“Al, why don’t you do us all a big favour and stop trying to act like a real live cop?” he said with mock reasonableness. “You don’t fool nobody — so why don’t you just hop into your kiddycar and go back to where you came from?”

Werry moved forward a little. “I told you I want to talk to Buck.”

Something flickered in Pridgeon’s eyes. “I guess I can’t stop you coming in — but just remember you weren’t invited.” He moved back and swung the door fully open, leaving the entrance clear.

Hasson, his instincts aroused, got the impression that Pridgeon had been uttering a rehearsed statement — like a junior barrister going over a point of law — and at the same time he noticed the odd waltz-like movement with which Pridgeon retreated, a right-angled three-step which kept his feet off the area just inside the threshold. He started forward, grasping for Werry’s arm, but was a fraction of a second too late.

Werry stepped across the door sill, there was a sharp splat of released energy, and Werry sank to his knees. He remained kneeling for perhaps a second, shaking his head, then collapsed on to the parquet floor. His cap rolled a short distance on the polished wooden bricks.

“Deary me I” Pridgeon said, grinning. “Deary me! How unfortunate! Somebody must have left the intruder screen switched on.” He moved back, doing nothing to assist the fallen man. A door opened further along the hail and three men came through it, one of them carrying a beer glass. They exchanged nudges and advanced to stand behind Pridgeon, looking expectant and slightly self-conscious.

“What happened to old Al?” one of them said. “Has he had one of his turns?”

“It must be his time of the month,” Pridgeon replied, triggering yelps of laughter, before he fixed his bleak gaze on Hasson. “You! Al’s cousin from England! Get him out of here — he’s making the place untidy.”

Hasson moved forward and paused on the threshold. “Are you inviting me in, and is the intruder screen switched off?”

“This one doesn’t ever take any chances,” Pridgeon said over his shoulder, and turned back to Hasson. “The screen’s off now. It was a pure accident, Al barging into it like that. Just tell him that when he wakes up.”

Hasson knelt beside Werry and looked down into his face. The policeman was conscious, but his eyes were dulled and bubbles of saliva winked at the corners of his mouth. Hasson knew he had been subjected to a paralysing neuro-shock which had rendered him helpless by temporarily widening most of the synaptic gaps in his body, and that it would be a minute or two before he would he able to walk unaided. He slid his hands under Werry’s arms, dragged him to a high-backed chair at the side of the hail and wrested him on to it.

“Outside,” Pridgeon commanded. “I told you to get him out of here.”

“He isn’t fit to go anywhere just yet.” Kneeling beside the chair, Hasson patted Werry’s cheeks with his left hand, while with his right he covertly unbuttoned the safety strap which held Werry’s pistol in its holster. “The least you can do is give him a glass of water.”

Pridgeon’s lips tightened. “I’m giving you both ten seconds to get out of here.”

“What’ll you do then — send for the police?” Hasson renewed his efforts to give Werry control of his own body and was rewarded by a preliminary stirring of his limbs. Werry rolled his head from side to side, then brought his eyes to focus on Hasson’s face.

“I’m sorry, Rob,” he said thickly. “I … You’d better get me out to the car.”

Hasson leaned forward and brought his mouth close to Werry’s ear. “Al,” he whispered urgently, “I know how sick you must feel. I know how little you want to hear all this right now, but if you leave this house without talking to Morlacher you’re finished as a police officer. Too many people have seen what happened. They’ll talk it up all over town, and you’ll be finished.”

Werry almost smiled. “Supposing I don’t even care.”

“You do care! Listen, Al, you don’t even have to do anything. You don’t even have to stand up — just talk to Morlacher the way you set out to do. Then we can leave. Okay?”

“Okay, but who’s going to…?”

“That’s it! I’ve had enough of you two pricks.” Pridgeon’s feet sounded on the floor behind Hasson. “Nobody can say I didn’t give you a fair warning.”

Hasson stood up and turned to face him. “Reeve Werry has deputised me to act for him — and we want to talk to Mr Morlacher.”

“He’s deputised you!” Pridgeon gaped at Hasson, then he smiled and closed his eyes for a moment like a man experiencing a long-sought ecstasy. “Here’s what I think of you, cripple.”

Slowly and gently, as though about to pick up a priceless vase, he raised his hands towards Hasson’s ears. Hasson placed one hand on the centre of Pridgeon’s chest and gave him a stiff armed shove which took him completely unawares, carrying him backwards too fast for his feet to catch up. He fell, sliding on his back on the polished floor with his legs in the air. One of the watching men gave a derisive whoop.

Pridgeon scrambled to his feet, mouthing venomously, and went for Hasson, this time coming in with all his speed, slit-eyed and crouching, determined to wreak swift and bloody vengeance for the humiliation he had just received. He feinted with his left and right, then threw a looping right-handed punch which was aimed at Hasson’s throat.

Hasson, shifting into adrenaline overdrive, had time to analyse the three movements and knew at once that here was an instinctive and overconfident opponent, the sort of man who blundered casually into physical duels perhaps once a year — winning by dint of strength and ferocity — and who on that basis had deluded himself into believing he was a superior and gifted fighter. Lifting the punch harmlessly over his shoulder with his left forearm, Hasson saw the whole of Pridgeon’s body hung up before him like an anatomical wallchart with all the nerve centres marked in red, and made the discovery that he had no desire to bring the contest to a clean and scientific conclusion. Pridgeon had insulted him and degraded him and made him feel ashamed. Pridgeon liked tormenting blind youngsters who were in no position to do anything about it. Pridgeon liked using muscle on men he thought were cripples. For all that, and for a thousand other things of which Pridgeon had no knowledge, Pridgeon would have to pay a heavy price, and the time had come…

Hasson changed his point of aim and drove his right fist into Pridgeon’s mouth, exulting in the dull snap of teeth. He threw Pridgeon against the panelled wall, to deny him the respite he might get through being knocked down, and hit him three more times, each time aiming for the face, each time connecting solidly and drawing blood. The madness boiled away as quickly as it had come when from the comer of his eye he detected a movement among the three men on his left. He allowed Pridgeon to slide down on to the floor and turned to face the men. They were advancing and fanning Out to surround him, and on their faces was an expression Hasson had seen many times before — the righteous anger that a bully always feels when the victim has the temerity to strike back. The man with the beer glass — a stocky redneck in a plaid shin — had drained the glass and was holding it with the base nestled into the palm of his hand.

Hasson moved in close to Werry and raised his hands like a traffic cop, giving them a signal to halt. “Before you men get yourselves involved,” he said, forcing his voice to sound light and unconcerned, “I think you ought to know that Reeve Werry is here to make enquiries about a murder. Somebody planted a high explosive bomb in the Chinook Hotel, and it went off a little while ago in the middle of a crowd of youngsters. More than one of them might be dead — we’re not sure yet, but I can tell you that some people around here are going to go to jail for a long, long time. Now, it’s up to you whether you want to dirty your hands with that sort of thing or not.”