Read Online Killing Time In Eternity - Edge Series 4 by George G. Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: George G. Gilman
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off the train. One who was not welcome in Eternity and certainly not in his establishment. Which suited Edge fine, for he was in no frame of mind to exchange any further pleasantries with anyone else for a while. But, indifferent as he was to the man’s resentful attitude, he recognised Segal’s ill feelings were not in fact directed at him. Instead, Segal’s mind still seemed to be preoccupied with somebody he disliked in the group of people about to pass out of sight around the curve in front of the theatre. The man confirmed this when he warned in a sour tone: ‘Take care not to tangle with that Warner guy who just got off the train, mister. He can be a real cold hearted, mean minded, evil intentioned sonofabitch if he even thinks he’s being crossed.’
Edge showed a brief grin that re-shaped his mouth but left his narrowed, coldly glinting eyes untouched as he replied evenly: ‘Nobody knows the type better than me, feller.’
38
He trailed the small crowd as it quickly shrank in size: the people with their packages collected from off the morning train that was now no more than a far off sound diminishing into the west, moving away to go about their daily business. And reached the building at the start of the unnamed side street that housed the Eternity Post Despatch as Flynt, his sister and Clay Warner entered the law office on the opposite corner. Edge stepped into the newspaper office that was comfortably stove-heated and smelled pleasantly of ink and polish and coffee. Where a middle aged, spade bearded, slightly built man who was seated at a desk behind a waist-high partition greeted him with a business-like enthusiasm.
‘Good morning to you, Mr Edge. How can I help you?’ He rose from where he had been poring over a large poster, shiny with wet ink, which promoted a forthcoming production of Hamlet at the Washington Memorial Theatre.
‘Like to know if there are any replies to my store-for-sale notice, feller,’ Edge told Bradley Frost, who was the publisher and editor of the town’s weekly newspaper. Frost clicked a thumb and finger. ‘Ah, yes, I remember. Miss Flynt usually takes care of that end of the business. I recall Beth wasn’t in the office when you came by to place the announcement and now . . . ‘ He shrugged and showed a wan grin. ‘Women: they always have so much else to do. Or so they would have we men believe. I’ll see to your requirements.’
He rose from behind the desk and went to a bank of numbered pigeonholes against a side wall, some with papers pushed into them, many more that were empty. And consulted a printed list tacked to the wall nearby, checked it twice and turned with a rueful shake of his head.
‘I’m sorry, sir. There are no prospective takers for the old Sims store yet. But it’s early days, of course. What we can do for you is run the announcement again in next week’s issue for half price? Be just twenty-five cents for us to do that?’
‘Then I figure that’s what I’ll do.’ Edge paid what had been asked as the door opened and the two old timers who were in the saloon last night entered the newspaper office.
‘Morning, Brad. Weather’s going to be somewhat better than yesterday by the look of things.’ It was Walter Benson, the ramrod straight, florid complexioned, former artillery colonel who made the almost boomingly loud announcement.
The head shorter, more solidly built John Dickens nodded to the newspaper publisher and Edge while the retired railroadman divided his amiable greeting equally between a fellow citizen of Eternity and a stranger to town. Then, with Benson in the lead, the newcomers pushed through a hinged section of the partition that divided the office into 39
public and private areas and went to a large table at a rear corner between the potbelly stove and an archway that gave on to the print shop. There Benson sat down at the table and produced a dog-eared bundle of papers from inside his heavy topcoat while Dickens took
Edge showed a brief grin that re-shaped his mouth but left his narrowed, coldly glinting eyes untouched as he replied evenly: ‘Nobody knows the type better than me, feller.’
38
He trailed the small crowd as it quickly shrank in size: the people with their packages collected from off the morning train that was now no more than a far off sound diminishing into the west, moving away to go about their daily business. And reached the building at the start of the unnamed side street that housed the Eternity Post Despatch as Flynt, his sister and Clay Warner entered the law office on the opposite corner. Edge stepped into the newspaper office that was comfortably stove-heated and smelled pleasantly of ink and polish and coffee. Where a middle aged, spade bearded, slightly built man who was seated at a desk behind a waist-high partition greeted him with a business-like enthusiasm.
‘Good morning to you, Mr Edge. How can I help you?’ He rose from where he had been poring over a large poster, shiny with wet ink, which promoted a forthcoming production of Hamlet at the Washington Memorial Theatre.
‘Like to know if there are any replies to my store-for-sale notice, feller,’ Edge told Bradley Frost, who was the publisher and editor of the town’s weekly newspaper. Frost clicked a thumb and finger. ‘Ah, yes, I remember. Miss Flynt usually takes care of that end of the business. I recall Beth wasn’t in the office when you came by to place the announcement and now . . . ‘ He shrugged and showed a wan grin. ‘Women: they always have so much else to do. Or so they would have we men believe. I’ll see to your requirements.’
He rose from behind the desk and went to a bank of numbered pigeonholes against a side wall, some with papers pushed into them, many more that were empty. And consulted a printed list tacked to the wall nearby, checked it twice and turned with a rueful shake of his head.
‘I’m sorry, sir. There are no prospective takers for the old Sims store yet. But it’s early days, of course. What we can do for you is run the announcement again in next week’s issue for half price? Be just twenty-five cents for us to do that?’
‘Then I figure that’s what I’ll do.’ Edge paid what had been asked as the door opened and the two old timers who were in the saloon last night entered the newspaper office.
‘Morning, Brad. Weather’s going to be somewhat better than yesterday by the look of things.’ It was Walter Benson, the ramrod straight, florid complexioned, former artillery colonel who made the almost boomingly loud announcement.
The head shorter, more solidly built John Dickens nodded to the newspaper publisher and Edge while the retired railroadman divided his amiable greeting equally between a fellow citizen of Eternity and a stranger to town. Then, with Benson in the lead, the newcomers pushed through a hinged section of the partition that divided the office into 39
public and private areas and went to a large table at a rear corner between the potbelly stove and an archway that gave on to the print shop. There Benson sat down at the table and produced a dog-eared bundle of papers from inside his heavy topcoat while Dickens took
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