk and he didn’t move. Mr Boon was doubled up in pain against the side of the car and he didn’t move. Hernando Haw looked down into the yawning cavern of the Colt’s .357 magnum barrel and he didn’t move. Spencer released his hold on him. Hernando Haw had a clearer picture of the entire gun. He moved. He doubled up in pain against the car and didn’t move.