Snark by William L. DeAndrea

Author:William L. DeAndrea [DeAndrea, William L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9023-1
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-10-30T23:13:00+00:00

6

BY THE TIME BELLMAN walked past Sister Pauling’s farewell smile, he had everything he’d wanted to get from Felicity. He had the whole story of the night in Brighton. Not much use, perhaps, but at least it showed that the old man was still resourceful, and that he could put across an act. The way he’d lulled her into sympathy with his madman-falling-apart routine before he struck had been masterful. Felicity still had trouble believing how well he’d suckered her.

Bellman also had Felicity’s promise that she’d work with him when she got out of the hospital. It had been decided that he’d come and stay with her on Putney Hill. She’d be a semi-invalid, after all, and in her place she knew where everything was, and knew what was there in the first place. That suited Bellman. He didn’t know exactly what he’d be doing, but he suspected it would be things he’d be just as glad not to have Tipton know about. The Bloomsbury apartment was altogether too easy to bug; he didn’t want Tipton to be tempted.

Felicity’s emotional binge had helped her. She was calmer when he left her, and now that some of the tension of shock and horror had been burned off, she’d been ready to go to sleep. Bellman was glad of the slip of the tongue that had brought it about.

He wished, though, that he could decide if it had really been a slip of the tongue. On the one hand, he was not aware of any intention to say anything so tasteless just to provoke a reaction. On the other hand, it had worked, and if he had thought of it before, he would have known it would work. Manipulation had been drilled into him all his life; he’d done it so continuously for so long, maybe the process had been taken over by his midbrain—a conditioned set of reflexes, like whistling, or riding a bicycle. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Someone should warn Felicity about him. He should do it himself. He knew, though, that he wouldn’t.

Dave Hamilton was waiting for him just outside the hospital doors.

“There you are,” Bellman said. “I thought you’d be in the lobby.”

“Oh. Sorry. I wanted to keep an eye on my bike.” He pointed across the road to a small red Honda. “It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got, know what I mean? I mean, Tournament Press are a fine lot, but I’m not making enough that I can afford to have my bike nicked.”

“Nobody pays that much money,” Bellman told him. “Look, I’ve got a car here, the company has fixed me up with a Mini wagon. It’ll be a tight fit, but I think we can fit your bike in the back; I’ll take you wherever it is you want to go, you save gas, and I get to talk to you.”

Hamilton agreed; Bellman went around the corner for the car. In addition to the Mini, Tipton had fixed him up with a special driving license.

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