Image of the Beast and Blown Read Online Free PDF Page A

dimness. But he rec-
ognized the cop, although he did not know his name,
and stayed behind the wheel. He flipped open his coat and
slowly reached within it so that the cop would not get
the impression he was reaching for a gun. He had a
license for a gun but it was at home.
    The cops had stopped too many to make him get out
of the car and assume the stance of the friskee. Besides,
there were many legitimate drivers, and within a short
time, there would be so many cars on the streets that
they might as well give up, except for obvious cases.
    Childe established his identity quickly enough. They
knew of him by hearsay and had also read the papers.
One, Chominshi, wanted to discuss the case, but the
other was coughing, and Childe started to cough, so they
let him go. He continued up Third toward West Los
Angeles. His apartment and his office were a few blocks
away from Beverly Hills. He planned to go straight home
and do some thinking.
    If he could think. He was in a mild state of shock. His
reflexes seemed to be slow as if he had been drugged or
was recovering from being knocked out. He felt a slight
sense of detachment, as if he had been disengaged some-
what from reality, no doubt to soften the effects of the
film. The smog did not help him keep an anchor on
things; it induced a feeling of slippage of self.
    He was not burning with lust for revenge on those
    who had killed Colben. He had not liked Colben, and
he knew that Colben had done some things which were
criminal but he had escaped without (as far as Childe
knew) even the punishment of conscience. He had
knocked up a teenager and kicked her out, and the girl
had taken sleeping pills and died. There were others,
although none had ended in death for the girls. But some
would have been better off dead. And there was the wife
of a client who had been found beaten and would always
be an idiot. Childe had had no basis for suspicion of
Colben, but he had felt that Colben might have done the
beating for the client, especially after he had discovered
that Colben was going to bed with the woman. He could
prove nothing; he could not even make an accusation
which would not sound stupid, because he lacked any
evidence. That Colben was neglecting the business, how-
ever, was reason enough to get rid of him. Childe did not
have enough money to buy Colben out; he had meant to
make it so unpleasant for Colben that he would be glad
to dissolve the partnership.
    Nevertheless, no man deserved to die as Colben had.
Or did he? The horror was more in the viewers' minds
than in Colben's. He had been hurt very much, but only
briefly, and had died quickly.
    That did not matter. Childe intended to find out all he
could, although he suspected that he would find out very
little. And soon enough the need to pay bills would take
him off the case; he would only be able to work on it
during his leisure moments. Which meant that, in effect,
he would be able to accomplish almost nothing.
    But he had nothing else to do, and he certainly did
not intend to sit still in his apartment and breathe in
poison gas. He had to do something to keep going. He
could not even read comfortably because of the burning
and the tears. He was like a shark that has to keep moving
to allow water to flow through the gills. Once
    he
stopped, he would suffocate.
    But a shark can breathe and also stand still if the
water is moving. Sybil could be his flowingness. Sybil
was a name that sounded like running brooks and sun-
shine in quiet green glades and wisdom like milk from
full flowing breasts. Certainly not green milk. White
creamy milk of tenderness and good sense.
    Childe smiled. The Great Romanticist. He not only
looked like Lord Byron, he thought like him. Reincarna-
tion come. George Gordon, Lord Byron, reborn as a
private eye and without a club foot. One thing about a
club mind, it didn't show. Not at first. But the limp
became evident to others who had to walk with him day
after day.
    The Private Eyes of the novels. They