Murder by the Book by Eric Brown Page B

of streets from the agency, his vision swimming. He pushed himself from the driving seat and staggered across the pavement. As he weaved his way west, he wondered why he was doing this … and then came to some understanding. Maria. He wanted to see Maria.
    Or did he want her to see him?
    What seemed like an hour later the glossy black door of the agency came into view, and with a last, supreme effort he climbed the steps, barged through the door and staggered up the stairs to the outer office.
    When he pushed through the door and collapsed on to the floor, Maria screamed and ran around the desk. The last thing he recalled before passing out was the sight of her stockinged calves and her small hand as she reached out to touch his cheek.
    When he came to his senses he was lying in bed in Charles’s apartment, with a bandage around his head. Charles and Maria sat beside the bed, watching him.
    Charles was gripping his hand. ‘My dear boy! I knew it, I knew! I should never have let you go. I curse myself for being such an abject, pusillanimous fool!’
    Langham attempted a smile and squeezed Charles’s hand.
    Maria said, ‘We called a doctor, Donald. He stitched your head and said you must rest. You will be fine, but you must rest!’
    Langham looked from Maria to Charles, who said, ‘I’ve told Maria everything, Donald. The whole sorry story.’ He looked abject.
    Langham whispered, ‘The delivery … it was worth it.’
    â€˜Worth it? But my boy, the beastly man almost killed you!’
    Langham recalled the gun to his head and wondered if the blackmailer had really been about to pull the trigger.
    â€˜Worth it,’ he managed, ‘because I learned two … two very important things. One, the blackmailer … he rides a motorbike, and he smokes … smokes Camel cigarettes.’
    He drifted towards sleep, feeling more than wonderful, and the last thing he saw was Maria’s pretty face staring down at him, her bottom lip nipped in concern between brilliant white teeth.

FIVE
    T he newsroom of the Daily Herald was a maelstrom of noise and activity. Fifty typewriters set up a deafening cacophony of clacking keys and harried journalists called back and forth through a fug of cigarette smoke.
    Langham sat on a swivel chair across the desk from Dick Grenville, filled his pipe from his tin of Capstan’s Navy Cut and listened to the review editor’s predictable monthly tirade against the standard of publishing in general and the woefulness of crime writing in particular. It was the price Langham paid for being the Herald ’s resident crime fiction reviewer.
    â€˜I mean, some of the stuff they put out these days. … Listen to this.’ Grenville snatched a hardback from a tottering pile on the desk, opened it and read the description on the front flap. ‘Another adventure featuring Tommy and Suzie Rogers – not forgetting their canine accomplice Bonzo – sees the intrepid trio thwart the evil doings of international jewel thieves. The fun begins when Bonzo …’ He snapped the book shut in disgust. ‘Need I go on? How does this drivel see the light of day?’
    Grenville sat back in his chair and glared at Langham as if he were solely responsible for the dire state of the genre. The editor resembled less a literary type than an officious town clerk, with his high, starched collar and impeccably snipped toothbrush moustache.
    Langham gestured with his pipe. ‘I’ll give that one a miss.’ He pulled the pile of hardbacks from the desk and sorted through them.
    Grenville said, ‘Why not cover it, Langham? Give it the pasting it deserves.’ Grenville paused, then said, ‘And if you don’t mind my saying, I think you’ve been rather kind of late. I recall your pieces from years ago, when you had real teeth. If something was bad, you said so. These days you dismiss a shocker with a few bland