Ratlines Read Online Free PDF Page A

ahead. Old photographs of Salthill and Galway City hung on the walls alongside prints of Christ and the Virgin, and what appeared to be family portraits of generations past.
    “It’s a shocking thing,” she said, her breath shortening as she climbed. “He seemed a nice enough man. Why someone would want to do that to him, I really don’t know. He may have been a foreigner, but that doesn’t account for it. And there’s me all booked out for next month, all them people coming in to see President Kennedy when he visits—they’re landing the helicopters just up the road, you know—and now I’ve got blood all over my carpet. I’ll have to do that room top to bottom. How can I expect anyone to stay in there with blood on the carpet? Here we are.”
    She stopped at a door bearing the number six and fished a ring of keys from a pocket in her skirt. “I’ll not go in with you, if you don’t mind,” she said as she turned the key in the lock.
    “That’s fine,” Ryan said.
    He put his fingers to the handle, but Mrs. Toal seized his wrist.
    “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said, her voice dropping low. “There was drink taken. I found a bottle on the bedside locker. I don’t know what sort of drink it was, but they’d been at it when it happened.”
    “Is that right?” Ryan asked.
    “Oh, it is. And he wouldn’t be the first man to meet his death when drink was taken. I know. My husband was one of them. He died right outside my front door. He had a bellyful of whiskey and porter one night, then he fell on those rocks out there. Split his head open and drowned when the tide came in.”
    “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Ryan said, meaning it. “I’ll come and find you when I’m finished here.”
    “All right, so.” She nodded and went to the stairs. “Call me if you need anything.”
    Alone, Ryan turned the handle and entered the room.
    The smell came first, like metal and meat gone bad. He coughed and brought one hand up to cover his nose and mouth. With the other, he felt for the light switch and flicked it on.
    A simple guesthouse room like any he’d ever stayed in. Tasteful floral wallpaper, patterned carpet, a washbasin in one corner, a wardrobe in another. A single bed with one locker beside it, and a chair facing them both.
    And a reddish-brown cluster on the wall, small pieces of solid matter barely visible from this side of the room.
    Ryan took slow steps towards the foot of the bed. Beyond it, a dark pool on the carpet, the vague shape of a folded body scraped in chalk. Powder dusted the surfaces of the windowsill and the bedside locker, ghosts of fingertips scattered through it.
    A small suitcase sat open on the floor at the foot of the bed. Ryan crouched down next to it and sorted through the items within. Underwear, socks, three packets of Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes, and a bottle of imported vodka. He stood. A wash bag sat on the edge of the basin, a shaving brush and a razor, a toothbrush and cologne.
    He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror above them. Tiredness weighed on his features. He had been jowly since his late twenties. Now aged thirty six, he sometimes felt he looked like a forlorn bloodhound, especially when fatigue darkened his eyes.
    A movement in the reflection startled him.
    “Are you the G2 fella?” a voice asked.
    Ryan turned. A man wearing a shabby suit and overcoat stood in the doorway. He held up his open wallet.
    “Detective Garda Michael Harrington,” he said, returning the wallet to his pocket. “I was told you’d be visiting us, but I didn’t expect you for a day or two yet.”
    Ryan extended his hand. “I wanted to get a head start, see the room before too much time passed.”
    Harrington stared at the offered hand for a moment before shaking it. He held a manila folder in the other. “Fair enough. I’ve got this report for you. If you want a look at the body, it’s over at the Regional Hospital.”
    K RAUSS ’ S NAKED BODY lay on the