let them do some explaining - and especialy after they'd broken into the store for no apparent reason ...
Harry took the Mobius route to the East End, and stepped from his door into a thin, penetrating drizzle that filed the night with its misery and turned the cobbles to gleaming jet. Turning up his colar, Harry walked a quarter-mile to the run-down district where the garage was located, and from a nearby street looked the place over. The garage was prety much as Harry had heard it described.
Its supports and upper floors formed a concrete skeleton six storeys high; the sections making up the outer safety wals had been knocked out, so that the floors were like vast lintels supported on giant steel and concrete stanchions. In silhouete against the night sky, the place might be a towering 20th Century Stonehenge, or some surrealist sculptor's 'Ziggurat.'
Below, at ground level, the ramps at Harry's end of the mainly derelict building had been removed, the entrance bricked up. But enclosed behind an eight-foot-high brick wal, a maintenance yard extended a further sixty feet or so beyond the end of the main structure. Ensuring that he wasn't observed, Harry made a quick Mobius jump into the yard to have a look ...
... And retreated in double quick time when he discovered warehouse doors standing open at the end of the main building, emiting a blaze of electric light and the sounds of human and mechanized activity. Also, the yard was ful of quality motors; he'd seen a handful of Porsches, even a Lotus! Obviously the people in the garage were working overtime, and the Necroscope knew what they were working on. He only hoped they wouldn't be working too late, and that Trevor Jordan wasn't going to take al night geting here.
For if the 'werewolf were on duty, sooner or later he'd be bound to discover Harry lurking out here, which could only result in complications. But Sir Keenan Gormley had advised to fight fire with fire, and Harry's answer to his unknown adversary's telepathy was Trevor Jordan's. Maybe Jordan could block the other out, giving the Necroscope the edge he needed. Which wasn't to say that Harry didn't already have an edge; he had a good many edges, and sharp ones at that, but he'd seen through the eyes of dead men what he was up against.
His plan was a simple one:
Get into the garage, check out some plates, engine block numbers and what have you, get out again and report the entire operation to the police. The Branch could pass on the information about the crazy wolfman, the murders he'd commited. And if there wasn't enough real, living evidence against that one ... maybe Harry could think up some other way to settle the score. Maybe even to the point where he'd offer himself up as bait.
But the law is the law; despite that the Necroscope might occasionally seem scathing of red-tape officialdom, he wouldn't be playing the part of executioner just for the sake of it. He knew that the murdered men, especially Jim Banks and the other policemen, wouldn't want it that way. Well, not if it could be avoided. But if it couldn't -
- In that case, if there were no other way, then Sir Keenan Gormley's law would apply. Then it would have to be Harry's way. An eye for an eye ...
Right now, however, deciding that his lone figure was too obvious standing there in the blurry, watered-down light of the street lamps, Harry made his way to an alley on the far side of the road and stepped into its shadows. No sooner had he done so than he realized that he hadn't been alone in what he'd thought was an empty street. Looking out into the night, he saw a figure, female, walking in his direction but on the other side of the road, in the lee of the garage wall.
Despite that she wore flat black shoes, she looked tall and lithe. Her gloves were black, too, as was her trouser-suit.
Her hair was tied back in a pony-tail, and her manner was carefree as she swung a fancy black shopping bag, for all the world as if she were just returning from a jaunt to some fashionable outfitters for that special little item - and to hell with the rain! Harry couldn't quite make out her features but found himself wishing that he could, for he felt sure she'd be a looker