[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
got to pay for his fun. And that s where you two come in.
He told them more of what was in his mind, in terse sparkling sentences,
while he dressed. His brain was working at high pressure by that time,
throwing ideas together with his own incomparable audacity, building a plan
out of a situation that had not yet come to pass, leaving them almost out of
breath behind the whirlwind pace of his imagination. And yet, despite the
breakneck pace at which he had swept his strategy together, he had no
misgivings about it afterwards-not even while he drove his great thundering
car recklessly through the night to Harwich, or when he stood outside the
post-office in the early morning waiting for the doors to open.
It should be all right.... About some things he had a feeling of sublime
confidence, a sense of joyous inevitability, that amounted to actual
foreknowledge; and he had the same feeling that morning. These things were
ordained: they were the rewards of adventure, the deserved corollaries of
battle, murder, and-a slight smile touched his lips-the shadow of sudden
death. But with all this assurance of foreknowledge, there was still a ghostly
pulse of nervous excitement flickering through his spinal cells when the doors
opened to let him in- a tingle of deep delight in the infinitely varied twists
of the game which he loved beyond anything else in life.
He went up to the counter and propped his elbows on the flat of the telegraph
section. He wanted to send a cable to Umpopo in British Bechuanaland; but
before he sent it he wanted to know all about the comparative merits of the
various word rates. He was prepared, according to the inducements offered, to
consider the relative attractions of Night Letters, Weed-end Letters, or
Deferreds; and he wanted to know everything there was to know about each.
Naturally, this took time. The official behind the grille, although he claimed
a sketchy familiarity with the whereabouts of British Bechuanaland, had never
heard of Umpopo; which is not surprising, because the Saint had never heard of
it either before he set out to invent a difficult place to want to send a
cable to. But with that indomitable zeal which is the most striking
characteristic of post-office officials, he applied himself diligently to the
necessary research, while Simon Templar lighted another cigarette and waited
patiently for results.
He was wearing a brown tweed cap of a pattern which would never ordinarily
have appealed to him, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and a black military
moustache completed the job of disguising him sufficiently to be overlooked on
a casual glance even by anyone who knew him. As the last man on earth whom the
High Fence would be expecting to meet, he was as well hidden as if he had been
buried under the floor. . . . The official behind the counter, meanwhile, was
getting buried deeper and deeper under a growing mound of reference books.
I can t seem to find anything about Umpopo, he complained peevishly, from
behind his unhelpful barricade. Are you sure there is a telegraph office
there?
Oh, yes, said the Saint blandly. At least, he added, there s one at
Mbungi, which is only half a mile away.
The clerk went back through his books in a silence too frightful to describe;
and the Saint put his cigarette back between his lips, and then suddenly
remained very still.
Page 48
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Another early customer had entered the office. Simon heard his footsteps
crossing the floor and passing behind him, but he did not look round at once.
The footsteps travelled along to the Poste Restante section, a couple of yards
away, and stopped there.
Have you anything for Pond?
The soft voice came clearly to Simon s ears, and he lifted his eyes sidelong.
The man was leaning on the counter, like himself, so that his back was half
turned; but the Saint s heart stopped beating for a moment.
What is the first name? asked the clerk, clearing out the contents of one
of the pigeon-holes behind him.
Joshua.
Rather slowly and dreamily, the Saint hitched himself up off his elbow and
straightened up. Behind his heaped breakwater of reference books, the steaming
telegraph official was muttering something profane and plaintive; but the
Saint never heard it. He saw the cardboard box which he had posted pushed over
to its claimant, and moved along the counter without a sound. His hand fell on
the man s shoulder. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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got to pay for his fun. And that s where you two come in.
He told them more of what was in his mind, in terse sparkling sentences,
while he dressed. His brain was working at high pressure by that time,
throwing ideas together with his own incomparable audacity, building a plan
out of a situation that had not yet come to pass, leaving them almost out of
breath behind the whirlwind pace of his imagination. And yet, despite the
breakneck pace at which he had swept his strategy together, he had no
misgivings about it afterwards-not even while he drove his great thundering
car recklessly through the night to Harwich, or when he stood outside the
post-office in the early morning waiting for the doors to open.
It should be all right.... About some things he had a feeling of sublime
confidence, a sense of joyous inevitability, that amounted to actual
foreknowledge; and he had the same feeling that morning. These things were
ordained: they were the rewards of adventure, the deserved corollaries of
battle, murder, and-a slight smile touched his lips-the shadow of sudden
death. But with all this assurance of foreknowledge, there was still a ghostly
pulse of nervous excitement flickering through his spinal cells when the doors
opened to let him in- a tingle of deep delight in the infinitely varied twists
of the game which he loved beyond anything else in life.
He went up to the counter and propped his elbows on the flat of the telegraph
section. He wanted to send a cable to Umpopo in British Bechuanaland; but
before he sent it he wanted to know all about the comparative merits of the
various word rates. He was prepared, according to the inducements offered, to
consider the relative attractions of Night Letters, Weed-end Letters, or
Deferreds; and he wanted to know everything there was to know about each.
Naturally, this took time. The official behind the grille, although he claimed
a sketchy familiarity with the whereabouts of British Bechuanaland, had never
heard of Umpopo; which is not surprising, because the Saint had never heard of
it either before he set out to invent a difficult place to want to send a
cable to. But with that indomitable zeal which is the most striking
characteristic of post-office officials, he applied himself diligently to the
necessary research, while Simon Templar lighted another cigarette and waited
patiently for results.
He was wearing a brown tweed cap of a pattern which would never ordinarily
have appealed to him, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and a black military
moustache completed the job of disguising him sufficiently to be overlooked on
a casual glance even by anyone who knew him. As the last man on earth whom the
High Fence would be expecting to meet, he was as well hidden as if he had been
buried under the floor. . . . The official behind the counter, meanwhile, was
getting buried deeper and deeper under a growing mound of reference books.
I can t seem to find anything about Umpopo, he complained peevishly, from
behind his unhelpful barricade. Are you sure there is a telegraph office
there?
Oh, yes, said the Saint blandly. At least, he added, there s one at
Mbungi, which is only half a mile away.
The clerk went back through his books in a silence too frightful to describe;
and the Saint put his cigarette back between his lips, and then suddenly
remained very still.
Page 48
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Another early customer had entered the office. Simon heard his footsteps
crossing the floor and passing behind him, but he did not look round at once.
The footsteps travelled along to the Poste Restante section, a couple of yards
away, and stopped there.
Have you anything for Pond?
The soft voice came clearly to Simon s ears, and he lifted his eyes sidelong.
The man was leaning on the counter, like himself, so that his back was half
turned; but the Saint s heart stopped beating for a moment.
What is the first name? asked the clerk, clearing out the contents of one
of the pigeon-holes behind him.
Joshua.
Rather slowly and dreamily, the Saint hitched himself up off his elbow and
straightened up. Behind his heaped breakwater of reference books, the steaming
telegraph official was muttering something profane and plaintive; but the
Saint never heard it. He saw the cardboard box which he had posted pushed over
to its claimant, and moved along the counter without a sound. His hand fell on
the man s shoulder. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]