Even Money - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,52

the darkness he wouldn’t have spotted the underused carpet. But I knew that the step always creaked as weight was applied and also creaked again as weight was removed.

I stood absolutely stock-still beside my wardrobe, listening. I was holding my breath, and I could begin to hear the blood rushing in my ears. There had definitely been only one creak. The intruder had stopped on the stairs in midclimb and was, no doubt, listening for any movement from me as hard as I was from him.

I had to breathe.

I decided to snort through my nose like a pig. I snored loudly, and then exhaled in a long rasping wheeze. I snored once more, and, quite clearly, I heard the third step creak again as my nocturnal visitor removed his weight from it. I assumed he was still on the way up, not going back down. I snored a third time, then grunted as if turning over in bed.

The wardrobe was behind my bedroom door.

I flattened myself against the wall and stared at the door handle, which was a brass lever with a small scroll on the end. My heart was thumping so hard in my chest that I was sure it must be audible out on the landing.

The handle began to depress, and my heart almost went into palpitations. Slowly the door opened towards me.

Attack had to be the best form of defense.

When the door was about halfway open, I threw myself against it with all the force I could muster, attempting to slam it shut again. But the door didn’t fully close because my visitor’s right arm was preventing it. I could clearly see his gloved hand and his wrist protruding into my bedroom. There was a gratifying groan from its owner each time I pushed against the door, repeatedly throwing my weight against the wood.

“You’ve broken my bloody arm!” he shouted.

Good, I thought. Pity I hadn’t torn it off completely.

“What do you want?” I shouted back through the door, still refusing to ease up the pressure to release his arm.

“Sod off,” he shouted back. “I’m going to kill you, you bastard.”

Not if I had any say in the matter, he wasn’t.

I put my right foot down on the floor to stop the door from opening, leaned back and then threw my whole weight against it once more.

This time, he didn’t just groan, he screamed.

So I repeated it. He screamed again.

“What do you want?” I shouted again.

“I want to break your fucking neck,” he said back to me through the door, sounding very close indeed.

I pressed again, the door squeezing against his damaged arm.

“And what exactly are you looking for?” I said.

“The microcoder,” he said

“What’s that?”

“It’s a microcoder,” he repeated unhelpfully.

“What does it look like?” I asked.

“A flat black box with buttons on it,” he said. “Give me the microcoder and I’ll go away.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands,” I said, pushing hard on the door. “What does this microcoder do?”

Instead of answering, he threw his weight against his side of the door to try to open it, but my foot was still preventing that. However, the wood bent sufficiently enough for him to extract his arm. The door slammed shut.

My advantage, it seemed, was over, but I still couldn’t hear him going down the stairs.

“What does the microcoder do?” I repeated, shouting through the door.

“Never you mind,” he said, still sounding very close. “Just give it back.”

“I haven’t got it,” I said.

“I think you have.”

“Is it yours?” I asked.

“Your father stole it,” he said. “And I want it back.”

“Was that why you murdered him?” I asked.

“I didn’t murder anyone,” he said. “But I could murder you, you bastard. I’m in agony here.”

“Serves you right,” I said. “You shouldn’t come snooping round other people’s houses uninvited.”

“It doesn’t give you the right to break my arm,” he whined.

“I think you’ll find it does,” I said. “Now, get out of my house and stay out.”

“Not without the microcoder,” he said.

“I told you, I haven’t got it.”

“Yes, you bloody have,” he said with a degree of certainty. “You must have it. Where else would it be?”

We didn’t seem to be making any progress.

I hooked my left foot around Sophie’s dressing-table chair and pulled it towards me. I then placed the back of the chair tight under the door handle. I should have done that at first, I thought. There was absolutely no way I was going to open my bedroom door while he remained in my house, so