Goshawk backed away hurriedly. He felt his throat tenderly with his grimy hand. “All right, Mr. Raven,”
he said, touching his forehead with a long bony finger.
Raven said through his teeth, “Don’t call me that!”
Goshawk backed away and went out of the room. Raven locked the door after him and then went to the window. The girl had gone.
He turned back to his breakfast. A newspaper lay on the top of the tray, folded in such a way that his photo stared up at him. He picked up the paper savagely and tossed it across the room.
He had no appetite for his breakfast, and after a few mouthfuls he pushed the tray away and lit a cigarette.
How was he to get out of this place? Everywhere his picture reminded the crowded streets to look for him. He went over to the mirror and stared at himself. If he grew a moustache and dyed his hair he might get some place. He could wear tinted glasses too. Yes, that was it. He found himself quivering with excitement.
Goshawk would have to help him, but then Goshawk would know of his disguise. A cruel smile came to the thin lips. Maybe Goshawk would have a little accident.
16
September 9th, 11.45 a.m.