‘Nobody comes in ’ere,’ he said. ‘Mr Dawlish isn’t seeing anybody for another hour at least,’ he added with a laugh that sent Abbershaw cold as he grasped its inference.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘this is very important. I must get in to Mr Dawlish. Does this interest you?’
He drew a notecase from his pocket as he spoke. The man advanced towards him and stood glaring down at him, his heavy red face darker than ever with anger.
Suddenly his hand shot out and Abbershaw’s throat was encased in a band of steel.
‘You just ’aven’t realized, you and your lot downstairs, what you’re playing about wiv,’ he said. ‘This ’ere isn’t no Sunday School hunt-the-thimble-set-out. There’s nine of us, we’re armed, and he isn’t jokin’.’ The hand round Abbershaw’s throat tightened as the thug thrust his face close against his victim’s.
‘’E ain’t ordered about by nobody. Makes ’is own laws, ’e does. As you’ll soon find out. At the moment ’e’s busy – talking to a lady. And when ’e’s done wiv ’er I’ll take your message in to ’im and not before. Now get out – if I ’aven’t killed yer.’
On the last words he flung the half-strangled Abbershaw away from him as if he had been a terrier, and, re-entering the room, slammed the door behind him, shooting home the bolts.
Abbershaw scrambled to his feet, flung himself against the door, beating it with his hands, in a paroxysm of fury.
At last he paused in despair: the heavy oak would have withstood a battering ram. He stood back, helpless and half-maddened with apprehension for Meggie’s safety.
Then from somewhere far away he fancied he heard a muffled cry.