They Never Looked Inside Read Online Free PDF Page A

She had lived by her wits for nearly half a century and knew when to leave a party. A priceless knowledge, which was lacking in many of her betters. Sergeant Dalgetty had not only been in McCann’s Company, but he was a very old and very tried friend. In the early days of the war the Major, then a Subaltern, had steered the Sergeant through the exceedingly tricky consequences of a weekend’s absence without leave (taken to settle a matrimonial difference); and in Norway the Sergeant had saved McCann’s life. Even this had failed to terminate their friendship.
    As the air grew thick with smoke and the long hand crept towards closing time, so was the past relived. Every sentence seemed to begin with “Do you remember—?” and the old magical names floated to the surface and burst into a froth of reminiscence. Stavanger and Vasterival, Bone and Sedgenane, Le Port and Wesel. “Do you remember Nobby and Blanco trying to load a Jerry Eighty-eight with a twenty-five-pounder shell?” said Sergeant Dalgetty. “’Won’t go in,’ Nobby said, ‘hit the — with a mallet. Anything’ll go in if you hit it hard enough.’ No, come to think of it, that was when you were in hospital.”
    “Time, gentlemen, please,” said the barmaid.
    “And that time we tried what would happen if we fired a nine-inch mortar straight up in the air . . .”
    “Time, gentlemen, please .”
    As they stood on the pavement for a moment, the Sergeant said: “Talking of Blanco, I saw him last week – at the corner of Berkeley Square and Davies Street, about seven o’clock. I gave him a shout, but he can’t have heard me. Funny thing, just dived into the doorway. A block of offices.”
    “I can’t quite see Blanco as a black-coated worker,” said the Major. “One of our rougher diamonds. Good night, sergeant. I’ve got your address, good. We’ll be seeing some more of each other before long. Good night.”
    It was a lovely night. There was a half-moon up, and a light wind packing the clouds across. The Major thought he would walk. He plunged into the well-ordered patchwork of by-ways which lies between Piccadilly and Oxford Street. He was scarcely troubling to steer a course since he was well aware that Park Lane on the left or Regent Street on the right would prevent him from tacking too far. In consequence he found it difficult, when thinking it over afterwards, to fix his exact whereabouts at the moment when he became conscious of footsteps running behind him.
    There is always a temptation to observe without being observed. He drew back into the shadow of a convenient doorway. The steps came nearer.
    Without being able to define his reasons precisely, the Major felt interested. The runner was so clearly afraid of being followed and anxious to evade whoever might be following him. Every fifty yards he would stop for an instant to collect his breath and listen, then on again. He was wearing rubber soled shoes, too.
    As the play of the moonlight fitfully lit up the empty road the man drew nearer.
    Now it must be emphasised that the Major was not at the time absolutely and strictly sober. Far, far from drunk (even in the military sense of that difficult word). But it was undeniable that he had placed a number of whiskies and brandies on top of a pint or so of beer. And, as many a drinker has found to his cost, had committed the additional indiscretion of placing further pints on top of the whisky.
    The fact remains, excuse it how you will, that as the runner drew level with Major McCann, the latter became a victim of an uncontrollable impulse.
    He thrust his leg out.
    The results exceeded expectations, and the runner, his momentum being checked at the base, whilst his upper parts persisted in their forward progress, described a graceful half-circle.
    The Major jumped forward.
    Even in the stress of the moment he noticed the skill and precision with which the unknown regained his footing. It was a skill born of the gymnasium and the boxing