Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay Read Free Book Online Page A

whether Henry Zink wasn’t paying too much attention to Bloody Jack’s yarns and not enough to legal arguments, however hopeless they might be.
    Zink’s foul mood got worse as the afternoon wore on and nobody came up with a firm strategy for Kravenko’s defence. Zink sent Inkmann for another bottle of rye and some food. He had a legendary tolerance for booze, but he was overdoing it that day.
    Zink tossed back the last of his whiskey. “What the hell’s the hold up with Inkmann? I’m getting hungry,” he growled. He kept repeating himself, mumbling incessantly about establishment judges, all of whom were against him. He blinked and glared at Evans. “I would have thought a senior partner in a big-time law firm would have something to contribute by now.”
    Tom had a sudden feeling of sympathy for John Evans, who was having to put up with Zink. It was one thing for Zink to bully Inkmann and rail against Tom, who needed his endorsement to advance his career, but Evans?
    Zink looked malevolently around the room, red-rimmed eyes peering out from under hooded lids, and fixed his gaze on Tom. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. Oh-oh, Tom thought. “Something I want you to do for me. Go to this address. A man named Jake will give you a package. I need it now.” He scribbled on a scrap of paper and pushed it at Tom, who was happy to scramble to his feet and escape the oppressive confines of the office.
    As he strode up the sidewalk, Tom wondered for the hundredth time if he had made a mistake in working for Zink; his behaviour was more erratic with every hour as the Kravenko trial neared. The address on Zink’s note was in the north end of town. Tom walked to Main, caught a streetcar a few blocks north, then alighted and made his way west to a seedy area of rundown, poorly maintained houses.
    He didn’t see a house number, but a process of elimination brought him to a one-storey clapboard building with a stable or shed of some kind in the back. In the growing darkness Tom picked his way through the overgrown front yard and rapped on the door. No lights were visible, so he knocked a second time, harder.
    The door flew open and a scrawny man needing a shave stuck his head out. “Do I know you?”
    â€œI work for Henry Zink. He said you had a parcel to be picked up.”
    â€œI was told it was for Bernie Inkmann. Who the hell are you?”
    â€œBernie’s off somewhere else.” Tom didn’t like being a stand-in for Bernie, and he didn’t like the looks of his questioner, who had a twitch that made his head shake every few seconds. “All I know is Henry asked me to pick something up. You can give it to me or you can explain to Henry.”
    â€œAll right, all right.” The man looked left and right, then sidled out through the door, closing it behind him. “Follow me.” He led the way through a cluttered backyard to the ramshackle shed. Tom waited outside and the man reappeared, holding a box about the dimension of a shoebox, only shallower, perhaps the size of three dime novels stacked up, tied with stout string. He thrust the box at Tom, who took it and turned away.
    â€œTell Zink he owes me,” the man muttered. Maybe he does, it occurred to Tom, but I don’t, and the sooner I get out of here the better.
    He retraced his steps, and once he was safely on the streetcar he drew a deep breath. He couldn’t imagine what was in the box, which was heavy and solid-feeling. What the hell was Zink up to?
    By the time he reached Zink’s building the street was cold under the electric lights. He climbed the stairs and walked down the empty hall. Unlike the last time he had approached the office, the door was ajar. He could make out quiet voices, Zink’s gravelly baritone reverberating.
    â€œYou’ll do as you’re damn well told. Unless of course you want to . . .” His voice trailed off.
    Tom