A Spoonful of Luger (2 page)

I
sat
down
at
the
formica
table
and
got
out
my
pipe.
He
was
doing
something
useless
with
the
kettle,
though
I
hadn’t
agreed
to
coffee.

“Why
me?”
I
asked
abruptly.

He
turned,
looking
pathetic.
The
direct
attack
had
caught
him
unawares.
“It’s
something.
Something
to
try.”

“She’s
been
missing
a
week ... ”

“A
week
ago
yesterday,”
he
said
quickly.

“And
the
police
are
on
it.
What
good
d’you
think
I
can
do
on
my
own?”

“It’s
your
sort
of
job.
Missing
persons.”

“I’m
an
enquiry
agent.”

He
blinked.
There
was
a
new
light
in
his
eyes.
“I’m
not
asking
you
to
do
it
for
nothing.”

“I
make
enquiries,
I
question
people,”
I
told
him.
“I
trace
people
who’ve
left
home.
This
is
a
nine
year
old
girl.
She
hasn’t
left
home.
There are
no
enquiries
I
can
make.”

Her
name
was
Dulcie,
I
knew.
Small
for
her
age,
shy,
withdrawn.
From
what
he’d
told
me
on
the
phone
she
might
even
have
been
a
little
retarded.
She
had
gone
to
catch
a
bus,
four
miles
from
home.
But
she
hadn’t
got
off
it.

What
the
hell
did
he
expect
from
me — miracles?

“But
you
can
look
.”

“I
can
look.
I
don’t
want
your
money,
Mr
Randall.
The
police
can
do
all
the
looking
there
is.
They’re
better
equipped
for
this
sort
of
thing.”

He
didn’t
want
to
think
about
the
sort
of
thing
it
was.
“I
don’t
care
what
it
costs.
It’s
not
the
money,
Mr
Coe.”

“Isn’t
it?”

But
it
was
the
money,
and
he
knew
it
as
well
as
I
did.
They
had
to
feel
they
were
hiring
somebody
to
do
something,
if
it
was
only
peer
into
a
few
ditches,
or
roust
out
the
local
perverts.
It
was
sufficient
that
I
was
big
and
bulky
and
on
their
side.
They
were
buying
hope.

But
I
couldn’t
see
any.

I
should
have
told
him
I
didn’t.
It
was
plain
robbery
to
accept
his
money.
I
looked
into
his
frightened
eyes.

“We’d
better
have
a
word
with
your
wife,”
I
said.
Maybe
my
voice
was
rough;
he
looked
away.

She
was
sitting
in
the
living
room,
but
she
could
have
been
anywhere.
This
just
happened
to
be
a
room
with
some
furniture
in
it.
Mrs
Randall
had
one
of
those
hard
faces,
and
boney
hands
that
didn’t
keep
still.
But
I
wasn’t
there
to
read
her
character.
I
sat
down,
because
there
was
no
point
in
waiting
until
somebody
asked
me.
It
was
a
soft
chair,
and
I moved
out
onto
the
edge,
so
as
not
to
look
too
relaxed.
I
was
clear
in
the
centre
of
her
vision,
but
she
didn’t
see
me.
I
glanced
at
Randall,
who
just
shook
his
head.

Maybe
he
was
telling
me
there
was
no
point
in
trying
to
speak
to
her.
If
so,
I
ignored
him.
There’s
only
one
way
to
do
it;
keep
talking
until
you
get
through.
It
took
ten
minutes,
then
she
began
to
come
out
with
some
reasonably
connected
sentences,
and
after
one
or
two
nods
from
me,
and
the
usual
encouraging
sounds,
she
poured
it
out.

I
took
no
notes.
I
don’t
believe
in
it.
For
one
thing,
while
you’re
making
a note
on
one
point
you
miss
the
next.
But
more
important
than
that
—
you
can’t
afford
any
lack
of
attention.
They
have
to
know
you’re
listening.
You’re
there,
your
eyes
on
them.

That
went
on
for
half
an
hour.
Randall
had
lowered
himself
onto
a
pouffe
and
was
watching
me
with
such
intent
faith
that
I
felt
ashamed.
I
got
very
little
out
of
it,
but
that
hadn’t
been
the
point.
I
was
just
being
a
good
listener.

Dulcie
had
visited
a
friend.
She
had
gone
to
a
bus
stop
near
her
friend’s
house,
or
at
least
everybody
assumed
she
had.
It
was
a
circular
route,
along
the
ring
road,
and
the
one
bus
should
have
brought
her
home
before
six.
Just
after
dark.
She
hadn’t
been
seen
since.
I
knew
all
that.
What
I
was
after
was
hints,
ideas,
the
names
of
acquaintances,
gentlemen
friends.