Then he sneezed.
It was a real, natural, unrehearsed sneeze.
And just as naturally his hand moved into his pocket in search of his handkerchief.
It came out with the gun.
He shot the oldest first. The other man fired from under the table, but Matlock had not stopped moving, and accurate aim from such an angle was impossible.
Matlock shot him in the chest. It was easier than the head. He fell forward over the table and his cards slipped out of his hand.
He had two pairs, Aces, nines, with a Jack.
Andrews hadn’t moved. Matlock blew a hole through his head then realized this made two.
Turning round he looked across the broken body of the Inspector to where Brother Francis stood in the open bathroom door. He found himself grinning foolishly like a schoolboy expecting congratulation, but Francis had no time for that. In two leaps he was across the room and flat against the wall behind the main door which burst open to let in the two outside guards. Matlock loosed one vague shot at them and fell sideways through the kitchen door as they ran across the room towards him, firing as they came. He scrabbled over the tiled floor, trying to squeeze himself behind the fridge but even as he regained his feet and turned, the door flew open behind him and a uniformed figure, gun smoking in his hand, stood looking down at him.
He brought his own gun up, but the other just shook his head and said, “Come along, Mr. Matlock.”
“Francis.”
He stood up straight.
“I feel like a cup of coffee now.”
“No time for bravado. Let’s be on our way.”
His living-room was not the shambles he expected; only the bodies were untidy. And even they didn’t stop the comfortable familiarity of the room pulling him more strongly than the sinister rectangle of space revealed by the open door.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be coming back here.”
It wasn’t a question, but Francis paused momentarily as he hustled him to the door.
“If there’s something you want, get it quick.”
Matlock looked around. He had had this flat for over twenty years. He had lived in it longer than any other place except his parents’ house. Perhaps longer than that. He’d have to work it out. Everything he owned was here, somewhere.
“Nothing,” he said. “I want nothing.”
If he thought this gesture of finality would impress Francis, he was quickly disenchanted.
“Right. Out you go.”
He was thrust into the corridor before he had time for a sentimental last glance.
Francis pulled the door shut behind them.
“I don’t know what kind of reporting system they’ve got, but you can be certain it’ll be pretty regular.”
“Every half hour,” answered Matlock. He wasn’t sure where he’d picked up the information, or whether by eavesdropping or observation, but it was there.
Francis glanced at him approvingly, and said, “For Godsake put that bloody thing away.”
Surprised, Matlock realized he was waving his handgun around like the hero of an old gangster film. He slipped it into his pocket.
“What about yours?”
“Once we’re out of here, you’re an age-offender I’ve just picked up. I’m taking you in. You’re not happy.”
“I’m not happy.”
They emerged into the sunlit street without meeting anyone. Matlock was full of questions, but he knew his slender chance of escape lay in Francis’ hands and he had no intention of disturbing the monk’s concentration.
Once out in the open, Francis abandoned the care and caution with which he had moved in the building and strode along with all the ebullient confidence of his assumed kind. Matlock found himself being pushed and prodded almost into a trot to keep just ahead. Once he stumbled and nearly fell and turned instinctively to expostulate. But before he could speak, Francis’ pistol-barrel rapped him lightly but painfully along his jawbone.
“Move,” he said.
Matlock moved, though he felt for a moment that Francis was overdoing it.
Only for a moment.
Out of the mouth of a shop doorway right in front of them stepped two more policemen.
Francis jerked Matlock to a halt. The two policemen studied them carefully, unemotionally.
“Trouble?” said one of them finally.
Francis laughed.
“Not much. Grandpa here doesn’t want his clock rewound. That’s all.”
“I see. He’s got another day, you know.”
Matlock looked at the man in surprise. But a glance into the expressionless face and hard black eyes assured him that this was no unexpected humanitarian, but merely a believer in the rule-book.
“In another day, this one would be over the hills and far away. Only he’s got relations who don’t fancy a sudden drop in their E.O.L. if the old devil made it.”
Francis laughed again. Again there was no response from the other two, but the one doing the talking seemed to relax slightly and his next words were more reassuring.
“The old trouble. But it helps us. Be careful how you go. There’s a smell of trouble in the air. And this is an especially controlled area for some reason.”
“Right, thanks. We’ll be on our way.”
As they talked, Matlock from under lowering brows had been watching the other, the silent one. He had taken a step to the side, as if to let Francis past. But his eyes had been moving systematically over every square inch of Francis’ uniform since the start of the encounter.
The monk prodded Matlock forward again. Matlock stumbled and collapsed to one knee. As he rose, he turned with his gun in his hand and shot the silent man whose own weapon was half out of its holster. Then he kept on turning, the gun-barrel moved past Francis’ bulk, and he sent his second shot an inch past the monk’s belly into the black-eyed policeman who had had time for nothing other than to register amazement.
“What the devil did you do that for?” cried Francis kicking aside the body which had collapsed over his feet.
“You should be more careful where you get your uniforms made,” said Matlock. “Your shoulder number is the same as his.”
He pointed at the silent one, silent now forever. Francis nodded appreciatively.
“Thanks. Now we must really move.”
There was no one else in sight, but there must have been witnesses. Matlock peered into the shop outside which they stood and was sure he saw a movement in its dark depths.
Then they were running, down the street. Shoulder to shoulder, partly because Matlock didn’t know where they were going and partly because he had no desire to run ahead and be shot down as a fugitive by some disinterested passer-by. Partly also, of course, because after a couple of hundred yards his legs felt as strong as pipe-cleaners and only Francis’ steadying hand between his shoulders kept him going.
He thought with mocking irony of his own prideful posturing in front of the mirror with Lizzie the morning before. He was as good as you could expect at nearly seventy, but that didn’t qualify him for the Olympic Games, even if they hadn’t stopped the Olympic Games fifteen years earlier.
“For Godsake, Francis,” he gasped, “slow down!”
“Not far now,” grunted the other, increasing his pressure on Matlock’s back.
But Matlock was too experienced to put much faith in such vague encouragement.
He stopped dead and held Francis back by main force while he sucked in two great breaths. Slightly recovered, he leaned against the wall of the anonymous sky-scraper block they were passing and said, “Look, Francis, do you know where we’re going?”
There was only a second’s hesitation, but it was enough for Matlock.
“So we don’t know?”
“Well, yes and no. I know where I want to be, but as things have turned out, I don’t think we’ll have time to get there.”