Case of the Dixie Ghosts. A. A. Glynn
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Dacers managed to lift a knee and jab it into the midst of the dark, combined bulk of his assailants who were forcing him against the damp bricks of the wall.
He ground it into a groin, was rewarded with an anguished, snarling obscenity, and was then pushed against the wall even more forcefully.
Something round and hard was clapped against his temple. Fairfax’s Derringer! he thought.
“You goddam nosy Limey!” growled a voice almost in his ear. “What are you snoopin’ around for? Our business is none of your concern. I’ve a mighty notion to blow your interferin’ brains out.” There was something slightly crazed about the voice, as if the man was on the edge of hysteria. Then the weapon was pressed harder against Dacers’ temple. “By God, I will. I’ll blow a hole in your head and toss your corpse into the river,”
“Go easy, Cal,” cautioned the second man. “Don’t go off your head again. If you shoot and he’s a copper, all hell will be let loose. All our plans could be jimmied.”
“What the hell do we care? Tomorrow, we’ll be in Cardsworth, seein’ this Vaillant lord or knight or whatever damn fool Limey title he has. You know what they say about the Thames, Sometimes bodies are never found and, anyway, we’ll be well clear of London in a couple of weeks.”
“Hush up! You’re blabbin’ too much,” said his companion firmly. “You know damned well Fortune warned you against that time and again.”
When Fairfax spoke of firing, Dacers had almost automatically stopped struggling, frozen under the ominous threat of the firearm clapped against his temple. He began again to wriggle and shove against the combined weight of his assailants, taking advantage of what appeared to be divided opinion between the two, which was staying Fairfax’s trigger finger. He noticed that the marked edge of hysteria in Fairfax’s voice had intensified and he memorised the names he had mentioned: somewhere called Cardsworth, someone with a title named Vaillant, and someone called Fortune.
“Quit squirming, goddam you!” exploded Fairfax. “Quit squirming while I put a bullet into your brain.”
“No, Cal!” objected the other. “I keep telling you: shoot him and, if he’s a copper, it’ll raise holy hell and Fortune will pull the guts out of you if our operation is ruined!”
Even in the midst of the physical struggle and with the swirling turmoil of his senses, Dacers felt there was something different about this man. Seeming to be as much a ruffian as his companion, he nevertheless gave the impression of having to constantly impart some common sense into Fairfax, as if he was frightened of his companion going too far in his strongarm actions.
The pressure of the pistol was lifted from Dacers’ head and Fairfax said: “All right, we’ve been hanging around here for too long, and the place is too damned public. I’m knocking him cold and slinging him in the river. He can take his chances there.”
There was a sharp cry of objection from the other man, which was cut short for Dacers as something crashed down on the crown of his head. As his consciousness reeled then sank into a black gulf, he tried to ensure he remembered the names he had heard: Cardsworth and Vaillant and there was a third one—Fortune.
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