Cold Iron by Nicolas Freeling

Author:Nicolas Freeling
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2023-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

12

Castang had come into the office in fine form. A quick quarter of an hour, to initial reports and see that the Department (his three-men-and-a-boy) was on its toes, before going off all forceful to straighten out Miss Alice Jimenez: let her not start going all gloomy and Spanish with me or we’ll post her ass to the County Clare …

“Mr Campbell,” announced Madame Metz, “would like a word.” Good; that’s as arranged. But why so funereal?—looks like the Argyll coast on a wet day.

Mr Campbell is very slow and careful like an old woman paying the supermarket checkout in five-centime pieces.

“I have a source of information in that bistrot. Nothing grand. Like you thought, low-level trafficking in this and that, around the quarter. But I keep my ear to the ground. This near the border we get a traffic in papers. Common Market stuff, phony truck manifests and export licences.”

Castang knows all this, but why is Paddy so forthcoming of a sudden about his little affairs?

“Truckload of pharmaceuticals, hundred thousand dollars worth, juice in that. Reward money gets paid.” Bleak eye. It is a clear summer’s day and Mr Campbell sits as though swathed in wet hairy smelly-dog scarves and overcoats; fog everywhere and frost on the stiff reddish eyebrows.

“Good boy. A waiter, likes to earn himself a bit of money. Maybe he hears something. Maybe notices something. Like a truck driver paying for a beer from a saddlebag full of dollars? Or a lady eating funny cheese? Maybe do you a good turn; do me no harm? All I know is, this young lad gets brought off in the dogsmeat cart. And now I’m a lamp-post, they’re pissing on me. I don’t like that. Just telling you.” He is lugubrious as an old truck, grinding up a steep hill, burning a lot of oil.

“What happened?” Paddy had reached the summit: breathing heavily he lurched into a higher gear.

“My laddy told me he thought he’d something for me—you. He’s off yesterday evening, got a flat out the Béthune Road, lives there with a tart out the postoffice, nice girl. I go see him, no risk in that, big old house like a métro station. Real funny, I find my boy on the pavement outside, past tense, salut Anatole, nice to have known you. Police Secours running around blue-arsed; I fade into the wallpaper, not going to let them know I have an interest.

“It’s so funny we’re splitting ourselves laughing. Pissy old house, I told you that, so our boy improves the property. Busy with a window, frame rotten wood, knock it out and do a nice job.”

“Defenestrated.”

“Who’s to say? Boy leaning out, wood gives way, second floor, hard pavement—hamburger. Isn’t that just lovely!”

“Of course no witnesses or anything.”

“Not a smell; how would there be? Other people beside me walk in and out like it’s the Gare Saint-Lazare: I could have pushed him out myself. Municipal flattie does a door to door, none of those mothers are there: like me, they’re sitting in the pub hearing the hot news, oh how sad.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.