The Red Door

Rutledge could have laughed. Instead he said quietly, “I won’t give you my watch. It was my father’s. But you can have whatever money you may find in my pockets.”

The point of the knife dug deeper, and he could feel it pulling at his shirt.

The man said, a nervous anxiety in his voice, “I’ve told you—!”

And nerves could lead to a killing.

Rutledge didn’t respond for a moment. Then, without changing his tone, he said, “I saw a constable on the far side of the bridge. He’ll be here soon.”

“You’re lying. He turned the other way.”

Hamish said, “ ’Ware. He’s verra’ young.”

That too could be unpredictable and deadly.

Rutledge said, “You don’t want to commit a murder. Take the money I’ve offered. Left pocket. I won’t stop you. What’s your name?”

“I’ll kill you. See if I don’t.” He pushed hard on the knife, piercing the skin, and Rutledge could feel a trickle of blood slowly making its way down his back.

“It makes no difference to me if you do. I was in the war, my lad, and I’m not afraid of dying. But I won’t give you my watch. I’ll throw it in the river first. You must take my word on that.”

He could smell the fear on the man behind him and listened for sounds of traffic turning into the bridge road. “What are you called?”

There was a brief hesitation. Then, “Billy.”

Rutledge doubted that it was, but the name would do.

Hamish warned, “Have a care. There’s no one about.”

Even as he spoke the words, Big Ben behind them struck one.

Trying to reason with his assailant, Rutledge said, “You don’t want to do this, Billy. I’ll help you find work, if that’s the problem. I give you my word.” There was a distant splash. “My watch is next,” he commented, taking advantage of the sound. “I won’t turn you over to the police if you give me the knife now.”

He could feel the boy’s uncertainty in the pressure brought to bear on the blade against his back. He could feel too the twisting of the boy’s body to look up and then down the bridge for witnesses. And then the pressure increased.

The time had come.

Before his attacker could shift his weight and drive the knife home, Rutledge wheeled and caught Billy’s free arm in an iron grip, twisting it behind him in a single move. His other hand reached for the knife. Startled, the boy cried out, and Rutledge misjudged the swift reflexes of the young.

The knife flashed as it swung wildly in the direction of Rutledge’s face. Before he could force it away and down, it sliced through his coat and into his right arm as Billy fought with the strength of fear.

Rutledge swore and ruthlessly pinned his assailant against the parapet, knocking the wind out of him for an instant as his fingers bit into the wrist of the hand with the knife. It flexed, and all at once the knife spun in the air, catching the lamplight before it clattered on the pavement. Rutledge managed to kick it out of reach, then concentrated on subduing the boy, gradually forcing his body backward until the fight went out of him.

He was just reaching for the cap that half covered Billy’s face when he heard a constable’s whistle and the heavy thud of his regulation boots as he came pounding over the crest of the bridge.

Startled, Rutledge sent the cap flying into the darkness.

“Here, now!” the constable exclaimed as he got closer and took in the two men, a knife lying some two yards away. From his vantage point, Rutledge appeared to be the aggressor, and Rutledge’s attacker took swift advantage of it.

He screamed, “Don’t let him hurt me—he’s trying to kill me. Help me—”

The constable was there, catching at Rutledge’s shoulder, hauling him away from his victim, and for the first time Rutledge glimpsed the flushed and frightened face of a boy who looked eighteen or nineteen but for all his size must be no more than sixteen.

And then as the constable’s fist closed over Rutledge’s bleeding arm, his fingers just as quickly opened again.

“What’s this, then?” the constable demanded, stepping back. He was thin and middle-aged, an imposing figure with the light reflecting from the crown of his helmet, giving the impression he was taller than he was. “Is that your knife, or his?” he asked the boy.

In that split second of hesitation, Billy wriggled free of Rutledge’s grip and set off over the bridge, his feet flying. The constable looked from him to Rutledge, and Rutledge said rapidly, “I’m Scotland Yard. Rutledge, Inspector. Go after him, man.”

But it was too late. By the time the constable had collected himself and pelted after the suspect, he had turned at the bridge abutment and was lost in the darkness on the far side of the river.

The constable came back, breathing hard, to meet Rutledge halfway. “I’m sorry, sir—”

“So am I. His next victim might not be as lucky.” He gave the constable a description of the boy, including the false name, and added, “He’s frightened enough to be dangerous.”

“I didn’t get a close look at him,” the constable admitted. “But I’ll see word is passed on.” He gestured to Rutledge’s arm. “You’d best have that seen to, sir.”