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Authors: Anne Cleeland
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is a ball of snakes, it seems—impenetrable.” She glanced at him sidelong. Now there was a ten-pound word.
He pulled himself from his abstraction and glanced her way. “I hope my lecture on the way over didn’t terrify you. You were cowed, I think.”
“Never,” she replied with spirit. “I am uncowable.”
“What did you think of him?”
She ventured carefully, “I didn’t think he was hidin’ anything and he didn’t seem very concerned. That is, until you scared him, speakin’ of Russians.”
Acton glanced at her. “He is running illegal weapons. It’s common in a shop like that.”
She was left to assume it was Russians who were doing the aforesaid gunrunning. “Oh. Will you report him?”
This question threw him for a moment. Interestingly enough, he had to think about how to answer. “It depends.”
Doyle’s scalp tingled. She bent to fish around in her rucksack, sheathing her occurrence book as she added casually, “I imagine runnin’ guns must be lucrative, to take such a risk.”
There was another pause. “I imagine so.”
Mother a’ mercy, she thought. Mother a’ mother a’ mercy.
He changed the subject. “Let me buy you dinner.”
With a mighty effort, she pulled herself together and smiled at him. “Are we to arm wrestle about this again? I may be poor but I am prideful.”
He bestowed a rather warm look upon her. “I promise I won’t lecture you.”
“As much as I enjoy your lectures, I am off to church tonight.” She paused. “You are welcome to come along.”
He teased her. “What would you do if I accepted?”
She laughed aloud at the picture thus presented. “Why, I’d parade you through St. Michael’s like a holy conquest.”
He chuckled.
There it was—an honest laugh, she thought with satisfaction. Good one, Doyle; on to the next project, which may necessarily involve trying to keep the exalted chief inspector out of prison.
C HAPTER 8
H E SAT AT HIS DESK, DRINKING SCOTCH AND DECIDING THAT HE really had no choice; he could not go on as he was. He ran his hand over the book she had given him; back and forth, repeatedly. He would couch it in terms that were least threatening to her and work from there.
The next evening Doyle received a call from Acton just as she was finishing up. She hadn’t heard from him at all during the day, which was unusual—he must be hip-deep in trying to make some sense out of this nonsensical killer before the wretched man haled off and did it again; she had certainly drawn a blank. Her best theory could not withstand the light of day—she wondered if perhaps the killer was indeed a professional but called to report the crime so as to watch as the scene was processed—to see how CID handled it. Quality control, so to speak; perhaps he thought it would help him determine how to evade identification. She didn’t know if she could broach said theory to Acton—he may humor her, and she hated it when he humored her.
Taking the opportunity to catch up on her other cases, she tried to organize the assignments on her desk. She was not very organized; on the other hand, she suspected that Acton was OCD. We amalgamate, she thought with satisfaction—now, there’s a good word. Of course, there was the little problem of illegal gunrunning, but the more she thought about it the more she thought she must have crossed her wires and misunderstood. It happened sometimes—she’d leap to a conclusion that wasn’t warranted. That little run-in with the dry cleaners came to mind. And it was ludicrous to think that a chief inspector at New Scotland Yard was some sort of underworld figure; ludicrous. She paused for a moment, trying to remember if ludicrous meant what she thought it meant, but then decided she wasn’t going to think about it just now, she was going to think about this wretched case that made no sense.
Her best working theory was so lame as not to count, and she knew that when Acton couldn’t come up with a theory,
He pulled himself from his abstraction and glanced her way. “I hope my lecture on the way over didn’t terrify you. You were cowed, I think.”
“Never,” she replied with spirit. “I am uncowable.”
“What did you think of him?”
She ventured carefully, “I didn’t think he was hidin’ anything and he didn’t seem very concerned. That is, until you scared him, speakin’ of Russians.”
Acton glanced at her. “He is running illegal weapons. It’s common in a shop like that.”
She was left to assume it was Russians who were doing the aforesaid gunrunning. “Oh. Will you report him?”
This question threw him for a moment. Interestingly enough, he had to think about how to answer. “It depends.”
Doyle’s scalp tingled. She bent to fish around in her rucksack, sheathing her occurrence book as she added casually, “I imagine runnin’ guns must be lucrative, to take such a risk.”
There was another pause. “I imagine so.”
Mother a’ mercy, she thought. Mother a’ mother a’ mercy.
He changed the subject. “Let me buy you dinner.”
With a mighty effort, she pulled herself together and smiled at him. “Are we to arm wrestle about this again? I may be poor but I am prideful.”
He bestowed a rather warm look upon her. “I promise I won’t lecture you.”
“As much as I enjoy your lectures, I am off to church tonight.” She paused. “You are welcome to come along.”
He teased her. “What would you do if I accepted?”
She laughed aloud at the picture thus presented. “Why, I’d parade you through St. Michael’s like a holy conquest.”
He chuckled.
There it was—an honest laugh, she thought with satisfaction. Good one, Doyle; on to the next project, which may necessarily involve trying to keep the exalted chief inspector out of prison.
C HAPTER 8
H E SAT AT HIS DESK, DRINKING SCOTCH AND DECIDING THAT HE really had no choice; he could not go on as he was. He ran his hand over the book she had given him; back and forth, repeatedly. He would couch it in terms that were least threatening to her and work from there.
The next evening Doyle received a call from Acton just as she was finishing up. She hadn’t heard from him at all during the day, which was unusual—he must be hip-deep in trying to make some sense out of this nonsensical killer before the wretched man haled off and did it again; she had certainly drawn a blank. Her best theory could not withstand the light of day—she wondered if perhaps the killer was indeed a professional but called to report the crime so as to watch as the scene was processed—to see how CID handled it. Quality control, so to speak; perhaps he thought it would help him determine how to evade identification. She didn’t know if she could broach said theory to Acton—he may humor her, and she hated it when he humored her.
Taking the opportunity to catch up on her other cases, she tried to organize the assignments on her desk. She was not very organized; on the other hand, she suspected that Acton was OCD. We amalgamate, she thought with satisfaction—now, there’s a good word. Of course, there was the little problem of illegal gunrunning, but the more she thought about it the more she thought she must have crossed her wires and misunderstood. It happened sometimes—she’d leap to a conclusion that wasn’t warranted. That little run-in with the dry cleaners came to mind. And it was ludicrous to think that a chief inspector at New Scotland Yard was some sort of underworld figure; ludicrous. She paused for a moment, trying to remember if ludicrous meant what she thought it meant, but then decided she wasn’t going to think about it just now, she was going to think about this wretched case that made no sense.
Her best working theory was so lame as not to count, and she knew that when Acton couldn’t come up with a theory,
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