Read Online 1951 - But a Short Time to Live by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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strained, worried expression on his face. He was dreaming, and whenever Mooney had dreams they were always concerned with his own personal problems.
The sharp sound of knocking on the outer door woke him, and he sat up, blinked round the tiny office, still only half awake, and not sure if he had heard anything.
The knocking was repeated, and he lowered his feet to the floor.
"That'll be Harry," he thought, yawning. He moved to the door. Well, now we'll see if his idea's any good. Shouldn't be surprised if it was. That boy's no fool."
When he opened the shop door he was startled to find a policeman standing on the step.
"Mr. Mooney?" the policeman asked.
"That's me," Mooney said respectfully. He was always respectful to policemen. "What's up?"
"Young fella named Harry Ricks work for you?"
Mooney groaned.
"Don't tell me he's been pinched. I haven't got the dough to bail him out if that's what you want."
"He's been hurt," the policeman said. "You're wanted at the station."
Mooney changed colour: in sentimental moments he regarded Harry as a son.
"Hurt?" he repeated. "Is he bad?"
"No, he's not bad; a bit shaken up, you know," the policeman returned. He was big and mooned faced with a fresh complexion and sandy hair, and had a quiet, mournful manner; the kind of manner, Mooney thought, feeling a little sick, that would do credit to an undertaker. "He wants to go home, and said you'd look after him."
"Of course I'll look after him," Mooney said. He was surprised how upset he felt. "Here, wait a second while I get my coat and lock up."
He ran back to the office. His knees felt wobbly and his hands shook.
"The trouble with me is I'm getting old," he thought as he struggled into his coat. "Getting worked up like a blasted old woman. But it's a shock. I like that boy. I wish I'd got a bottle of something here. I could do with a nip."
He pulled open his desk drawer, but the whisky bottle he found under a pile of papers was empty, and had been empty for the past year. He sighed, turned off the light, returned to the shop, closed and locked the door.
"I'm ready," he said. "What happened to him?"
"Got knocked on the head," the policeman said. "I found him lying in the street just up the way. He wouldn't go to the hospital so we fixed him up at the station."
"Knocked on the head?" Mooney repeated blankly. "You mean someone hit him?"
"That's right,"
"Who was it?" Mooney demanded. "I hope you caught him."
"I didn't catch anyone," the policeman returned. "The inspector's talking to Ricks now."
Mooney suddenly stopped and clutched at the policeman's arm.
"Don't tell me his camera's pinched? Cost me forty quid before the war, and I couldn't get another for three times that amount."
"I don't know anything about a camera," the policeman said, freeing his arm. "If you'll step out, we'll get there all the sooner."
Although Mooney didn't feel like stepping out, he did his best to move along briskly. He felt suddenly depressed and deflated.
"When a chap reaches my age and can't have a drink when he wants one," he thought gloomily, "the writing's on the wall. It's no use, Mooney, old kid, you've had it. Fifty-six and can't spring to a bottle of Scotch. You've had it all right. If there's ever a man heading for the workhouse, it's you."
He was feeling very low by the time they reached the police station. He had now come to the conclusion that he was not only a failure, but that Harry wouldn't be able to work again, and the camera had been stolen.
"No more bright ideas," he thought as he mounted the steps and followed the policeman's broad back down a passage. "This settles it. I shouldn't have let Harry work at night. I might have known some drunk would have got annoyed and hit him. Not everyone wants to have a flashlight let off in their faces. I ought to have thought of that."
He was shown into a large office. Two plain-clothes officers were standing by an empty fireplace, smoking, and Harry was sitting in a
The sharp sound of knocking on the outer door woke him, and he sat up, blinked round the tiny office, still only half awake, and not sure if he had heard anything.
The knocking was repeated, and he lowered his feet to the floor.
"That'll be Harry," he thought, yawning. He moved to the door. Well, now we'll see if his idea's any good. Shouldn't be surprised if it was. That boy's no fool."
When he opened the shop door he was startled to find a policeman standing on the step.
"Mr. Mooney?" the policeman asked.
"That's me," Mooney said respectfully. He was always respectful to policemen. "What's up?"
"Young fella named Harry Ricks work for you?"
Mooney groaned.
"Don't tell me he's been pinched. I haven't got the dough to bail him out if that's what you want."
"He's been hurt," the policeman said. "You're wanted at the station."
Mooney changed colour: in sentimental moments he regarded Harry as a son.
"Hurt?" he repeated. "Is he bad?"
"No, he's not bad; a bit shaken up, you know," the policeman returned. He was big and mooned faced with a fresh complexion and sandy hair, and had a quiet, mournful manner; the kind of manner, Mooney thought, feeling a little sick, that would do credit to an undertaker. "He wants to go home, and said you'd look after him."
"Of course I'll look after him," Mooney said. He was surprised how upset he felt. "Here, wait a second while I get my coat and lock up."
He ran back to the office. His knees felt wobbly and his hands shook.
"The trouble with me is I'm getting old," he thought as he struggled into his coat. "Getting worked up like a blasted old woman. But it's a shock. I like that boy. I wish I'd got a bottle of something here. I could do with a nip."
He pulled open his desk drawer, but the whisky bottle he found under a pile of papers was empty, and had been empty for the past year. He sighed, turned off the light, returned to the shop, closed and locked the door.
"I'm ready," he said. "What happened to him?"
"Got knocked on the head," the policeman said. "I found him lying in the street just up the way. He wouldn't go to the hospital so we fixed him up at the station."
"Knocked on the head?" Mooney repeated blankly. "You mean someone hit him?"
"That's right,"
"Who was it?" Mooney demanded. "I hope you caught him."
"I didn't catch anyone," the policeman returned. "The inspector's talking to Ricks now."
Mooney suddenly stopped and clutched at the policeman's arm.
"Don't tell me his camera's pinched? Cost me forty quid before the war, and I couldn't get another for three times that amount."
"I don't know anything about a camera," the policeman said, freeing his arm. "If you'll step out, we'll get there all the sooner."
Although Mooney didn't feel like stepping out, he did his best to move along briskly. He felt suddenly depressed and deflated.
"When a chap reaches my age and can't have a drink when he wants one," he thought gloomily, "the writing's on the wall. It's no use, Mooney, old kid, you've had it. Fifty-six and can't spring to a bottle of Scotch. You've had it all right. If there's ever a man heading for the workhouse, it's you."
He was feeling very low by the time they reached the police station. He had now come to the conclusion that he was not only a failure, but that Harry wouldn't be able to work again, and the camera had been stolen.
"No more bright ideas," he thought as he mounted the steps and followed the policeman's broad back down a passage. "This settles it. I shouldn't have let Harry work at night. I might have known some drunk would have got annoyed and hit him. Not everyone wants to have a flashlight let off in their faces. I ought to have thought of that."
He was shown into a large office. Two plain-clothes officers were standing by an empty fireplace, smoking, and Harry was sitting in a
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