The Two Timers Read Online Free PDF Page B

who did

not understand the rules of the game. This was why he was looked at with

resentment when he asked what results they were getting -- and at some

point early in the last weeks he decided to invent new rules.

Kate's murderer had not been seen and, as he had no circumstantial

motive for the killing, there was nothing to link him physically to the

crime. But, Breton reasoned, there was another kind of connection. Breton

had no way of knowing the killer -- but the killer must know him. The

case had been well covered by the local papers and television services,

both of which had carried Breton's picture. It would be impossible for

the killer not to have shown interest in the man whose life he had so

savagely twisted. And, for a time, Breton came to believe that if he

encountered the killer on the street, in the park, in a bar, he would

know that man by his eyes.

The city was not large, and it was possible that in his lifetime he had,

at one time or another, glimpsed every man in it. Obviously, he had to

get into the streets and keep moving, going everywhere that people went,

making a rapid playback of a lifetime's exposure to the city's corporate

identity -- and someday he would look into another man's eyes, and he

would know. And when that happened . . .

The mirage of hope glimmered crazily in front of Breton for five weeks,

until it was finally extinguished by malnutrition and alcoholic poisoning.

He opened his eyes and knew by some quality of the light on the hospital

ceiling that there was snow on the ground outside. An unfamiliar

emptiness was gnawing at his stomach and he experienced a sane,

practical desire for a dish of thick farmhouse soup. Sitting up in

the bed he looked around him and discovered he was in a private room,

which was barely rescued from complete anonymity by several sprays of

deep-red roses. He recognized the favorite flowers of his secretary,

Hetty Calder, and there was a vague memory swirl of her long homely face

looking down at him with concern. Breton smiled briefly. In the past,

Hetty had almost visibly lost weight every time he got a head cold -- he

hesitated to think how she might have been affected by his performance

over the recent weeks. The desire for food returned with greater force

and he reached for the call button.

It was Hetty who, five days later, drove him home from the hospital in

his own car.

"Listen, Jack," she said desperately. "You've just got to come and

stay with us for a while. Harry and I would be delighted to have you,

and with you not having any family of your own . . ."

"I'll be fine, Hetty," Breton said. "Thanks again for the offer, but

it's time I went back home and began gathering up the pieces."

"But will you be all right?" Hetty was driving expertly through the

slush-walled streets, handling the big old car as if she were a man,

blowing through her cigarette every now and again to send a flaky cylinder

of ash onto the floor. Her sallow face was heavy with anxiety.

"I'll be all right," he said gratefully. "I can think about Kate now.

It hurts like hell, of course, but at least I'm able to accept it.

I wasn't able to do that before. It's hard to explain, but I had a

feeling there ought to be some government office I could go to -- a sort

of Department of Death -- and explain that there'd been a mistake. That

Kate couldn't die . . . I'm talking nonsense, Hetty."

Hetty glanced sideways at him. "You're talking like a human being, Jack.

There's nothing wrong with that."

"How do I usually talk?"

"Business has been pretty good the last few weeks," Hetty said crisply.

"You're going to need extra staff."

She went on to give him a rundown on the new business and the progress

that had been made on the existing survey contracts being handled by

Breton's engineering consultancy. As she talked he realized he was not

as concerned as he ought to be about his business. A gadgeteer by instinct,

he had taken a couple of