Читать книгу Nine Strings To Your Bow - Maurice Walsh - Страница 11

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Con Madden, one hand in pocket, one arm swinging loosely, one toe a little inwards, slouched up the street after Peter Falkner who had chosen his pace carefully. He must not move so slow as to give the impression that he invited inspection, nor so fast as to seem to be running the gauntlet. Just a nice easy pace, hands out of pocket, head up—and not smoking. Confidence without bravado. And he could not help it if he felt a little stiff about the knees.

The cobbled High Street of Eglintoun is a long street for a country town, and it is historically ancient. Once long ago it had been considered wide and straight out of the common, but in a motor age it is strait and crooked. There were few people on the narrow pavements, and none of them was particularly intimate with Peter. A man here and there lifted a hand and nodded, and Peter nodded back; one or two said, “Welcome home, Mr. Falkner!” and he said, “Thank you.” He moved evenly on, and he was making a good impression though he was not aware of it. Some had expected him to come back cowed and slinking, others held that he would brazen it out. This quietly striding man was neither slinking nor brazen.

No one offered to shake his hand until half-way up the street. Then a tall, lean, black-haired man in grey, on the other pavement, saw him and without hesitation walked straight across and offered a quick and frank hand.

“I am glad to see you home, Mr. Falkner,” the tall man said.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Peter said. “I guess you’ll still have a string on me, Inspector Myles?”

“I have not, Mr. Falkner,” Inspector Myles said. “It is the duty of a policeman not to be officious. Good evening, sir.”

The two men parted, and Peter felt a little better. Twenty yards behind him Con Madden was leaning well into a bookseller’s window trying to shroud his face in cigarette smoke. Inspector Dick Myles leaned casually at his side and blew the smoke away out of the side of his mouth.

“My Gawd!” he murmured. “Whin did the bogtrottin’ Irish take to litheratchoor?”

“Get to hell out of here, you Portadown noranbe man!” murmured Con.

“God’llmighty Con! come away and have a drink somewhere.”

“No, Dick, no. I’m on a job—now—this minute. Leave me be. I’ll be in to tell you.”

“I’ll have the bracelets gilt for you. Make it soon, lad. I have three years’ talk on my chest. So long now, and good luck!”

Beyond the old market across the Town Chambers was a plaque indicating the Police Station. As Peter came abreast on the other side, a slender man in a well-fitting blue uniform came through the arch and halted on the edge of the pavement to look across at Peter. Unlike Inspector Myles he made no move to greet the released man.

Peter turned on his heels, and without changing his pace walked across to face the police officer. They looked unsmilingly at each other, and each face hid all emotion.

“Which of us was the damn fool, Superintendent Mullen?” Peter said.

The Superintendent did not answer that. He said coldly, “You may consider yourself lucky to get off, Falkner.”

Peter was nettled. This man had tried three times to hang him.

“The only luck I had, Mullen, was your pig-headed conduct of the case. It won me a decision over three rounds.”

“The decision was not conclusive, Falkner.”

“Meaning you’re up for another round? Fine! I am not running out on you. You will find me at Danesford or the Home Farm carrying on as usual, or more so. And listen! if you come to see me, come in all the panoply of the law, or do not come at all. If you come snooping, watch out!”

“Is that a threat?”

“It is a warning.”

“I shall do my duty, Mr. Falkner.” Mullen was formally respectful now.