Come to Grief Read Free Page B

I said with as little heat as possible, “Gordon Quint tried to kill me.”
    Gordon Quint was Ginnie’s husband. Ellis was their son.
    It struck Charles silent, open-mouthed: and it took a great deal to do that.
    After a while I said, “When they adjourned the trial I went home by train and taxi. Gordon Quint was waiting there in Pont Square for me. God knows how long he’d been there, how long he would have waited, but anyway, he was there, with an iron bar.” I swallowed. “He aimed it at my head, but I sort of ducked, and it hit my shoulder. He tried again ... Well, this mechanical hand has its uses. I closed it on his wrist and put into practice some of the judo I’ve spent so many hours learning, and I tumbled him onto his back ... and he was screaming at me all the time that I’d killed Ginnie ... I’d killed her.”
    “Sid.”
    “He was half-mad... raving, really ... He said I’d destroyed his whole family. I’d destroyed all their lives ... he swore I would die for it ... that he would get me ... get me ... I don’t think he knew what he was saying, it just poured out of him.”
    Charles said dazedly, “So what did you do?”
    “The taxi driver was still there, looking stunned, so ... er ... I got back into the taxi.”
    “You got back ... ? But ... what about Gordon?”
    “I left him there. Lying on the pavement. Screaming revenge ... starting to stand up ... waving the iron bar. I ... er ... I don’t think I’ll go home tonight, if I can stay here.”
    Charles said faintly, “Of course you can stay. It’s taken for granted. You told me once that this was your home.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Then believe it.”
    I did believe it, or I wouldn’t have gone there. Charles and his certainties had in the past saved me from inner disintegration, and my reliance on him had oddly been strengthened, not evaporated, by the collapse of my marriage to his daughter Jenny, and our divorce.
    Aynsford offered respite. I would go back soon enough to defuse Gordon Quint; I would swear an oath in court and tear a man to shreds; I would hug Linda Ferns and, if I were in time, make Rachel laugh; but for this one night I would sleep soundly in Charles’s house in my own accustomed room—and let the dry well of mental stamina refill.
    Charles said, “Did Gordon ... er ... hurt you, with his bar?”
    “A bruise or two.”
    “I know your sort of bruises.”
    I sighed again. “I think ... um ... he’s cracked a bone. In my arm.”
    His gaze flew instantly to the left arm, the plastic job.
    “No,” I said, “the other one.”
    Aghast, he said, “Your right arm?”
    “Well, yeah. But only the ulna, which goes from the little-finger side of the wrist up to the elbow. Not the radius as well, luckily. The radius will act as a natural splint.”
    “But, Sid...”
    “Better than my skull. I had the choice.”
    “How can you laugh about it?”
    “A bloody bore, isn’t it?” I smiled without stress. “Don’t worry so, Charles. It’ll heal. I broke the same bone worse once before, when I was racing.”
    “But you had two hands then.”
    “Yes, so I did. So would you mind picking up that damned heavy brandy decanter and sloshing half a pint of anesthetic into a glass?”
    Wordlessly he got to his feet and complied. I thanked him. He nodded. End of transaction.
    When he was again sitting down he said, “So the taxi driver was a witness.”
    “The taxi driver is a ‘don’t-get-involved’ man.”
    “But if he saw... He must have heard ...”
    “Blind and deaf, he insisted he was.” I drank fiery, neat liquid gratefully. “Anyway, that suits me fine.”
    “But, Sid...”
    “Look,” I said reasonably, “what would you have me do? Complain? Prosecute? Gordon Quint is normally a level-headed, worthy sixtyish citizen. He’s not your average murderer. Besides, he’s your own personal long time friend, and I, too, have eaten in his house. But he already hates me for attacking Ellis, the light of his life, and