The Count of Eleven Read Online Free PDF Page A

leaping more than an octave higher on the second word as though preparing to scream.
    The old man seemed not to hear him. He was still leaning the door against Jack’s foot, which was twisted too awkwardly to move. All Jack could do was shove his other foot against the door and kick. The old man reeled backwards, the door crashed into the wall beside the shelves, and Jack’s impetus flung him forwards. The roaring nozzle flew out of his hand and fell beside the door, pointing straight at the old man’s toes.
    Their owner appeared to be determined not to notice. He was glaring in outrage at Jack, who saw the heavy toecap of the old man’s left shoe begin to smoulder. He had a sense of being forced to participate in a slapstick comedy which was advancing frame by excruciating frame. He seized the edge of the door with his smarting fingers and heaving himself to his feet, put his free hand on the old man’s chest and pushed him backwards as gently as seemed safe. He was trying to produce a reassuring smile, but it felt as though he was baring his teeth at him. All this was no quicker than turning off the blow lamp would have been, he realised as he noticed what he’d done inadvertently. In levering himself to his feet he’d trapped the nozzle of the blow lamp under the corner of the door, directing the flame at the plastic cases he’d taken off the shelves.
    He saw Alfred Hitchcock’s face stir on the front of the foremost box as if the photograph was coming to life as if the tiny figure was struggling to squirm out of the path of the heat. He stooped to the control of the blow lamp reminding himself that he was only seeing a distortion caused by the movement of air. Then Hitchcock’s face turned black and the case burst into flames.
    Jack lunged at the control and twisted it so hard he felt as if he was scraping skin off his fingers. The middle of the blazing case swelled, and the top half bowed backwards to share its fire with the next box. Silence plugged Jack’s ears as the flame of the blow lamp died. He saw a third box lean forwards to offer itself as fuel, then a fourth. He had only to use some of the boxes which hadn’t caught fire to push those which had into the street. But as Jack made for the cases the old man stepped in front of him and trampled on the Hitchcock box.
    He was trying to put out the fire, but the half-melted box adhered to the sole of his shoe. As flames surrounded the shoe he stamped harder, then he clutched at the nearest support and tried to shake off the burning plastic. He clutched at a shelf above the rest of the fire, and the shelf gave way. Several dozen cassette boxes clattered to the floor, some sprawling open like hollow books. One, with an accuracy that seemed positively vindictive, landed upside down over the flames and caught fire at once.
    The old man had stumbled to the counter and was shaking his foot as if he was trying to dislodge the shoe. His trouser cuff had begun to smoke. Jack felt threatened by a fit of wild mirth. He dashed to the old man, who let go of the counter and brandished his fists. “Get it off,” Jack shouted. “Untie the laces.”
    Perhaps the old man had been deafened by the blow lamp He waved his fists at Jack and continued to waggle his foot until Jack made a grab at it, and then he aimed a kick at him with it. The sole dripped flaming plastic. Jack seized the scrawny ankle to hold the foot still while he fumbled with the smouldering laces. He tugged at them and thought he had succeeded only in pulling the knot tighter. Then the bow vanished, and he dug the fingers of both hands inside the shoe. Twisting it off the old man’s foot, he shied it out of the door.
    “My shoe,” the old man wailed, ‘the shoes my wife bought me,” and brought the side of his fist down on Jack’s head.
    Jack wouldn’t have believed someone of that age and physique could have retained such strength. An ache which felt wider than his scalp spread through his cranium