The Great Ellini (Book One of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Eighteen: Bachelor Clutter

He was just amusing himself with the image of a ghoul lurching about in chains in the attic, when he heard Sam's distinctive, heavy tread in the hall—followed by a pause which probably meant he had realized he wasn't alone in the apartment.

Jack smiled as he heard the slight scrape which meant he'd lifted the gun off the hall table, and continued to read, even though he'd found what he was looking for a long time ago. He flicked back to the first page, where there was a brief biography of the author. Fabienne Desault was such an exciting name...

The door to the living room banged open, but Jack didn't look up. He knew exactly what he'd see.

There was a short, fuming silence, and then Sam said, "Why didn't you turn the lamp on?"

Jack shrugged and looked up, pretending not to notice the gun. "I don't need it. I've got excellent night vision. It comes of being descended from the damned."

There was another clanking thud from the room above. It seemed that none of the other neighbours could hear it, though, because they continued their snoring, screaming, and arguing unabated.

"You know, this is incredible," said Jack, shutting the book with a snap. "Do they go on like this all night? Is that why you're always in such a bad mood—because your neighbours keep you awake with inexplicable noises? Do you think we should notify the authorities about that baby?"

Sam tapped the gun absent-mindedly against his leg, as though he was fighting the temptation to raise it again. "I nearly shot you," he said, a little wistfully. "Even after I realized who you were."

Jack tried hard to suppress a smile. He wanted to say, 'No you didn't. That gun is never loaded. You keep the bullets in a locked drawer at your office, because that Lily woman's death hurt you so much, you never want to be responsible for another one, ever. You rely on the sight of the gun to keep miscreants in line. It would never have worked on me. I know a killer when I see one.'

But he didn't say this, because he never wanted Sam—or Sergei, or Alice, or any of them—to find out how much he knew about them. He only noted their weaknesses out of habit. He was retired now, and he liked them. But revealing how much he knew still felt like playing his hand too soon. His hand was completely useless, but he still wanted to keep it close to his chest, because it helped him stay sane—in this world of bright lights and mind-numbing civilities—to know he had an advantage.

So, instead, he said, "I'm flattered. When you've been a terrifying General, and you're now a shut-in who takes pills for a living, you learn to appreciate it if anybody considers you a threat."

"I don't consider you a threat, I consider you an annoyance," Sam snapped. "Did you break into my rooms?"

"Mrs Pirbright let me in," said Jack in an injured tone, waving the remains of the Chelsea bun as substantiating evidence. "But even if I had—because the latch on the door is feeble beyond description—it would still be a friendly act. You need to be kept on your toes. All those people doing what you say, agreeing with you, running to carry out your orders—it's not good for you. It breeds complacency. Trust me."

"What," said Sam, emphasizing each word very carefully, "do you want?"

Having reached the limit of what Sam would tolerate without attempting to throw him out of the window, Jack relented. "Did you know that a whole chapter has been cut out of your copy of Helen of Camden?"

Sam heaved his massive shoulders into a shrug. "So?"

"You didn't think that was odd? You're a policeman!"

"I'm the one who gave the ex-convicts jobs in the public libraries," Sam protested. "I can hardly complain when they start damaging books, can I?"

"Would you be interested to know that exactly the same chapter has been cut out of my copy? And that one comes from a library that Alice Darwin guards like a rabid she-wolf."