Ritual Read Online Free PDF

that it was working. ‘Be closed by now,
though. Five after three.’
    ‘It’s a
particular restaurant I’m interested in, Le
Reposoir .’
    The ruddy-faced
man thought about that, and then shook his head. ‘Never heard
of any place called anything like that. Sure it’s Alien’s Corners you
want? Not Bethlehem?’
    ‘I had lunch at
the Iron Kettle,’ said Charlie. ‘Mrs Foss told me about it.’
    ‘What did he
say?’ the white-haired man cried out, leaning forward and cupping his hand to
his whiskery ear.
    ‘He said he had
lunch at the Iron Kettle,’ the ruddy-faced man shouted at him.
    ‘Well, rather
him than me,’ his companion replied. ‘Never could tolerate that Wickes family.’
    ‘The Fosses own
it now,’ the ruddy-faced man told him.
    ‘Oh, the
Fosses,’ said his white-haired friend. ‘I remember. That
woman with the fancy eyeglasses and the stupid sons. And that daughter
that went missing – what was her name?’
    ‘Ivy,’ the
ruddy-faced man reminded him. ‘And she wasn’t a daughter, she was a niece.’
    ‘You’re a
hair-splitter, Christopher Prescott,’ the white-haired man snapped.
    ‘And you,
Oliver T. Burack, are a xenophobe.’
    Charlie
interrupted them. ‘You don’t know where this restaurant could be, then?’
    The ruddy-faced
Christopher Prescott said, ‘ You’ve been misguided, my
friend, if you want my opinion. Somebody’s led you astray.’
    ‘Harriet the
waitress told me about it. She even spelled it out.’
    ‘Harriet?
Harriet Greene?’
    ‘I guess that’s
her name, yes.’
    Christopher
Prescott reached out and gently took hold of the sleeve of Charlie’s coat. ‘My
dear man, Harriet Greene is well known in this locality for having an unusually
low proportion of active brain cells. In other words, she’s what you might call
doolally.’
    ‘Mrs Foss
mentioned the place, too,’ said Charlie. Beside him, Martin was growing
restless, and scuffing his feet.
    ‘What did he
say?’ Oliver T. Burack wanted to know.
    ‘He was talking
about the Fosses,’ Christopher Prescott shouted.
    ‘The Fosses of
Evil,’ cackled Oliver T. Burack. ‘That’s what I call them. The
Fosses of Evil.’
    ‘Be quiet,
Oliver,’ Christopher Prescott admonished him.
    It was then
that a young sheriff’s deputy came walking across the grass towards them. He
was thin and big-nosed and he had grown a drooping blond moustache in an
obvious effort to make himself look more mature. His eyes were concealed behind
impenetrable dark sunglasses. He came up to Charlie and Martin and stood with
his hands on his narrow hips, inspecting them.
    ‘That your car,
sir? That Olds with the Michigan plates?’
    ‘Yes, it is,’
said Charlie. ‘Anything wrong?’
    ‘I’d appreciate
it if you’d move it, that’s all,’ the deputy told him.
    ‘It’s not
illegally parked,’ said Charlie.
    ‘Did you hear
anybody say that it was?’ the deputy inquired. Charlie – who had argued with
traffic cops and deputies on almost every highway from Walla Walla, Washington,
to Wind River, Wyoming – took a deep and patient breath.
    ‘If it’s not
illegally parked, deputy, then I’d honestly prefer it to remain where it is.’
    The deputy
looked past Charlie and Martin to the two old men on the bench. ‘How’re you
doing Mr Prescott, sir? Mr Burack?’
    ‘We’re doing
fine, thank you, Clive,’ Christopher Prescott replied.
    ‘These two people bothering you any?’
    ‘No, sir, not at all. Asking for directions, that was all.’
    ‘Lost your
way?’ the deputy said, turning back to Charlie.
    ‘Not really.
I’m trying to find a restaurant, that’s all. Le Reposoir .’
    The deputy
thoughtfully stroked at his blond moustache. He had a ferocious red spot right
on the end of his nose. ‘You know something, sir? There are laws and there are
customs.’
    ‘Are you trying
to make some kind of a point?’ Charlie asked.
    ‘What I’m
trying to say, sir, without giving unnecessary offence, is that your