The Night Mayor by Kim Newman Read Free Book Online Page A

begged for death. Sterling turned over and laughed painfully, a treacle trickle snaking from his mouth. He died with eyes open, leaving a million dollars to the four winds. That was The End of his plot, and I thought I could see a touch of relief, of transcendence, in his dead smile.
    But I was still strapped into my life, bound by a plot I could no longer predict, condemned to ride the streetcar until the last stop. A police car turned into the street, searchlight sweeping the asphalt like a Martian heat ray. I wiped wet money off my face, and ran again.
    Hiding briefly between the garbage cans by a diner, gasping for breath, I overheard an announcer cut into a programme of dance music from the Starlight Lounge of the RKO-Radio Hotel and broadcast my description.
    ‘This man is armed and dangerous, and should be shot down on sight or turned over to the police. In addition to the contract killing of Truro Daine, he is believed to be not only the mastermind behind the string of so-called “Pajama Suicides” that have so baffled Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, but also the ape trainer responsible for the infamous Murders in the Rue Morgue, the mechanic who serviced Amelia Earhart’s plane before she took off on her last flight, and the man who shot Liberty Valance.’ As an afterthought the announcer added, ‘This interruption is
not
part of the scheduled Orson Welles and the Mercury Theater of the Air presentation,
The Black Path of Fear
by Cornell Woolrich. This is a genuine interruption and should not be misconstrued as a bizarre prank.’
    His voice changed pitch from urgency to solemnity and he trailed a later programme. ‘In two hours’ time, we will broadcast a tribute to Truro Daine, the great humanitarian who has so suddenly and tragically been taken from our City by this senseless crime. Among those who have hurriedly assembled in our studios to air their heartfelt feelings in this hour of mourning are Mayor Brian Donlevy, famed criminologist and broadcaster Qaude Rains, philanthropic businessman and pillar of the community Edward Arnold and noted psychic consultant Otto –’
    A customer yelped, and the drudge behind the bar spun the radio dial until music sounded out again. The young, high-voiced Frank Sinatra did what he did with ‘Night and Day’.
    I pushed away from the diner, and propelled myself across the street. For no reason I could tell you, I appealed for help to a corpse-thin, bald man in his shirtsleeves who sat on an empty beer keg in a doorway, playing solitaire on a fold-out table, chewing an unlit cigar. I went down on my knees and begged him to take me in, to give me shelter, food, a place to sleep, a new face, a forged passport, a ticket to Peru, a hot drink. He continued to turn over the cards, never lifting his eyes from the configurations on the baize, saying nothing. Finally, I ran out of words and just sobbed. Then I ran out of sobs and slumped on my knees in front of the man’s doorway.
    He was losing, but hadn’t seen it yet. He kept going through the pack, three cards at a time, and nothing came up. Nothing changed. He played faster. The same five or six cards showed their useless faces. He bit through his cigar, but sucked it in, keeping it in his mouth, spitting the plug out into the gutter. The cards kept coming up the same. Disgusted, he shuffled the cards in his hand, cheating, and went through the pack again. There were still no cards he could use. I knew he should give up, but he kept playing, hands moving faster than a magician’s.
    ‘Please,’ I said.
    The solitaire player dealt me a single card, and continued to play. It was the Queen of Spades. She had Veronica Lake’s face, sliced diagonally in half by bobbed hair. Veronica’s exposed eye winked at me, and I dropped the card onto the sidewalk. It fell face down on the wet, black slab.
    I left the man playing and walked away, alone in the City. I angled my face up and shut my eyes. Pain throbbed in the dark