Meet Conrad, after the murderer in *The Hazard for Spies*

Conrad slowed as he approached the open door to the offices of Titterstone and Montjoy.

Smoke hung, heavy and choking, but the light was steady, not the chancy flicker of open flames.

Coughing from the inner office masked his entrance into the anteroom, and the swearing that followed covered his last few steps. “Dammit. I knew she had it. I should have strangled her when I had the chance.” A book flew through the doorway and thudded to the floor.

Conrad stepped into the doorway then past it.

Squatting beside the desk, Malbury spotted him and flung a handful of papers. They scattered and fell harmlessly. He laughed, a manic edge removing all humor. Blood streamed from a cut on his brow. “Give me a ledger,” and he reached for a thick book laying open on the floor.

Conrad leapt. He knocked Malbury flat. Hauling back for a punch, he realized the man lay still, eyes rolled back and arms flung out. The man groaned and rolled his head sideways.

He reached for the rope twist he used for grips, tucked into his left pocket.

And Malbury surged up, grabbing Conrad’s coat while he aimed a punch.

Conrad scrambled back. More papers followed him, then the heavy ledger. As he dodged, Malbury shoved to his feet. He staggered a step then kicked out. His shoe glanced off Conrad’s shoulder. He followed with a two-handed blow that would have floored Conrad if the kick had landed.

Then he ran.

Cursing himself, Conrad slipped on the scattered papers. From the outer office came a thud, a louder thump, and more cursing.

He caught Malbury by the shoulder as he heaved up from the floor. “Not so fast.” He clipped him

hard on the ear. Malbury yelped. He threw a wild punch and drove in behind with a better one. He landed several more punches to Conrad’s unprotected ribs.

Conrad got his own punches in. Blood gushed from the nobleman’s cut temple and soon from his nose, his face becoming a gory mask. They grappled, the younger man’s skill a match for Conrad’s strength and dirty tricks gleaned in his nine years on London’s streets. He hooked his heel behind the slighter man’s and shoved.

Malbury staggered over a chair then tripped. Conrad caught a flailing forearm, twisted it around to spin him then pushed it high up Malbury’s back. He forced him to bend forward. And it was done, both of Malbury’s hands caught behind his back, held high on the edge of pain. When Conrad compelled him forward, and the younger man stumbled out into the main hall and toward the stairs.

Timothy Gibbons met them on the flight between the first and second floors. “You got `im!” Excitement stole his H’s.

Malbury slowed, but Conrad kept pushing, and they passed the young constable.

“There was a fire in the open office on the fourth floor. Be certain it’s out, Gibbons. Is the building clear?”

“Aye, sir. No one else inside. The chief’s waiting.”

As he propelled his captive to Chief Constable Evans, Conrad didn’t try to hide his satisfied grin.

The chief stared at the blood still streaming. “Not quite the condition I expected, Hoppock.”

“Only the nose is mine, sir. Phinney did his brow for him.”