Read Online The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edmund Crispin
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haven’t introduced myself. George Sharman, at your service.” He bowed low from the waist, and nearly sent his drink flying; Cadogan saved it just in time.
“At this moment,” said Mr. Sharman meditatively, “I should be teaching the Lower Fourth the elements of Latin Prose Composition. And shall I tell you why I’m not?” Again he leaned forward. “Last night, gentlemen, I came into a large sum of money.”
Cadogan jumped and Fen’s eyes hardened Legacies seemed to be in the air that morning.
“A ver’ large sum of money,” Mr. Sharman pursued indistinctly. “So what do I do? I go to the headmaster and I say, ‘Spavin,’ I say, ‘you’re a domineering old sot, and I’m not going to work for you any more. I’m a gentleman of independent means now,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to get some of the chalk out of my veins.’” He beamed complacently about him.
“Congratulations,” said Fen with dangerous amiability. “Congratulations.”
“An’ thass not all.” Mr. Sharman’s utterance was becoming progressively more clouded. “I’m not the on’y lucky one. Oh, no. There’re others.” He gestured broadly. “Lots ‘n lots of others, all as rich as Croesus. An’ one of them’s a beautiful girl, with the bluest azure eyes. My luve is like a blue, blue rose,” he sang in a cracked voice. “I sh’ll ask her to marry me, though she is only a shop-girl. Only a shop-girl’s daughter.” He turned earnestly to Cadogan. “You mus’ meet her.”
“I should like to very much.”
“That’s the way,” said Mr. Sharman with approval He trumpeted again into his handkerchief.
“Have another drink with me, old man,” said Fen, adopting an attitude of bibulous comradeship and slapping Mr. Sharman on the back.
Mr. Sharman hiccupped. “’S on me,” he said. “Waiter…!”
They all had another drink.
“Ah,” said Fen, sighing deeply. “you’re a lucky man, Mr. Sharman. I wish a relative would die and leave me a lot of money.”
But Mr. Sharman waggled his finger. “Don’ try to pump me. I’m not telling anything, see? I’m keeping my mouth shut.” He shut his mouth, illustratively, and then opened it again to admit more whisky. “I’m surprised,” he added in a tearful voice. “After all I’ve done for you. Tryin’ to pump me.”
“No, no…”
A change came over Mr. Sharman’s face. His voice grew weaker, and he clutched at his stomach. “’Scuse me, gen’lmen,” he said. “Back in a moment.” He got to his feet, stood swaying like a grass in the wind, and then tottered unsteadily in the direction of the lavatories.
“We shan’t get much out of him,” said Fen gloomily. “When a man doesn’t want to tell something, drunkenness only makes him more obstinate and suspicious. But it’s a queer coincidence.”
“‘The owl, ’ ” Cadogan quoted, looking after Mr. Sharman’s weedy, muffled form, “‘for all his feathers was a-cold.’”
“Yes,” Fen said. “Like the old person of— Oh, my fur and whiskers.”
“What in God’s name is the matter?” Cadogan asked in alarm.
Fen got hastily to his feet. “Keep that man here,” he said with emphasis, “until I get back. Ply him with whisky. Talk to him about Jane Austen. But don’t let him go.”
“But look here, I was going to the police…”
“Don’t be so spiritless, Richard. This is a clue. I haven’t the least idea where it will lead, but so help me, it’s a clue. Don’t go away. I shan’t be long.” And Fen strode out of the bar.
Mr. Sharman returned to his seat both more sober and more wary than he had been.
“Your friend gone?” he asked.
“Only for a short while.”
“Ah.” Mr. Sharman stretched himself luxuriously. “Glorious freedom. You’ve no idea what it is to be a schoolmaster. I’ve watched strong men go to pieces under it. It’s a perpetual war. You can keep the boys off for maybe thirty years, but they get you in the end.”
“It sounds
“At this moment,” said Mr. Sharman meditatively, “I should be teaching the Lower Fourth the elements of Latin Prose Composition. And shall I tell you why I’m not?” Again he leaned forward. “Last night, gentlemen, I came into a large sum of money.”
Cadogan jumped and Fen’s eyes hardened Legacies seemed to be in the air that morning.
“A ver’ large sum of money,” Mr. Sharman pursued indistinctly. “So what do I do? I go to the headmaster and I say, ‘Spavin,’ I say, ‘you’re a domineering old sot, and I’m not going to work for you any more. I’m a gentleman of independent means now,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to get some of the chalk out of my veins.’” He beamed complacently about him.
“Congratulations,” said Fen with dangerous amiability. “Congratulations.”
“An’ thass not all.” Mr. Sharman’s utterance was becoming progressively more clouded. “I’m not the on’y lucky one. Oh, no. There’re others.” He gestured broadly. “Lots ‘n lots of others, all as rich as Croesus. An’ one of them’s a beautiful girl, with the bluest azure eyes. My luve is like a blue, blue rose,” he sang in a cracked voice. “I sh’ll ask her to marry me, though she is only a shop-girl. Only a shop-girl’s daughter.” He turned earnestly to Cadogan. “You mus’ meet her.”
“I should like to very much.”
“That’s the way,” said Mr. Sharman with approval He trumpeted again into his handkerchief.
“Have another drink with me, old man,” said Fen, adopting an attitude of bibulous comradeship and slapping Mr. Sharman on the back.
Mr. Sharman hiccupped. “’S on me,” he said. “Waiter…!”
They all had another drink.
“Ah,” said Fen, sighing deeply. “you’re a lucky man, Mr. Sharman. I wish a relative would die and leave me a lot of money.”
But Mr. Sharman waggled his finger. “Don’ try to pump me. I’m not telling anything, see? I’m keeping my mouth shut.” He shut his mouth, illustratively, and then opened it again to admit more whisky. “I’m surprised,” he added in a tearful voice. “After all I’ve done for you. Tryin’ to pump me.”
“No, no…”
A change came over Mr. Sharman’s face. His voice grew weaker, and he clutched at his stomach. “’Scuse me, gen’lmen,” he said. “Back in a moment.” He got to his feet, stood swaying like a grass in the wind, and then tottered unsteadily in the direction of the lavatories.
“We shan’t get much out of him,” said Fen gloomily. “When a man doesn’t want to tell something, drunkenness only makes him more obstinate and suspicious. But it’s a queer coincidence.”
“‘The owl, ’ ” Cadogan quoted, looking after Mr. Sharman’s weedy, muffled form, “‘for all his feathers was a-cold.’”
“Yes,” Fen said. “Like the old person of— Oh, my fur and whiskers.”
“What in God’s name is the matter?” Cadogan asked in alarm.
Fen got hastily to his feet. “Keep that man here,” he said with emphasis, “until I get back. Ply him with whisky. Talk to him about Jane Austen. But don’t let him go.”
“But look here, I was going to the police…”
“Don’t be so spiritless, Richard. This is a clue. I haven’t the least idea where it will lead, but so help me, it’s a clue. Don’t go away. I shan’t be long.” And Fen strode out of the bar.
Mr. Sharman returned to his seat both more sober and more wary than he had been.
“Your friend gone?” he asked.
“Only for a short while.”
“Ah.” Mr. Sharman stretched himself luxuriously. “Glorious freedom. You’ve no idea what it is to be a schoolmaster. I’ve watched strong men go to pieces under it. It’s a perpetual war. You can keep the boys off for maybe thirty years, but they get you in the end.”
“It sounds