Fatal Quest
“I need medical attention.’ ‘Aye, I know how you feel,’ Woodend said, with mock sympathy. ‘I’ve got this throbbing pain in my shoulder that I wouldn’t mind the quack givin’ the once-over, an’ all. So it’s a real pity, isn’t it, that neither of us have time to go an’ see a doctor at the moment?’ He slid his packet of Capstan Full Strength across the table. ‘Why don’t you stop complainin’ an’ have one of these? It’ll help to ease the pain.’ ‘Smith’ took one of the cigarettes, and Woodend lit it for him.
‘Name?’ the sergeant asked.
‘I’ve already told yer, it’s John Smiff.’ Woodend shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said. He lit up a cigarette himself, and gulped down the acrid smoke greedily. ‘Listen,’ he continued, ‘since we both know that the criminal-records department is goin’ to match your fingerprints up to your real name sooner or later, why not save some time, an’ tell me now?’ The prisoner gave the matter some thought – it seemed to be a painful process.
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