Part 6 (1/2)
The turmoil s.h.i.+fted toward an alley, the crowd chasing a desperate shadow. Someone swung a club and barely missed the fugitive's head.
Ryan charged after them. Sensing someone next to him, he glanced that way and reacted with amazement.
”Becker?”
WEARING A CLEAN UNIFORM, Becker kept pace with Ryan despite the tightness of the st.i.tches and bandages under his clothes. ”I came back as soon as I could.”
”You should be resting.”
”And miss the chance for you to teach me?”
Ahead, the mob surged into the alley.
”He found a broken bottle!” someone screamed. ”My eyes! He slashed my eyes! G.o.d help me, I can't see!”
More people squeezed into the alley.
”I can't breathe!” someone moaned.
Ryan strained to pull them away.
Becker did the same. Fifteen years younger than Ryan, taller, with broader shoulders, he yanked men out of the alley, throwing them onto the cobblestones.
The odor of alcohol was overwhelming.
”Move!” Ryan ordered.
But the mob was like a wall.
To the left, Ryan saw light through an open door, a heavy woman gaping out.
”There!” he told Becker.
They rushed past the woman and found themselves in one of the many taverns in the area. Charging past benches and a counter, they entered a corridor and reached a storage room on the right.
”The window!” Ryan yelled.
Becker ran around beer kegs and tugged up the window. Outside, the noise of shouts and curses was overwhelming. Ryan brought a lantern to the window, piercing the outside gloom enough to reveal the fugitive swinging a broken bottle at the mob. Faces were bleeding. In fright, the pursuers now strained desperately to retreat from the broken bottle, colliding with those behind them.
Becker's long arms stretched through the window and seized the fugitive's shoulders, pulling him inside. Out there, two men grabbed the fugitive's legs.
The fugitive screamed as if he were being torn apart.
Ryan set the lantern on a table and grabbed a broom from a corner. With the pointed end, he thrust out the window toward the men clutching the fugitive's legs. He aimed toward their chins, jabbing, striking so hard that a man cried out and grabbed his face. Ryan lunged the broom at the other face, and with a wail, the men out there released the fugitive's legs.
Suddenly freed from resistance, Becker lurched backward, pulling the fugitive into the room, the two men falling onto the floor.
”Get away!” the captive shouted, swinging the broken bottle.
Ryan grabbed his arm and twisted until, with a scream, the man dropped the bottle, its jagged points shattering. Becker pulled handcuffs from his equipment belt, their new spring-loaded design holding the clasps in place as he used a key to lock them.
”I didn't do anything!” the man screamed.
”We'll find the truth of that soon enough,” Ryan said, trying to catch his breath. ”How did blood get on your coat?”
”They d.a.m.ned near killed me. That's how it got on my coat.” The man's lips were swollen and mangled.
”If you pa.s.sed out from alcohol and you weren't hiding,” Becker said, ”they did you a favor.”
”How the h.e.l.l do you figure that?”
”The night's so cold you might have froze to death.”
”Some favor. Freezing to death or getting beat to death.”
”You can thank us for stopping that from happening.”
”Where were you drinking?” Ryan asked, impressed by Becker's effort to make the prisoner trust him.
”A lot of places.”
”What's the name of the last one? When did you leave?”
”I don't remember.” The man reeked of gin.
”Keep him here until he's sober enough for us to question him,” Ryan told the patrolmen who'd joined them.
Still breathing hard, he and Becker went to the front room, where Commissioner Mayne waited in the tavern, looking much older than his fifty-eight years. His skin seemed to recede behind the sideburns that hemmed his jaw.
Outside, the loud noises of a scuffle filled the street, constables shouting, striking with their truncheons to disperse the mob.
”This is only starting,” Mayne said gravely.
”We can hope the gin will put them to sleep,” Ryan offered.
”No, this will become worse. I know from experience. The mallet and the initials on it. I-”
The commissioner suddenly stopped as he looked at the heavyset woman who helped to manage the tavern. A red-faced man who seemed to be her husband came in and stood next to her.
”I need to speak with you,” Mayne told Ryan, pointedly ignoring Becker's presence. ”In private.”
The tavernkeepers obviously thought it strange that the commissioner paid attention to a red-haired Irish ruffian instead of a uniformed patrolman.
”Constable Becker is my a.s.sistant,” Ryan said. ”He needs to know everything.”
Although Becker couldn't have expected that, he hid his surprise.
”A constable as an a.s.sistant?” The commissioner still didn't look at Becker. ”Isn't that a bit irregular?”
”Well, as you indicated, there'll be pressure from Lord Palmerston to solve this in a hurry and avoid a panic. We want to a.s.sure people I had access to every resource. If you can tolerate going back to the shop, no one will overhear us there.”