Comes the Dark Stranger by Jack Higgins Page A

inside his head and he gave a cry of agony and staggered on.
    He was aware of a figure looming out of the fog on his left and an outstretched foot that sent him crashing headlong to the pavement. He rolled, avoiding a kick aimed at his head and scrambled to his feet, a killing rage erupting inside him. This was something tangible, something he could fight.
    He caught a glimpse of a hard, cruel face and cold eyes above the flattened nose of a prize-fighter and ducked as a fist grazed his cheek. He lifted his foot into his assailant’s stomach, and the man cried out in agony and doubled over.
    He fell back against the wall and Shane grabbed hold of the front of his coat and smashed him against the brickwork. ‘Who sent you?’ he cried savagely.
    The man was struggling for breath, eyes rolling horribly. ‘It was Wilby,’ he croaked. ‘Joe Wilby. He promised me a fiver if I worked you over.’
    Shane gave him a push that sent him staggering headlong into the fog, and turned towards the hotel. Wilby could wait. There was something more important to attend to at the moment.
    The stairs up to his room seemed to go on for ever, and for a moment he thought he wasn’t going to make it. As he opened the door, the pain was so bad that he thought his head was going to burst, and he rushed into the bathroom and grabbed for the bottle of pills. He crammed four into his mouth and swallowed some water.
    He moved back into the room towards the bed. As he reached it, coloured lights started to explode in his head and a great pool of inky darkness moved in on him and he plunged into it.

7
    I t was completely dark when he awoke, and for several minutes he lay on the bed, staring into space and wondering where he was. After a while something clicked inside and he remembered.
    He swung his legs to the floor and switched on the bedside lamp. When he glanced at his watch he found to his surprise that it was only six-thirty. He had slept for a little over an hour, and yet he felt curiously refreshed and his headache had gone completely.
    He was still wearing his damp trench-coat, and he peeled it off and went into the bathroom. As he ran hot water into the basin, he examined his face in the mirror. There was a slight bruise on his right cheek where his attacker had grazed him with a fist. He touched it gently with a finger, wincing slightly at the pain, and he thought about Joe Wilby and was suddenly angry.
    He washed his face quickly and changed into a clean shirt. Five minutes later he left his room and went downstairs. Outside the fog was thicker than ever and a steady drizzle was falling. He pulled his collar up around his neck and walked rapidly through the centre of the town.
    The Garland Club was in St Michael’s Square, a quiet backwater near the town hall. Its gracious Georgian houses seemed to be mainly occupied as offices by solicitors and other professional men. The Garland Club looked slightly out of character with its neon light and striped awning.
    The square was almost deserted, and when Shane mounted the steps to the glass door he found it locked. Inside, a man in red uniform trousers and shirt sleeves was busily mopping the tiled floor, and he came to the door and unlocked it, a look of exasperation on his face.
    ‘Sorry, sir. We don’t open until eight.’
    Shane stuck his foot quickly in the door. ‘I’m not a customer,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Mr Steele.’
    The man frowned. ‘You’re wasting your time. He never comes in before nine.’
    ‘Where can I find him?’ Shane persisted. ‘It’s rather urgent. Will he be at home?’
    The man shook his head. ‘He’s usually at his other place at this time. Club Eight it’s called.’ Shane pulled his foot away, and the man locked the door and went back to his work.
    Shane went into a telephone box and looked the club up in the directory. It was about a mile away on the fringe of the town centre, and he decided to walk.
    The entrance was in a seedy street with a