Crushed Toes moved through the darkened room soundlessly. His eyes pierced the shadows. He listened for the breathing of someone hiding.
In the corridor, The Shot In The Back Of The Head heard nothing. He felt something cold and hard go into his neck and he knew it was a gun. His mind stopped. He thought of his wife and children and forgot he wasn’t married. It was the Mongolian. His mind stopped.
A whisper said, ‘Gun.’ It wasn’t the Mongolian. The Shot In The Back Of The Head didn’t know whose the voice was. He didn’t know whether the voice was telling him it was a gun in his neck or whether the voice wanted him to hand his own gun over. He handed his own gun over. A hand took it. Another hand held him by the collar and drew him backwards. Another hand held another gun against his right ear.
‘Back,’ the voice of the neck gun said.
The Shot In The Back Of The Head went back.
It was the cops. On the landing, there were five cops. The five cops had five guns. The Shot In The Back Of The Head’s mouth fell open. His mind could not take having five guns pointed at it. Five was too many. His mouth fell open.
‘Mongolian,’ a cop wearing a stained white suit said, ‘Where?’
The Shot In The Back Of The Head’s mouth stayed open.
Constable Lee rammed his gun barrel into it. He too said, ‘Where?’
The Shot In The Back Of The Head tried to swallow. It was difficult. He said, ‘Ahh-rumm—’
Constable Lee took his gun out of The Shot In The Back Of The Head’s mouth.
‘In there?’ the stained suit cop said.
The Shot In The Back Of The Head shook his head. He felt his dentures rattle.
‘Who?’ the mouth cop said. He brought the gun up for another tonsils job, ‘Who?’
‘Crushed Toes.’ The Shot In The Back Of The Head smiled to show how helpful he was. It didn’t come out as a smile. The mouth gun cop moved back a little from him in case he was going to vomit. The Shot In The Back Of The Head said, ‘Crushed Toes. Revolver. Second room. Mongolian. Looking for. I give up. Don’t shoot,’ and then he vomited.
Constable Lee handcuffed him to the railing. He said, ‘Stay there.’
The Shot In The Back Of The Head nodded enthusiastically. The mouth gun cop gave him one more look at the mouth gun. The Shot In The Back Of The Head kept nodding.
Feiffer and O’Yee went down the corridor to the second room. Auden stayed a little way down the corridor outside the first room to cover them. Feiffer drew a breath. He heard someone moving in the unlit room. He tapped himself on the lapel with his thumb to signify that he would go in first. O’Yee did not argue. Feiffer saw a look of relief tinged with regret that his friend Feiffer was about to be killed cross O’Yee’s Chinese-Irish face. Feiffer’s confidence evaporated. He wiped his gun hand against the front of his coat, settled the weapon in his hand, and went in.
The Chopper Man saw the outline of a figure move on to the roof from the fire escape. He raised his gun and waited for the broken light to flash.
The Club (With Nails) came out of the third room on the fifth floor. He was looking down the corridor to a blank wall. The Mongolian stood poised behind him. The Club (With Nails) began to turn around.
The silhouette of the figure came directly into the Chopper Man’s line of fire. The Chopper Man’s fingers started to take up the pressure on the trigger.
Feiffer said, ‘Police!’ and Crushed Toes opened fire. The room was pitch black. Feiffer saw something move against the window. He shot it. The figure said, ‘Oh!’ and the shooting stopped.
The Club (With Nails) jumped. The Mongolian’s fist came down like a poleaxe and smashed his collarbone. The Club (With Nails) shouted, ‘He’s up here!’ and Spencer on the roof dived for the ground as a spray of red-hot machine gun bullets passed over his head.
The Chopper Man said, ‘Cop!’ and lunged for the cover of the table. Spencer sheltered behind a pot-bellied stove that formed part of someone’s alfresco kitchen and tried to locate the Chopper Man.
O’Yee wrenched Crushed Toes out of the room and kicked his pistol down two flights of stairs. Crushed Toes said, ‘Oh—!’ and tried to staunch the blood from the hole in his leg with his hand. His progress left a trail of blood as he went bodily to the landing. Feiffer stood outside the door to the second room and wondered where the bullets had gone. He looked behind him to part of the wooden railing that had two jagged holes in it. He swallowed.
At the landing, O’Yee took his handcuffs from his belt and manacled the bleeding Crushed Toes next to The Shot In The Back Of The Head. He undid the buckle of Crushed Toes’ belt and pulled it out through his trouser loops. The blood seeped through Crushed Toes’ pants and got on the stairs.
O’Yee tossed the belt to The Shot In The Back Of The Head. ‘Do you know how to make a tourniquet?’
The Shot In The Back Of The Head gazed at him blankly.
‘Show him,’ O’Yee ordered Crushed Toes. He said to The Shot In The Back Of The Head, ‘Watch and learn. You’re in charge of the bleeding leg detail. If he dies I’ll have you charged with murder.’ He said to Feiffer and Auden, ‘Did you hear?’
‘Somewhere upstairs,’ Auden said.
Lee said, ‘Fifth floor.’
The five of them went up the stairs towards the fifth floor.
At the fourth floor, Feiffer’s mind began to work again. He said, out of breath, ‘I thought for a moment I’d killed him.’
‘Bad luck,’ Auden said. He kept waving that enormous gun of his. O’Yee said, ‘Don’t talk crap, Auden!’
They made it to the fifth floor. The Club (With Nails) was there. He was dead.
The neon sign finally broke or repaired itself and shone a steady wan light across the roof. Spencer peered out from behind the stove. There was no one. He listened. Nothing. The Chopper Man was behind the table. He had pulled a blanket over himself and he lay very still. He had almost chopped a cop. He fitted a new magazine into the Thompson and inched his fingers forward to work the cocking handle.
‘I don’t see it,’ Feiffer said. There was only the broken body of The Club (With Nails) and the club itself on the corridor floor. The Mongolian was nowhere to be seen.
‘What?’ O’Yee asked. His eyes flickered towards the second and third rooms where Sun and Lee were.
‘Didn’t you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘A bloody machine gun!’
‘No. I heard your man shooting and then you shoot and someone get the axe up here. That’s all.’
‘I heard a machine gun.’
Constable Lee and Constable Sun came out of the second and third rooms simultaneously. They had found nothing. The Mongolian had gone.
Feiffer said, ‘Where’s Spencer?’
‘Roof,’ Auden said.
Feiffer looked at him. He had heard a machine gun. He knew a machine gun when he heard one. He said, ‘The roof!’
Constable Lee said, ‘One of the windows to the fire escape was open. There was nobody on it.’ He said, ‘He must be on the roof.’
They went as one to the stairs to the roof. They found the inside door to the roof locked. They kicked it down. On the roof was the Mongolian.
The Mongolian was the biggest anything any of them had ever seen. He was over six foot three inches tall and he must have weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds (two hundred and eighty-five). He stood in the middle of the roof and he looked at them. He looked at their guns. He looked at the constables’ uniforms. He looked at Spencer’s gun trained on him.
Spencer said, ‘I’ve got him. He came up from the fire escape. He just appeared out of nowhere. And I’ve got him.’
The Mongolian looked at Spencer and he laughed.
‘Holy Mother of God!’ O’Yee said, ‘you got him.’
Constable Sun and Constable Lee drew back a little. They knew Mongolians. They drew back.
‘He’s under arrest,’ Spencer said, and the Mongolian began to come towards him. Spencer
said to the Mongolian, ‘You’re under arrest.’
The Chopper Man tried to draw back the cocking handle of his chopper. It wouldn’t move. There was a cartridge jammed in the breech. He worked to clear it.
‘Don’t move,’ Spencer said to the Mongolian. The Mongolian stopped. He smiled at Spencer.
‘Handcuffs,’ Feiffer ordered Auden. Auden didn’t look happy. He said to Spencer, ‘Why didn’t you shoot him?’
‘Handcuffs,’ Feiffer ordered Auden.
‘He was unarmed,’ Spencer said to Auden authoritatively. ‘Police officers don’t shoot unarmed men.’
‘Handcuffs!’ Feiffer said again.
Auden said, ‘He’s Spencer’s prisoner, not mine. He’s got his own bloody handcuffs.’ He holstered his pistol.
‘Do what you’re told!’ Feiffer ordered. He and O’Yee put their own guns back. He said to Auden, ‘Don’t you argue the toss with me.’
The two constables put their guns away too. They looked at the Mongolian the way anglers look at a dead fighting fish. He had been a big one all right.
Auden pouted and drew his handcuffs. He glanced at Spencer unhappily and went to do his little part in Spencer’s big glory. He said to Spencer, ‘Beginner’s luck,’ and then the Mongolian caught hold of him and threw him at Spencer. The Mongolian charged. He caught Constable Lee on the bridge of his nose with his fist-hammer and broke the septum. Constable Lee fell against Constable Sun and the Mongolian kicked Constable Sun in the groin.
Feiffer grabbed for his pistol. The Mongolian caught his hand and crushed it. The gun came out of its own accord and clattered on to the roof. O’Yee reached for it and the Mongolian stamped on his hand with his boot and dislocated three of O’Yee’s fingers. Auden was back on his feet. He had the Python out. He thought, ‘Now, you bastard!’ and levelled the gun at the Mongolian’s back a fraction before the Mongolian turned and kicked him against the upturned plywood Mah-Jong table. The Python crashed against the side of Spencer’s head and he only vaguely saw someone stand up from behind the table with something in his hands.
Feiffer saw the machine gun. His hand was useless. He tried to pick up his revolver with his left hand. He dropped it. He saw the machine gun and shouted, ‘Get down! Get down!’ He tried to get the gun with both hands.
The Thompson’s mechanism would not work. The Chopper Man was wrenching at it to clear the action. He swung the muzzle towards Feiffer and O’Yee and the two uniformed men. A single shot went off and cleared the mechanism. The bullet smashed into the pot-bellied stove and whanged off over the roof. He pointed the muzzle of the machine gun at the Mongolian. Spencer had Auden’s Python in his hand. Feiffer shot The Chopper Man between the eyes and The Chopper Man staggered to the edge of the roof and went over. Feiffer’s smashed hand dropped the revolver.
The Mongolian’s eyes turned themselves on to Spencer. The Mongolian drew his kukri. Spencer aimed the Python at the Mongolian. The Mongolian came forward. Spencer pulled the trigger. The regulation .38 calibre bullet went into the Mongolian’s mass of flesh and disappeared. The Mongolian came forward. Spencer pulled the trigger a second time. The gun kicked high in his hand and there was an explosion that echoed across the roofs. The Mongolian started going backwards. He moved the kukri in a funny arc and Spencer shot him again.
The Mongolian fell dead.
Spencer looked at the dead Mongolian. He went to help Auden to his feet. Auden said, ‘Thanks,’ and looked at the dead Mongolian.
‘I’ve never shot anyone before,’ Spencer said. He saw Feiffer and O’Yee helping the constable with the broken nose. He said to Auden, ‘Really. I’ve never done anything like this before.’ He looked at the big gun in his hand. He said, trying to make up for something, ‘I suppose something like this must have cost a fortune.’
Auden looked at the Python. He looked at Spencer. He looked at the dead Mongolian and he looked at the Python again.
He said, ‘Keep it,’ and went to join the casualty group.
Spencer thought, ‘I always thought if I had to shoot anyone I’d be sick, or I’d break down and cry.’ He waited. It was odd. He didn’t do either.
It was Minnie Oh ringing from the Station. Nicola Feiffer said, ‘Yes?’
‘They’re all right,’ Minnie Oh said. ‘There was some trouble, but they’re all all right.’ She said, ‘Constable Cho was killed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Inspector Feiffer is all right. He’s hurt his hand, but it’s only a minor injury. He should be home in a few hours. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’
There was a pause.
Minnie Oh said, ‘I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’ll be home in a few hours,’ Minnie Oh said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Feiffer said, ‘it was kind of you to—’
‘I have to go now.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Feiffer said. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘Goodnight,’ Minnie Oh said.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Feiffer said. She put the receiver down very gently. It only made a very slight click at Minnie’s end of the line.
Minnie looked at the Station clock. It was almost morning. She thought it would be nice to have someone to go home to.
‘There’ll be riots today,’ Sister Sung said. The victims of the Camphorwood Lane battle occupied all the casualty treatment rooms. She finished tying a neat bow in the wrist sling at the back of Feiffer’s neck and looked at the X-Ray pictures of the fractured right-hand carpus and metacarpus bones. She said, ‘It’ll be back to normal in a month or two.’ She said, ‘We’ll have a busy day here tomorrow with the riots.’
‘They’ll turn the water on again in forty-eight hours,’ Feiffer consoled her. He said, ‘They always do.’
‘It’s a great pity,’ Sister Sung said. ‘Why do the Communists cause so much trouble?’
‘They’re not the only ones,’ Feiffer said. His fingers hurt.
‘Do you like being a policeman?’ Sister Sung asked pleasantly. She checked the bow she had made and thought it was quite neat.
‘Yes.’
She smiled at him. She said, ‘I think you’re a very good policeman. We all do.’
‘Thank you,’ Feiffer said. His fingers were very painful.
‘Yes,’ Sister Sung said. She smiled at him for the second time in as many seconds. She said, ‘Do you think you could possibly do something about our wheelchair, Inspector Feiffer?’ She said, ‘Perhaps on your way home?’
Feiffer’s fingers hurt like hell.
Note from the Publisher
While he was alive, Bill Marshall relished writing this series—he loved playing with the foibles of humanity in its struggle to get through life. We hope you enjoyed the novel as much.
One of the joys of partly humorous fiction—and the Yellowthread Street Mysteries offer more than a pinch of humour and human empathy for every moment of shock value—is sharing the reaction of others. If you enjoyed the story, we would be thrilled if you could leave a short review. Getting feedback from readers makes all the difference and can help persuade others to pick up the series for the first time.
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Thank you for reading, and here’s to Harry Feiffer and his motley crew of detectives . . .
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The Hatchet Man touched his face. It was smooth. He believed his real face was under the smooth skin and that it had yellow eyes and bared teeth. He believed his real hair under the oiled and brushed mask-hair was wild and on fire.
He went to his bedside table and took out an Italian copy of a four-shot Sharp’s derringer and a box of hollow-point bullets. He fitted a round into each of the barrels. He snapped the breech shut and slipped the gun into his pocket. He looked in the mirror. He touched his face, his hair, his rib cage, and knew wha
t was there, out of sight. Then he went out of the room and into the city . . .
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Preview
COMING SOON
Feiffer saw the flash. There was a brilliant white glare radiating out from a tiny pin point in front of the Post Office and a sudden note of high static as the air around the pin-hole was wrenched violently aside. Then there was a sound like a very loud pistol shot or a huge chain snapping and then the concussion roared down the street and blew people walking along the pavements to their knees.
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About the Yellowthread Street series
Set amidst the urban fantasia of Hong Kong, William Marshall’s Yellowthread Street novels raise crime fiction to a high art form. Surrealistic and suspenseful, vivid in their procedural details and brilliant in their scope, they are the work of a uniquely gifted writer.
Reviews of the Yellowthread Street series –
“Marshall has the rare gift of juggling scary suspense and wild humor and making them both work.”
Washington Post Book World
“Marshall’s style—blending the hilarious, the surreal, and the poignant—remains inimitable and not easily resisted.”
San Francisco Chronicle
“Marshall has few peers as an author who melds the wildest comedy and tragedy in narratives of nonstop action.”
Publishers Weekly
“Marshall is building a growing, iconoclastic body of work that mixes weird fantasy [and] wayward characterization . . . to produce a subtle, charged, atmospheric, lush fiction hybrid sure to satisfy those with a taste for mysteries on the far edges.”
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