Even Money - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,93
rather creepy,” said Alice.
“In what way was he creepy?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “He just was. And he was wearing his hood up, and a scarf. Now, I reckon you’ve got to be up to no good to be doing that on a night as hot as this.”
“Could you see his eyes?” I asked. “Were they set rather close together?”
“Yes,” said Alice, throwing a hand up in the air almost excitedly. “That’s it. That’s exactly why I thought he was creepy.”
So it had definitely been Shifty-eyes, the man that Paddy Murphy had called Kipper. He had found me at last.
“What are we going to do?” Sophie asked loudly, suddenly becoming scared. “I don’t want him coming back here.” In spite of the warm evening, she shivered.
“It’s all right, my love,” I said, putting a reassuring arm around her shoulders. “I’m sure he won’t come back tonight.”
The doorbell rang, and we all jumped.
“How sure?” Sophie said, looking worried.
“Ignore it,” said Alice. “Then he’ll have to go away.”
We stood silently in the kitchen, listening.
The doorbell rang again, and there were also some heavy thumps on the door.
“I know you’re in there,” shouted a voice from outside. “Open up.”
I went out of the kitchen into the hallway.
“Who is it?” I shouted through the wood of the front door.
“Mr. Talbot,” said the voice. “I think you may have something of mine, and I want it back.”
“What?” I asked.
“A rucksack,” he said. “A black-and-red rucksack.”
“But the rucksack belonged to Alan Grady, not you,” I said quickly without stopping to think first. Dammit, I thought. Why hadn’t I just denied any knowledge of any rucksack? He might then have gone away, but he wouldn’t do so now.
“I’m calling the police,” said Sophie, coming into the hallway. “Do you hear me?” she shouted loudly with a tremor in her voice. “I’m calling the police.”
“There’ll be no need for the police,” said the man calmly through the door. “Just give me the rucksack and I’ll go away.”
“Give him the rucksack,” Sophie said to me imploringly, her panicky eyes as big as saucers. “Please, Ned, just give him the damn rucksack.”
“OK, OK,” I said.
I went to the cupboard under the stairs and fetched it. It was still full of my father’s things.
“Give it to him,” Sophie urged me again, her voice quivering with fear.
I lifted the rucksack and turned to go upstairs with it.
“Where the hell are you going?” Sophie almost screamed at me.
“If you think I’m opening the front door with him there, you must be . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence. “I’m going to throw it to him out the window.”
I went up to our bedroom and opened the same window through which I had witnessed the departure of Mr. John Smith from my house only one week previously.
The man was close to the door, and I couldn’t see him as he was standing under the overhanging porch.
“Here,” I shouted.
He moved back into my sight. He appeared just as I had seen him the first time in the parking lot at Ascot racetrack: blue jeans, charcoal-gray hoodie, with a black scarf over the lower part of his face. I couldn’t tell if he was wearing the same black army boots he had used to split my eyebrow and I wasn’t about to go down there to find out. As before, all I could see were his eyes, set rather too close together for the width of his face.
I held the rucksack out through the open window at arm’s length.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Drop the rucksack,” he said, ignoring my question. He didn’t have a strong regional accent, at least not one I could notice.
“What’s your name?” I repeated.
“Never you mind,” he said. “Just give me the rucksack.”
“How did you find my house?” I asked him.
“A little birdie told me,” he said.
“Which little birdie?”
“Never you mind,” he said again. “Just drop the rucksack.” He held up his arms ready to catch it.
“It’s only full of Mr. Grady’s clothes,” I said. “I’ve searched it. There’s nothing else there.”
“Give it to me anyway,” he said.
“Who are you working for?” I asked.
“What?” he said.
“Who are you working for?” I repeated.
“No one,” he said. “Now, give me the bloody rucksack.”
“Who’s John Smith?” I asked.
In spite of only being able to see his eyes, I could still tell that there was no recognition of the name. He didn’t know a Mr. John Smith, but, then, that wasn’t his real name, now was it?