Read Online The Search by Iain Crichton Smith - Free Book Online

singsong tone of a beggar’s. “Any money, mate?”
    â€œDo you know anything else about my brother?” Trevor asked brusquely.
    â€œYour brother. No, I don’t know anything else about him. He speaks like you.”
    Trevor took a handful of coins from his pocket and handed them over. He said “Cheerio” to Morton and faced him as he backed away. He put his hand in his breast pocket to check that he still had his wallet and when he had left the room rang the bell at the desk. Mason came down a dark stair and asked him if he had discovered anything.
    â€œYes,” said Trevor, “thank you. He knew of my brother. He gave me an address.”
    â€œIs that right?” said Mason, who seemed pleased that Morton had been of use. His arms had much black hair on them and on one was a tattooed blue anchor.
    â€œI’m glad,” he said, and the words sounded genteel and strange.
    â€œAnyway thank you again for all your trouble,” said Trevor who suddenly became very businesslike. “I’d better go and visit that address.”
    â€œHenry of course is a man who will do anything for money,” said Mason. “Did you give him any?”
    â€œI’m afraid I did.”
    â€œYou realize of course,” said Mason seriously, “that he might not know him at all. Some of them try to make themselves important by pretending to have information that they don’t actually have. A lot of them will say what you expect them to say. They feel that information is power and they will do anything to be the centre of attention. Even kill,” he added in a low voice.
    â€œKill?”
    â€œYes. Kill. One of them killed a mate of his last month. This mate of his clicked his teeth once too often so he was hit on the head with a hammer. God knows where the hammer came from. I’ve seen a lot of violence. I used to be a policeman myself till I landed this job.”
    â€œI have to go there anyway,” said Trevor. “I can’t afford not to. By the way, have you heard of a Pole called Sikowski?”
    â€œSikowski. Can’t say that I have. No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
    â€œThank you anyway,” said Trevor and left, passing a phone box on his way to the door.

Seven
    T ILL THE TIME came for him to go to the house where his brother was supposed to be staying (for Morton had suggested five o’clock on the grounds that he thought Harrison wouldn’t be home till then from his work) Trevor went into a second-hand bookshop where there was a large number of paperbacks, including crime stories. He studied these, trying to find one that he hadn’t read, and as he walked along the shelves, watched by a man who rocked gently in a chair while he read the Racing Page of the Australian he tried to assemble in his mind the details he had discovered. In the first place he had been told by two separate people, Douglas and Morton, that his brother had been in Sydney. It seemed plausible to assume that he was still there, though on the other hand it was odd that the Salvation Army could find no trace of him. But he had also to remember that both his informants didn’t seem the most trustworthy of people: in fact both might be lying for some mysterious reason of their own. It was all very strange and opaque, as opaque as the dusty window of the shop in which he was at that moment standing.
    As he leafed through a book by Ellery Queen — one from the great period which he had already read — it occurred to him that he was himself taking part in a mystery in a manner of speaking. He felt himself at the centre of a devious intrigue which he was not equipped to unravel. And this feeling of helpless perplexity was reinforced when he went into a restaurant for some food, only to find that sitting at the adjoining table was Mrs Tennant whom at first he didn’t recognize. She was sitting with another lady, as ample as herself, both of