do the dirty work. They expect us to dothat. “Look,” he yelled. “You pay me or I’ll take stuff to sell. That,” he said, looking around, “means I’ll take it all. The TV, the fire, the cutlery …” He broke off, thinking. Snatching up a knife he examined it. It was black with tarnish and he doubted if it would have cut butter.
“That’s a fish knife,” said Clancy. “They’re all fish knives, forks too. Real silver. I had ’em for a wedding present,” he said, “forty years ago now.” His eyes grew cunning. “They’re worth a lot,” he said. “Twice what I owe. You take them and give me the balance in cash.”
An optimist, thought Preston. Well, you can’t blame him for trying. He filled out a form and held the pad to the old man. “I’ll take them in settlement of your debt,” he said. “Is that all right with you?”
“What about the cash difference?”
“No cash. I’ll sell them and you can collect anything over by applying to the office within seven days.” He wouldn’t of course, none of them ever did. “If you agree sign and press your thumb on that square.” He tore off the bottom copy and gave it to the old man. Clancy took it.
“Is this all I get?”
“Yes,” said Preston. “That’s all.”
Outside in the street Preston felt the familiar weight of defeat. The knives and forks were probably only worth a score when brand, shining new. He’d be lucky to get a third of that. He’d bought the debt for a quarter-value. Less than two units profit, he thought. How not to get rich fast!
It was close to dusk. He was tired and decided to call it a day. He heard the ring of the phone as he reached his utiliflat, hurrying when he realized that perhaps his father would still be out. The place smelt of coffee, soy bean soup and stale cigarlet smoke. He snatched up the phone, listened, slowly put it down.
Efficient, he thought dully. That’s one thing about the municipal authorities you can’t complain about. They were damned efficient — especially when it came to demanding the charge for ambulance and crematorial services.
He’s dead, he told himself. My father, dead. I’ll never see him again. We’ll never make plans for the future because now, for him, there is no future. Killed in the street, picked up, cremated immediately because they simply haven’t the room to hold a corpse longer than they have to. And they send me the news with the bill.
Suddenly he was sick of it, the whole stinking mess. I’m wasting my life, he thought. The only bit of decent living I’ve ever known was at the schloss and that didn’t last. Damn the Kaltich, he thought with sudden fury. They killed him. Doubling the charges like that. If they hadn’t he would still be here, alive, not ashes in a sewer.
He looked down, found the phone book, searched for a number. Impatiently he punched it out.
He heard the click of an answering machine.
“Miss Thorenson is not at home but you may record any message you wish to leave. Miss Thorenson is not at home but —”
“This is Martin Preston,” he said curtly. “I’ve changed my mind.”
SIX
Hilda Thorenson had more than beautiful hands. Nude, she displayed the idealised figure of a Scandinavian statue. She dived and swam with the speed and grace of a porpoise. Three times Preston tried to catch her and each time she left him standing. Finally they left the pool and sat basking in the sun.
“I’m not going to ask you why you changed your mind,” she said. “That’s your business. But this isn’t a game and you could get yourself killed. You realise that?”
“I’ve had three days to think about it,” he said dryly.
“I’m sorry but … busy, busy, busy. A surgeon’s work is never done.”
Just as well, he thought. Hilda Thorenson lived in the penthouse of an apartment building standing in the most fashionable part of town. It had fifteen rooms, a sauna bath and a private theatre. Outside were a garden, barbecue pit and
“That’s a fish knife,” said Clancy. “They’re all fish knives, forks too. Real silver. I had ’em for a wedding present,” he said, “forty years ago now.” His eyes grew cunning. “They’re worth a lot,” he said. “Twice what I owe. You take them and give me the balance in cash.”
An optimist, thought Preston. Well, you can’t blame him for trying. He filled out a form and held the pad to the old man. “I’ll take them in settlement of your debt,” he said. “Is that all right with you?”
“What about the cash difference?”
“No cash. I’ll sell them and you can collect anything over by applying to the office within seven days.” He wouldn’t of course, none of them ever did. “If you agree sign and press your thumb on that square.” He tore off the bottom copy and gave it to the old man. Clancy took it.
“Is this all I get?”
“Yes,” said Preston. “That’s all.”
Outside in the street Preston felt the familiar weight of defeat. The knives and forks were probably only worth a score when brand, shining new. He’d be lucky to get a third of that. He’d bought the debt for a quarter-value. Less than two units profit, he thought. How not to get rich fast!
It was close to dusk. He was tired and decided to call it a day. He heard the ring of the phone as he reached his utiliflat, hurrying when he realized that perhaps his father would still be out. The place smelt of coffee, soy bean soup and stale cigarlet smoke. He snatched up the phone, listened, slowly put it down.
Efficient, he thought dully. That’s one thing about the municipal authorities you can’t complain about. They were damned efficient — especially when it came to demanding the charge for ambulance and crematorial services.
He’s dead, he told himself. My father, dead. I’ll never see him again. We’ll never make plans for the future because now, for him, there is no future. Killed in the street, picked up, cremated immediately because they simply haven’t the room to hold a corpse longer than they have to. And they send me the news with the bill.
Suddenly he was sick of it, the whole stinking mess. I’m wasting my life, he thought. The only bit of decent living I’ve ever known was at the schloss and that didn’t last. Damn the Kaltich, he thought with sudden fury. They killed him. Doubling the charges like that. If they hadn’t he would still be here, alive, not ashes in a sewer.
He looked down, found the phone book, searched for a number. Impatiently he punched it out.
He heard the click of an answering machine.
“Miss Thorenson is not at home but you may record any message you wish to leave. Miss Thorenson is not at home but —”
“This is Martin Preston,” he said curtly. “I’ve changed my mind.”
SIX
Hilda Thorenson had more than beautiful hands. Nude, she displayed the idealised figure of a Scandinavian statue. She dived and swam with the speed and grace of a porpoise. Three times Preston tried to catch her and each time she left him standing. Finally they left the pool and sat basking in the sun.
“I’m not going to ask you why you changed your mind,” she said. “That’s your business. But this isn’t a game and you could get yourself killed. You realise that?”
“I’ve had three days to think about it,” he said dryly.
“I’m sorry but … busy, busy, busy. A surgeon’s work is never done.”
Just as well, he thought. Hilda Thorenson lived in the penthouse of an apartment building standing in the most fashionable part of town. It had fifteen rooms, a sauna bath and a private theatre. Outside were a garden, barbecue pit and
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