Read Online Elegy for April by Benjamin Black - Free Book Online Page B

middle of his life; up to now there had seemed nothing that he could not influence or alter, with more or less effort; to be an alcoholic, however, was an incurable state, whether he were to drink or not. That is a sobering thought, he told himself, and grinned behind his paper and bared his teeth.
     
When he saw Inspector Hackett come into the lounge he knew he had chosen the wrong meeting place. The detective had stopped just inside the glass doors and was scanning the room with an air of faint desperation, nervously clutching his old slouch hat to his chest. He was wearing a remarkable overcoat, more a longish jacket, really, black and shiny, with toggles and epaulets and lapels six inches wide with sharp tips. Quirke half rose and waved the newspaper, and Hackett saw him with evident relief and made his way across the room, weaving between the tables. They did not shake hands.
     
“Dr. Quirke— good day to you.”
     
“How are you, Inspector?”
     
“Never better.”
     
“I wish I could say the same.”
     
They sat. Hackett put his hat on the floor under his chair; he had not taken off his coat, which at close quarters was even more extraordinary; it was made of a synthetic, leather-like material and squeaked and creaked with every move he made. Quirke signaled to a waitress and ordered tea for them both. The detective had begun to relax, and sat with his knees splayed and his hands clamped on his thighs, regarding Quirke in that familiar, genially piercing way of his. These two had known each other for a long time.
     
“Were you away, Doctor?”
     
Quirke smiled and shrugged. “Sort of.”
     
“Have you not been well?”
     
“I was in St. John of the Cross, since Christmas.”
     
“Ah. That’s a hard place, I hear.”
     
“Not really. Or at least it’s not the place that’s hard.”
     
“And you’re out, now.”
     
“I’m out.”
     
The waitress brought their tea. Hackett looked on dubiously as she set out the silver pots, the bone-china cups, the plates ofbread-and-butter, and an ornamental stand of little cakes. “By the Lord Harry,” he said, “here’s a feast.” He stood up and struggled out of his coat; when the waitress made to take it from him he instinctively resisted, clutching it to him, but then bethought himself and surrendered it, his forehead reddening. “Herself at home makes me wear it,” he said, sitting down again, not looking at Quirke. “The son sent it to me for a Christmas present. He’s in New York now, making his fortune among the Yanks.” He picked up the silver tea strainer and held it gingerly between a finger and thumb, inspecting it. “In the name of God,” he murmured, “what is this yoke?”
     
In all the time that Quirke had known Inspector Hackett he had not ever been able to decide if what he presented to the world were truly himself or an elaborately contrived mask. If it was, then it was fashioned with cunning and subtlety— look at those boots, those farm laborer’s hands, that shiny blue suit of immemorial provenance; look at those eyes, merry and watchful, that thin-lipped mouth like a steel trap; look at those eyebrows. Now he lifted his teacup with a little finger cocked, took a dainty slurp, and set it down again in its saucer. There was a shallow pink dent across his forehead where his hatband had pressed into the skin. “It’s grand to see you, Dr. Quirke,” he said. “How long has it been now?”
     
“Oh, a long time. Last summer.”
     
“And how is that daughter of yours?— I’ve forgotten her name.”
     
“Phoebe.”
     
“That’s right. Phoebe. How is she getting on?”
     
Quirke stirred his tea slowly. “It’s her I wanted to talk to you about.”
     
“Is that so?” The policeman’s tone had sharpened, but his look was as bland and amiable as ever. “I hope she’s not after getting herself into another spot of bother?” The last time Hackett hadseen Phoebe was late one night after the violent death of a man who had been briefly her lover.
     
“No,” Quirke said, “not