twisted his wrist, throwing him onto the surrounding gyrating bodies. The man who had stopped him from reaching Holcroft in the narrow corridor that led past the 'Chicks' and the 'Roosters' into the dark alleyway beyond.
Why had the black stopped him? Why for Christ Almighty's sake had he tried to kill him?
Where was Holcroft?
He had to get to a telephone. He had to call Holcroft's number and speak to someone, anyone who could give him some answers.
Suddenly, Alex was aware that people in the street were staring at him. Why?... Of course. He was running - well, walking too rapidly. A man walking rapidly at this hour on a misty Soho street was conspicuous. He could not be conspicuous; he slowed his walk, his aimless walk, and aimlessly crossed unfamiliar streets.
Still they stared. He tried not to panic. What was it?
And then he knew. He could feel the warm blood trickling down his cheek. He remembered now: the sting on his face as the huge black hands went crashing past him over the kerb. A ring, perhaps. A fingernail... what difference? He had been cut, and he was bleeding. He reached into his coat pocket for a handkerchief. The whole side of his jacket had been ripped.
He had been too stunned to notice or feel the jacket ripping, or the blood.
Christ! What a sight! A man in a torn jacket with blood on his face running away from a dead black in Soho.
Dead? Deceased? Life spent?
No. Murdered.
By the method meant for him: a violent thrust into the street, timed to meet the heavy steel on an onrushing, racing Bentley.
In the middle of the next block - what block? - there was a telephone booth. An English telephone booth, wider and darker than its American cousin. He quickened his pace as he withdrew coins from his pocket. He went inside; it was dark, too dark, Why was it so dark? He took out his metal cigarette lighter, gripping it as though it were a handle that, if released, would send him plunging into an abyss. He pressed the lever, breathed deeply, and dialled by the light of the flame.
'We know what's happened, Mr McAuliff,' said the clipped, cool British voice. 'Where precisely are you calling from?'
'I don't know. I ran... I crossed a number of streets.'
'It's urgent we know where you are... When you left The Owl, which way did you walk?'
'I ran, goddamn it! I ran. Someone tried to kill me!'
'Which way did you run, Mr McAuliff?'
'To the right... four or five blocks. Then right again; then left, I think, two blocks later.'
'All right. Relax, now... You're phoning from a call booth?'
'Yes. No, damn it, I'm calling from a phone booth!... Yes. For Christ's sake, tell me what's happening! There aren't any street signs; I'm in the middle of the block.'
'Calm down, please.' The Englishman was maddening: imperviously condescending. 'What are the structures outside the booth? Describe anything you like, anything that catches your eye.'
McAuliff complained about the fog and described as best he could the darkened shops and buildings. 'Christ, that's the best I can do... I'm going to get out of here. I'll grab a taxi somehow; and then I want to see one of you! Where do I go?'
'You will not go anywhere, Mr McAuliff!' The cold British tones were suddenly loud and harsh. 'Stay right where you are. If there is a light in the booth, smash it. We know your position. We'll pick you up in minutes.'
Alex hung up the receiver. There was no light bulb in the booth, of course. The tribes of Soho had removed it... He tried to think. He hadn't gotten any answers. Only orders. More commands.
It was insane. The last half hour was madness. What was he doing! Why was he in a darkened telephone booth with a bloody face and a torn jacket, trembling and afraid to light a cigarette?
Madness!
There was a man outside the booth, jingling coins in his hand and pointedly shifting his weight from foot to foot in irritation. The command over the telephone had instructed Alex to wait inside, but to do so under the circumstances might cause the man on the pavement to object vocally, drawing attention. He could call someone else, he thought. But who?... Alison? No... He had to think about Alison now, not talk with her.
He was behaving like a terrified child! With terrifying justification, perhaps. He was actually afraid to move, to walk outside a telephone booth and let an