Read Online Sun of the Sleepless by Patrick Horne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patrick Horne
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers
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rectangle with a large glass frontage, the interior veiled from the damaging effects of the sun's rays by a large intricately embroidered muslin sheet. Each of the remaining three walls was hidden behind floor to ceiling bookshelves, lined with row upon row of at least a couple of thousand leather spines.
At irregular intervals, the uniform tessellated fascias of the shelves were interrupted by a framed single page with a particularly interesting woodcut or print on it. Interspersed at irregular intervals were the ornately decorated cover boards of carefully propped and spread tomes, the pages facing away from the viewer rather than toward them. Rey noted a couple of small portraits; a stern faced patrician with an expression of learned disapproval and a willowy beauty demurely reclining into a coy but provocative pose.
The shop was a veritable library of seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth century impressions, the heady aroma emanating from the collection delivering the scent signatures of a subtle blend of tanned hides and skin, the product of the antiquarian book binder's skill, a sublime and multifaceted art form in itself never mind the literary work printed upon the pages that they contained.
Frans was already animatedly chatting to the dealer across the dark and heavy wooden counter, clearly an antique in itself. Just behind them was a small doorway leading off to a dimly lit and narrow corridor onto which various back-rooms converged, the glimpse of a bottom step indicating a staircase leading off to one side. It was likely that the dealer lived above his shop.
Rey could see that the corridor ended in a rear exit and could not help but think that it might come in useful.
Although he was not able to understand the fast exchange of Dutch, Rey felt that the intonation of the conversation was indicative of a negative outcome, at least for the initial phase of their encounter. He needed to prepare for the worst.
Rey moved to one of the side walls and surveyed the spines arrayed before him, his ears cocked to the ongoing but incomprehensible discussion, his lateral vision distracted by the gesticulating arms of the old book dealer. He automatically started to stretch his fingers, his hands hidden within the pockets of his coat, readying the joints for sudden movement or impact, bending his wrists to stretch them and prepare them for stress.
The painful crick of a finger or twinge of a nerve caused by rapid hand articulation could throw off the grip and power of any protagonist. The recognition and exploitation of such weaknesses formed the basis of many of the most effective martial arts moves and Rey's self awareness of such failings was all part of good preparation, regardless of the age or fitness of his opponent.
His mind was racing ahead and if need be the staircase could be used to stage an accident. After extracting the information they wanted they could push him down the stairs and then ensure that his neck was broken. Any ensuing investigation would only reveal the necessary evidence of an entirely accidental fall.
Perhaps some books scattered about the body would add further colour to the scene? The natural assumption would be that the old man had been carrying a heavy pile; a lost footing, a tumble down the stairs, the crash of the body as it had rolled into a heap at the last step, the neck snapping as the head connected with the wall or floor of the corridor.
Rey glanced around as the old man enunciated three dots and jabbed at his right eyebrow, he saw him shrug and shake his head. Janssens appeared morose, disappointed, he was shaking his head and, in an expansive sweep of his arm, seemed to be indicating the books adorning the walls. Rey was a little confused as he saw Frans shaking his head, as if in disbelieving agreement and consolation of a shared opinion.
Turning back to the shelves, he heard Frans talking again. A short conversation followed and he suddenly recognised the familiar doei of
At irregular intervals, the uniform tessellated fascias of the shelves were interrupted by a framed single page with a particularly interesting woodcut or print on it. Interspersed at irregular intervals were the ornately decorated cover boards of carefully propped and spread tomes, the pages facing away from the viewer rather than toward them. Rey noted a couple of small portraits; a stern faced patrician with an expression of learned disapproval and a willowy beauty demurely reclining into a coy but provocative pose.
The shop was a veritable library of seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth century impressions, the heady aroma emanating from the collection delivering the scent signatures of a subtle blend of tanned hides and skin, the product of the antiquarian book binder's skill, a sublime and multifaceted art form in itself never mind the literary work printed upon the pages that they contained.
Frans was already animatedly chatting to the dealer across the dark and heavy wooden counter, clearly an antique in itself. Just behind them was a small doorway leading off to a dimly lit and narrow corridor onto which various back-rooms converged, the glimpse of a bottom step indicating a staircase leading off to one side. It was likely that the dealer lived above his shop.
Rey could see that the corridor ended in a rear exit and could not help but think that it might come in useful.
Although he was not able to understand the fast exchange of Dutch, Rey felt that the intonation of the conversation was indicative of a negative outcome, at least for the initial phase of their encounter. He needed to prepare for the worst.
Rey moved to one of the side walls and surveyed the spines arrayed before him, his ears cocked to the ongoing but incomprehensible discussion, his lateral vision distracted by the gesticulating arms of the old book dealer. He automatically started to stretch his fingers, his hands hidden within the pockets of his coat, readying the joints for sudden movement or impact, bending his wrists to stretch them and prepare them for stress.
The painful crick of a finger or twinge of a nerve caused by rapid hand articulation could throw off the grip and power of any protagonist. The recognition and exploitation of such weaknesses formed the basis of many of the most effective martial arts moves and Rey's self awareness of such failings was all part of good preparation, regardless of the age or fitness of his opponent.
His mind was racing ahead and if need be the staircase could be used to stage an accident. After extracting the information they wanted they could push him down the stairs and then ensure that his neck was broken. Any ensuing investigation would only reveal the necessary evidence of an entirely accidental fall.
Perhaps some books scattered about the body would add further colour to the scene? The natural assumption would be that the old man had been carrying a heavy pile; a lost footing, a tumble down the stairs, the crash of the body as it had rolled into a heap at the last step, the neck snapping as the head connected with the wall or floor of the corridor.
Rey glanced around as the old man enunciated three dots and jabbed at his right eyebrow, he saw him shrug and shake his head. Janssens appeared morose, disappointed, he was shaking his head and, in an expansive sweep of his arm, seemed to be indicating the books adorning the walls. Rey was a little confused as he saw Frans shaking his head, as if in disbelieving agreement and consolation of a shared opinion.
Turning back to the shelves, he heard Frans talking again. A short conversation followed and he suddenly recognised the familiar doei of
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