The Man with a Load of Mischief Read Online Free PDF

dependent upon him, he could afford the lesser salary, which was ample for his modest needs. What did all this superstructure matter, anyway? Jury had known PCs who were as invaluable in their expertise and knowledge as were the men on the Olympian heights of the commissioner.
    â€œWhen did you want me to leave, sir?”
    â€œYesterday,” snapped Racer.
    â€œI’ve still got this Soho murder —”
    â€œYou mean that Chink restaurant business?”
    The phone interrupted them and Racer yanked it up. “Yes?” He listened a moment, flicking glances at Jury. “Yes, he’s here.” He listened a moment longer, a mean smile playing on his thinlips. “ ‘Over six feet, chestnut hair, dark gray eyes, good teeth, and a ravishing smile’?” his voice fluted. “That’s our Jury, all right.” The smile vanished. “Tell her he’ll call her back. We’re busy.” Racer slammed down the receiver, bouncing several ball-point pens. “Except for the ‘ravishing smile’ bit, that description could fit a horse.”
    Jury asked patiently, “May I inquire what that was all about?”
    â€œOne of the waitresses down at that Soho restaurant.” Racer looked at his watch. The call must have reminded him of his own engagement. “Got a dinner date.” He tossed the folder across the desk to Jury. “Get down to this godforsaken village. Take Wiggins with you. He’s not doing anything except blowing his goddamned nose.”
    Jury sighed. As usual, Racer hadn’t even asked him to choose his own detective sergeant. Wiggins was a young man made old through hypochondria. Likable enough, and efficient, but always on the verge of keeling over. “I’ll gather up Wiggins and leave early in the morning,” said Jury.
    Racer was out of his chair and pulling on his beautifully tailored overcoat. Jury wondered where his chief superintendent got his money. Taking bribes? Jury didn’t care.
    â€œWell, gather him up, then.” The superintendent flicked his thin, gold wristwatch. “Dinner at the Savoy. Got a gal waiting.” His smile was lascivious as he drew a shape in air. At the door he turned and said, “And for God’s sake, Jury, remember you work here, will you? When you get to that one-eyed village, report in for a change.”
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    Jury walked down the hall — and what lackluster halls they were, now, compared with the Victorian elegance of the old building. No marble and mahogany here, certainly. Crammed and jammed as old Scotland Yard might have been, he preferred it. When he got to the door of his own office, he found Fiona Clingmore hovering nearby, as if she had hit the spot purely by accident. She was buttoning up a black overcoat.
    â€œWell, Inspector Jury, off duty at last?” Her voice sounded hopeful.
    Jury smiled, reached inside the door, and grabbed his coatfrom the tree. His mates had left, so he switched off the light and shut the door. Looking down at her face, less young than one might have supposed at a distance, and at the high-piled yellow hair on which perched a kind of pillbox hat, Jury said, “Fiona, you know what you make me think of?” She shook her head, but looked at him expectantly. “All of those old wartime movies where the Yanks stream into London and fall in love with the local girls.”
    Fiona giggled. “A bit before my time, that is.”
    That was true. But she still looked out of another era. She might not be pushing forty, but she was close enough to give it a nudge.
    â€œI don’t think my Joe’d like you talking this way to me, Inspector Jury,” she said coyly.
    She was always talking about her Joe. No one had ever seen him. Jury had guessed some time ago that there was no Joe. There may have been once, but no more. He looked at Fiona smiling at him, saw how empty her eyes were, and felt