Read Online They Never Looked Inside by Michael Gilbert - Free Book Online

wondering where the catch came in. From his knowledge of detective stories and films he had understood that the watching of suspects was habitually done by stern men in trilby hats who stood in doorways in the pouring rain (usually at an interesting camera angle). The great thing, of course, being that they never had to wait more than thirty-five seconds for the object of their attentions to appear.
    The Major waited for a week.
    Every night at six o’clock, having watched the last of the inhabitants of 63 Flaxman Street depart, he would tilt his chair to the ground, wash out the tea cup, pack his few belongings tidily away, and depart to play squash with the professional at the Lansdowne Club over the way.
    He was a man who did not mind waiting if there was a prospect of something to wait for, as many of his late opponents in Africa and Northern Europe could have testified.
    On the sixth evening, something rather unexpected happened.
    It was already quite dark. The reason for the Major’s staying so late was an obstinate light in the Cherubim Employment Agency. Being on the first floor their windows were conveniently at eye level and much of his leisure had been beguiled in watching, through his glasses, the remarkably pretty girl who reigned in their outer office. In his mind he had already christened all the inhabitants of the building, and she was Laura. Laura had gone home at six o’clock sharp. Mrs. Mop had come and gone. Maida Grannit, however, executive chief of the Agency, seemed to be making a night of it. She had come out of her sanctum, into the outer office, and had spent almost an hour searching through the drawers and pigeon-holes of Laura’s desk. Now she was telephoning.
    At that moment a car turned into Flaxman Street from the intersection at the further end. Its headlamps were on, but dimmed.
    Quite unexpectedly, and possibly by accident, the driver touched off his off-side spotlight. It went out as swiftly as it had come on. The car gathered speed, turned into Berkeley Square, and disappeared.
    The effect had been as if a searchlight had been flicked for a moment into the dark recess of the court opposite No. 63.
    In that brief second it had illuminated a man, standing in the recess.
    And McCann had recognised him.
    His mind flicked back over the months. It was the hot August of 1944, and the German Armies were falling back sullenly from Paris. The pace was still quick, but the first mad rush was over. The — Armoured Division was heading for Belgium, with its Reconnaissance Regiment in the lead. In front of the Reconnaissance Regiment, for reasons quite unconnected with this story, was Major McCann in a Sherman tank. The drivers of the tank were both bad types from the — Commando, and the turret gunner was a Canadian Brigadier. They were approaching the township of Marevilly-sur-Issy. Both on the map and from the lie of the ground it was perfectly evident that German opposition, when it next hardened, must centre round Marevilly. The town dominated the Issy Route (known inevitably to the soldiers as the Easy Route) into Belgium. The only practicable road cut sharply into the embanked hillside, before turning under the lee of the hill shoulder. It was a defensive “natural”, probably first used by Caesar when he troubled the Gauls, and subsequently improved on both by nature and man.
    Surprised and relieved to find the redoubt empty and the road unbreached, McCann had driven on into Marevilly. The Canadian Brigadier was speechless with rage and mortification. He had been looking forward all day to firing the turret gun. It was just like the Goddammed — — Heinies, he opined, to walk out on them like that.
    Marevilly was en fête; and one name was on all lips. Ulysse. He was of that select and formidable band of men, the real heads of the Resistance, responsible directly to General Koenig himself. Hector, Achille, Ulysse, Diomede, Nestor.
    What Ulysse had done at Marevilly was, of course, part