The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

“My offices,” said Abbington-Westlake, “are in the back of the building and encompass the rooms above, below, and next to this one. You may yell in outrage. You may scream in pain. You may weep with dismay. No one will hear you. And, frankly, if by a miracle they do, I will send them packing with a word. We will start with your accomplices and work our way slowly to what you are really up to. Enjoying a bit of vengeance on the way.”

Isaac Bell opened his hands and addressed Abbington-Westlake. “I’m embarrassed. Not only did I fail to see that this fellow who’s been following me around is an actual fighting man, I also fell for your pomposity act. It never occurred you were vicious as well as unpleasant.”

“Slashing with the Gurka kukri requires a very fine touch as its primary purpose is to sever bone and muscle.”

“With a single blow,” said Bell. “I’m familiar with the kukri. It is the Nepalese weapon of choice for beheading people who annoy them.”

“Reginald has that fine touch,” said Abbington-Westlake. “He can use it as a skinning knife. I’ve seen him flay a man’s arm from wrist to shoulder, removing a layer so thin you could read your morning paper through it. Name your accomplices.”

“Now I’m really embarrassed. I completely forgot to ask.”

“Hold his arms,” said the shadow.

“Wait!” said Abbington-Westlake. “Take his gun.”

Isaac Bell had been trying to distract the gunmen with bravado and sarcasm while weighing his chances of shooting both with a quick draw of his Browning before they shot him. As practiced as he was at clearing his holster and firing fast, the odds were abysmal. Even if he managed to shoot them both, the kukri knife would take his head off.

“I am opening my coat slowly,” he said, “to hand you my automatic, butt first.”

He did. Abbington-Westlake took it and swung it like a club. The heavy barrel raked Bell’s forehead and smashed his hat to the floor. Head ringing from the blow, Bell heard the spymaster say, “I’m informed he carries a derringer in his hat.”

They fished it out.

“Take his arms.”

Isaac Bell stepped back and played his last card. “Do you know what makes a fighting man?”

The man with the knife answered with cold certainty, “It takes fatal wounds to stop him.”

“Then you’ll forgive me.” Bell dove to his left. For the barest fraction of a second, he caught all three off guard. He hit the floor rolling, tucked his knees, and got his fingers inside his boot and around his throwing knife. The gunmen were recovering, tracking him with their pistols, and the shadow was raising the kukri for a killing blow.

A gun went off, thunderous in the small room, the slug throwing splinters from the floor into Bell’s face. He hurled his blade underhand. A flicker of steel and light disappeared in the shadow’s throat.

Bell saw a gun sight-line up with his head. He was moving forward, reaching. The kukri fell from the shadow’s hand. Bell caught it and slashed with all his might.

A hand grasping a pistol fell to the floor.

The other gunman gaped, horrified, and when Bell lunged at him, he whirled out the door. Still moving, Bell whipped around with the knife drawn back to slash.

Abbington-Westlake screamed, backpedaled as the blade whistled through the air, and dropped Bell’s Browning. Bell snatched it off the floor and sprang to his feet, breathing hard.

“This is your mess. Clean it up, stay out of my way, and we are even.”

“Even?” Abbington-Westlake gestured at his fallen men, one squeezing his tweed sleeve to his bloody stump, the other clutching his throat. “How are we even?”

Isaac Bell picked up his derringer and his hat.

“You still have two hands, don’t you?”

26

Isaac Bell stalked into the British Lock Museum with the thief-catcher strongbox under his arm. “I found this with a note attached that said return to Lost & Found care of keeper Roberts.”

What happened to your face?”

“Slipped shaving.”

Nigel Roberts closed both arms around the heavy chest and lugged it to its spot beside the German chastity belt. “I’d have lent it to you.”