“I certainly can, sergeant,” replied Jonas. “There’s your gunman.”
“Indeed, sir,” responded the sergeant in unhurried tones, reaching for his walkie-talkie. “And who might you be?”
While Jonas reached for his card, suspiciously watched by the constable, the sergeant summoned an ambulance and assistance. The constable drew out his notebook and started entering details, starting with Jonas’s card. “And do you know the name of this….er…” He paused as he looked down at Plato. ‘Gentleman’ wasn’t quite the word. There was something grotesque about the corpse which made him think of a discarded marionette, not a human-being.
“John Newton Peel, better known as Plato,” said Jonas firmly as the sergeant was lost in contemplation of mortality. "….I believe you’ve been looking for him.”
The younger policeman nodded and looked up the staircase to where Plato had fallen, clearly anxious to get all the details straight before he entered anything in his notebook. His older colleague turned back to Jonas.
“And have you got a gun, sir?” intercepting the card as it was being returned to Jonas, glancing at it and then restoring it to its owner.
“Of course,” admitted Jonas, opening his jacket so they could see the P-35 snug in its holster. '