The Brentford Triangle Read Online Free PDF

upon my approach. This is the nearest that I have so far come to one of them.”
    “But you are sure that there are more than one?” Pooley asked.
    “I have seen as many as three of them together at one time. As like as the proverbial peas in a pod. Suspicious, I call it.”
    “I shall go and question him.” Omally rose from his chair.
    “Best wait till he comes out,” Jim suggested. “It is hardly sporting to corner a man in the bog.”
    “Do it now while you have him cornered,” said Old Pete. “They are a sly crowd. I never saw that fellow enter the Swan and I was the first man in.”
    “That settles it,” said John, drawing up his cuffs. “I shall have it out with him.” Without further word he crossed the bar and pushed open the door to the gents’.
    It closed gently behind him and a long minute passed. Pooley looked up at the Guinness clock and watched the second hand sweeping the dial. “Do you think he’s all right?” he whispered.
    Old Pete nodded. “Omally knows how to handle himself, it is well known that he is a Grand Master in the deadly fighting arts of Dimac.”
    “It is much spoken of, certainly,” said Jim with some deliberation. As the second hand passed the twelve for the third time Pooley gripped the table and pulled himself to his feet. “Something is wrong,” he said.
    “He said he was going to have it out with the fellow, don’t be so hasty, give him another minute.”
    “I don’t know, you say you never saw him come in, maybe he has several of his chums in there. I don’t like the feel of this.”
    Old Pete’s dog Chips, who had not liked the feel of this from the word go, retreated silently between the legs of his ancient master. Jim was across the carpet and through the bog doorway in a matter of seconds. Once inside he froze in his tracks, his breath hung in his lungs, uncertain of which way it had been travelling, and his eyes bulged unpleasantly in their sockets. Before him stood John Omally, perspiration running freely down his face in grimy streaks. His tie hung over his shoulder college scarf fashion, and he swayed to and fro upon his heels.
    Omally stared at Pooley and Pooley stared at Omally. “Did he come out?” Omally’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
    Pooley shook his head. “Then he must still be here then.” Pooley nodded. “But he’s not.”
    Pooley was uncertain whether to shake or nod over this. “There’s a terrible smell of creosote in here,” he said. Omally pushed past him and lurched back into the bar leaving Pooley staring about the tiled walls. Above him was an air vent a mere six inches across. The one window was heavily bolted from the inside and the two cubicle doors stood open, exposing twin confessionals, each as empty as the proverbial vessel, but making no noise whatever. There was no conceivable mode of escape, but by the single door which led directly into the bar. Pooley gave his head a final shake, turned slowly upon his heel and numbly followed Omally back into the saloon.

6
    As the Memorial Library clock struck one in the distance, Norman finished topping up the battered Woodbine machine outside his corner shop. He locked the crumbling dispenser of coffin nails and pocketed Pooley’s two washers, which had made their usual weekly appearance in the cash tray amongst the legitimate coin of the realm.
    Norman re-entered his shop and bolted the door behind him, turning the OPEN sign to CLOSED. As he crossed the mottled linoleum he whistled softly to himself; sadly, as he had not yet retrieved his wayward teeth, the air sounded a little obscure. For some reason Norman had never quite got the hang of humming, so he contented himself with a bit of unmelodic finger-popping and what he described as “a touch of the old Fred and Gingers” as he vanished away through the door behind the counter, and left his shop to gather dust for another Wednesday afternoon.
    Norman’s kitchenette served him as the traditional shopkeeper’s lair,