The Judas Goat Read Free

but that sounds awfully dramatic.”
    “Except When Trevor Howard says it,” I said.
    On the way out I gave Jan the thumbs-up gesture like in the old RAF movies. I think she was offended.

3
    My first move was to call the airline. They said I could bring a handgun as long as it was disassembled, packed in a suitcase and checked through. The ammunition had to be separate. Of course it couldn’t be carried aboard.
    “Okay if I chew gum when my ears pop?” I said.
    “Certainly, sir.”
    “Thank you.”
    Next I called the British Consulate. They told me that if I were bringing in a shotgun there would be no problem. I could simply carry it in. No papers required.
    “I had in mind a thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. A shotgun in a hip holster tends to chafe. And carrying it around London at high port seems a bit showy.”
    “Indeed. Well, for a handgun the regulations state that if you are properly licensed it will be held at customs until you have received authorization from the chief of police in the city or town of your visit. In this case, you say London?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, that is where you should apply. It is not permitted of course to bring in machine guns, submachine guns, automatic rifles or any weapon capable of firing a gas-disseminating missile.”
    “Oh, damn,” I said.
    Then I called Carroll back. “Have your man in London arrange a permit for me with the London cops.” I gave him the serial number, the number of my Mass carry license and the number of my private detective license.
    “They may be sticky about issuing this without your presence.”
    “If they are they are. I’ll be there in the morning. Maybe Flanders can have softened them up at least. Don’t you people have a somewhat special status with the London fuzz?”
    “We will do what we can, Mr. Spenser,” he said, and hung up.
    A little abrupt for a guy with his breeding. I looked at my watch: 2:00. I looked out my office window. On Mass Avenue a thin old man with a goatee was walking a small old dog on a leash. Even from two stories up you could see the leash was new. Bright metal links and a red leather handle. The old man paused and rummaged through a little basket that was attached to a lamppost. The dog sat in that still patient way old dogs have, his short legs a little bowed.
    I called Susan Silverman. She wasn’t home. I called my answering service. There were no messages. I told them I was out of town on business. Didn’t know when I’d be back. The girl at the other end took the news without a quiver.
    I locked up the office and went home to pack. A suitcase, a flight bag and a garment bag for my other suit. I packed two boxes of .38 bullets in the suitcase. Took the cylinder out of the gun and packed it in two pieces in the flight bag along with the holster. By three-fifteen I was packed. I called Susan Silverman again. No answer.
    There are people in the city of Boston who have threatened to kill me. I don’t like to walk around without a gun.
    So I took my spare, and stuck it in my belt at the small of my back. It was a Colt .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel. I kept it around in case I was ever attacked by a fmback whale, and it was heavy and uncomfortable under my coat as I took Carroll’s check down to my bank and cashed it.
    “Would you like this in traveler’s checks, Mr. Spenser?”
    “No. Plain money. If you have any English money I’d take that.”
    “I’m sorry. We could get you some perhaps Friday.”
    “No. Just give me the greenies. I’ll change it over there. ”
    “Are you sure you want to walk around with this amount in cash?”
    “Yes. Look at my boyish face. Would someone mug me?”
    “Well, you’re quite a big man.”
    “But oh so gentle,” I said.
    Back in my apartment at quarter to four I called Susan Silverman again. No answer.
    I got out the phone book and called the registrar’s office at the Harvard Summer School.
    “I’m trying to locate a student. Mrs.