No Comebacks Read Free Page A

further royalties, and was plainly disappointed when he learned it did not. But he brightened at the mention of an introduction fee.
    Sanderson, passing himself off as Mr Johnson, explained his firm had heard a certain former colleague of the ex-mercenary might be thinking of publishing his own story. They would not want another firm to get the rights. The only problem was the man's whereabouts...
    When the ex-mercenary heard the name, he grunted.
    'So he's going to come clean, is he?' he said. 'That surprises me.'
    He was unhelpful until his sixth large whisky and the feel of a bundle of notes in his hand. He scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Sanderson.
    'When the bastard's in town he always drinks there,' he said.
    Sanderson found the place that evening, a quiet club behind Earl's Court. On the second evening his man came in. Sanderson had seen no picture of him, but there was a description in one of the mercenary memoirs, including the scar on the jaw, and the barman greeted the man by a first name which also fitted. He was rangy, wide-shouldered and looked very fit. In the mirror behind the bar Sanderson caught a glimpse of brooding eyes and a sullen mouth over the pint of beer. He followed the man home to a block of flats 400 yards away.
    When he knocked on the door ten minutes after watching the light go on from the street, the mercenary was in a singlet and dark slacks. Sanderson noted that before opening up, he had killed the light in his own hallway and left himself in shadow. The light in the corridor illuminated the visitor.
    'Mr Hughes?' asked Sanderson.
    The man raised an eyebrow. 'Who wants to know?'
    'My name is Johnson, Michael Johnson,' said Sanderson.
    'Warrant card,' said Hughes peremptorily.
    'Not fuzz,' said Sanderson. 'Private citizen. May I come in?'
    'Who told you where to find me?' asked Hughes, ignoring the question.
    Sanderson gave him the name of his informant. 'Not that he'll remember in twenty-four hours,' he added. 'He's too boozed up to remember his own name these days.'
    A hint of a smile appeared at the corner of Hughes's mouth, but there was no humour in it.
    'Yeah,' he said, 'that fits,' and jerked his head towards the interior. Sanderson moved past him into the living room. It was sparsely and shabbily furnished, in the manner of a thousand rented premises in that area of London. There was a table in the centre of the floor. Hughes, following behind, gestured him to sit at it.
    Sanderson sat down and Hughes took a chair opposite him.
    'Well?'
    'I want a job done. A contract. What I believe is called a hit.'
    Hughes stared at him without change of expression.
    'Do you like music?' he asked at last. Sanderson was startled. He nodded.
    'Let's have some music,' said Hughes. He rose and went to a portable radio standing on a table near the bed in the corner. As he switched on the set he also fumbled under the pillow. When he turned round Sanderson was staring into the muzzle of a Colt .45 automatic. He swallowed and breathed deeply. The volume of the music swelled as Hughes turned the radio up. The mercenary reached into the bedside drawer, his eyes still on Sanderson above the muzzle. He withdrew a notepad and pencil and returned to the table. One-handed he scribbed a single word on the sheet and turned it to Sanderson. It just said: 'Strip'.
    Sanderson's stomach turned over. He had heard men like this could be vicious. Hughes gestured with his gun that Sanderson should move away from the table, which he did. Sanderson dropped his jacket, tie and shirt on the floor. He wore no vest. The gun gestured again, downwards; Sanderson unzipped his fly and let his trousers fall. Hughes watched without a trace of expression. Then he spoke.
    'All right, get dressed,' he said. With the gun still in his hand, but pointing at the floor, he crossed the room and turned the music from the radio lower. Then he came back to the table.
    'Toss me the jacket,' he said. Sanderson, with his trousers and