A Night in the Lonesome October Read Online Free PDF Page A

obtained more ingredients for the master's spell.   As we paused on a corner in Soho the Great Detective and his companion came out of the fog and approached us.
         "Good evening," he said.
         "Good evening," Jack replied.
         "Would you happen to have a light?"
         Jack produced a package of wax vestas and passed it to him.   Both men maintained eye contact as he lit his pipe.
         "Lots of patrolmen about."
         "Yes."
         "Something's afoot, I daresay."
         "I suppose so."
         "It involves those killings, most likely."
         "Yes, I'd say you're right."
         He returned the matches.
         The man had a strange way of regarding one's face, one's clothing, one's boots; and of listening.
         As a watchdog, I could appreciate the mode of total attentiveness he assumed.   It was not a normal human attitude.   It was as if his entire being were concentrated in the moment, sensitive to every scrap of intelligence our encounter furnished.
         "I've seen you about here other evenings."
         "And I've seen you."
         "Likely we'll meet again."
         "You may be right."
         "In the meantime, take care.   It's become dangerous."
         "Watch out for yourself, also."
         "Oh, I will.   Good night."
         "Good night."
          I had refrained from growling lightly for effect, though the thought had passed through my mind.   I listened to their footsteps long after they had gone from sight.
         "Snuff," Jack said, "remember that man."
         Somewhere on the long, long walk home an owl passed us, riding the chill breezes on motionless wings.   I could not tell whether it was Nightwind.   There were rats about the bridge, and I did not know whether Bubo was one of them.   Stars swam in the Thames, and the air was full of dirty smells.
         I kept pace with Jack's long strides while investigating every sleeping street person huddled in every shelter along our way.   I felt at times as if we were being followed, but could discover no reason for my apprehension.   It could well be that our mere progress through October was in itself sufficient to produce anxiety.   Things, of course, would continue to worsen before they got better, if they were ever to get better again.
         "Ah, Jack," came a voice from our left.   "Good evening."
         Jack halted and turned, his hand near to the place where his knife was concealed.
         Larry Talbot stepped out of the shadows, touching the brim of his hat.
         "Mr. Talbot . . ." Jack began.
         "'Larry,' please."
         "That's right, you're American.   Larry, good evening.   What are you doing out so late?"
         "Walking.   It seemed a good night for it.   I tend to insomnia.   You were in town perhaps?"
         "Yes."
         "So was I.   I met the Great Detective himself, and his friend.   He stopped to ask me for a light."
         "Oh?"
         Larry glanced at his palm, seemed reassured of something, went on:   "I got the impression he's involved in the investigation of the recent slayings . . . of which I understand there was another tonight.   You hear anything about it?"
          "No."
         "Cautioned me to watch my step.   I guess that's good advice for all of us, though."
         "Did he give the impression he had any real clues?"
         Larry shook his head.
         "He's a hard man to read.   His partner muttered something about dogs, though."
         "Interesting."
         "I'll walk you partway back, if I may."
         "Surely."
         "Eight days more till the death of the moon," Jack said after a time.   "Are you a moon-watcher, Larry?"
         "Very much so," came the reply.
         "I'd guessed that."
         We walked for a long while in silence, Larry's stride matching Jack's own.
         "Are you acquainted with the one called the Count?" Larry asked