Read Online Moriarty Returns a Letter by Michael Robertson - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Robertson
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board. When he had done so, he turned, and saw that the older man was staring at him—staring at his face in the light of the dart lamp, just as the American had stared at the older man’s birthmark a few moments before.
The American came back behind the throwing line, and the older man, finally averting his gaze, stepped up. He got ready to throw, though to the American the older man seemed to still be trying to look at him out of the corner of his eye.
As the older man prepared to toss his first dart, the American said, “And what is your name, then?”
The older man tossed his dart, just as the American answered his own question.
“Redgil, isn’t it?”
The dart went wide. The older man, with the two remaining darts clenched in his fist as if they were ice picks, turned to face the American.
And then, suddenly—so suddenly that only the survivors would ever be aware of it—there was a disturbance in the air.
* * *
The V-2 flying bomb struck in the street, directly in front of the pub.
At the Marylebone Grand Hotel—the nearest occupied structure, other than the pub itself—the walls shook, mirrors broke, and plaster fell, but within moments all half-dozen occupants and staff had found one another in the lobby and determined that no one in their building required immediate medical attention.
Once they knew that, every one of them, staff and guests, went out into the street and down to the site of impact to see how they could help.
Bonnie, the young desk clerk, ran toward the location of the blast.
Remnants were everywhere in the street. Bonnie nearly tripped over the pub’s wooden logo sign. If it had been any more of a direct hit, there would have been nothing left at all of the pub or anyone in it. And as it was, there wasn’t much.
The entire front façade and wall were gone, as well as the side of the building facing south.
All the tables and booths from the first floor were a shambles, but the bar was still standing.
Sharp fragments—from a wall mirror, from lamps, from a slate chalkboard—were everywhere.
Bonnie stood in place for a moment in front of the devastation, her ears still recovering from the sound of the blast, and tried to determine in which direction to move to help.
The barmaid, dazed but apparently uninjured, was being helped out from behind the bar by the two older gentlemen who had been drinking their pints there a moment earlier.
Johnnie, the bellhop from the hotel, just a few months short of being seventeen and not yet old enough to be in the service, was already moving toward the flattened bar booths to assist the injured middle-aged couple who were stirring there.
Bonnie knew the street and its occupants very well, and she tried to think of who else was likely to have been in the pub. She knew of at least four people—no, five, if you included the American who said he was going there—who should have been inside.
Mr. Redfern, the hotel owner. His son. And, dear God, the two young children.
If they weren’t below in a booth and they weren’t at the bar, then she knew they all would have been in the loft, where the hotel owner played darts.
Above and to her right, all but one of the supporting structures for the billiard loft had been blown away. The wooden frame of the floor leaned precariously downward, touching the ground floor in front of the bar.
The snooker table, a traditional full-size model, twelve feet long, six wide, and weighing a ton, was at a forty-five-degree angle—one corner perched on the portion of the loft floor that had survived, and the diagonal corner resting on the ground below, where it had fallen with enough violence to break off the two supporting legs in front.
Bonnie began to move through the debris in that direction.
She saw blood on the shards at her feet.
Then she heard a child crying.
And she saw movement.
They had been concealed by the fallen loft floorboards at first, and by the still-teetering snooker table,
The American came back behind the throwing line, and the older man, finally averting his gaze, stepped up. He got ready to throw, though to the American the older man seemed to still be trying to look at him out of the corner of his eye.
As the older man prepared to toss his first dart, the American said, “And what is your name, then?”
The older man tossed his dart, just as the American answered his own question.
“Redgil, isn’t it?”
The dart went wide. The older man, with the two remaining darts clenched in his fist as if they were ice picks, turned to face the American.
And then, suddenly—so suddenly that only the survivors would ever be aware of it—there was a disturbance in the air.
* * *
The V-2 flying bomb struck in the street, directly in front of the pub.
At the Marylebone Grand Hotel—the nearest occupied structure, other than the pub itself—the walls shook, mirrors broke, and plaster fell, but within moments all half-dozen occupants and staff had found one another in the lobby and determined that no one in their building required immediate medical attention.
Once they knew that, every one of them, staff and guests, went out into the street and down to the site of impact to see how they could help.
Bonnie, the young desk clerk, ran toward the location of the blast.
Remnants were everywhere in the street. Bonnie nearly tripped over the pub’s wooden logo sign. If it had been any more of a direct hit, there would have been nothing left at all of the pub or anyone in it. And as it was, there wasn’t much.
The entire front façade and wall were gone, as well as the side of the building facing south.
All the tables and booths from the first floor were a shambles, but the bar was still standing.
Sharp fragments—from a wall mirror, from lamps, from a slate chalkboard—were everywhere.
Bonnie stood in place for a moment in front of the devastation, her ears still recovering from the sound of the blast, and tried to determine in which direction to move to help.
The barmaid, dazed but apparently uninjured, was being helped out from behind the bar by the two older gentlemen who had been drinking their pints there a moment earlier.
Johnnie, the bellhop from the hotel, just a few months short of being seventeen and not yet old enough to be in the service, was already moving toward the flattened bar booths to assist the injured middle-aged couple who were stirring there.
Bonnie knew the street and its occupants very well, and she tried to think of who else was likely to have been in the pub. She knew of at least four people—no, five, if you included the American who said he was going there—who should have been inside.
Mr. Redfern, the hotel owner. His son. And, dear God, the two young children.
If they weren’t below in a booth and they weren’t at the bar, then she knew they all would have been in the loft, where the hotel owner played darts.
Above and to her right, all but one of the supporting structures for the billiard loft had been blown away. The wooden frame of the floor leaned precariously downward, touching the ground floor in front of the bar.
The snooker table, a traditional full-size model, twelve feet long, six wide, and weighing a ton, was at a forty-five-degree angle—one corner perched on the portion of the loft floor that had survived, and the diagonal corner resting on the ground below, where it had fallen with enough violence to break off the two supporting legs in front.
Bonnie began to move through the debris in that direction.
She saw blood on the shards at her feet.
Then she heard a child crying.
And she saw movement.
They had been concealed by the fallen loft floorboards at first, and by the still-teetering snooker table,
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