Maurice Walsh - Nine Strings to your Bow (Maurice Walsh) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

Presently the barman came in with a fresh tankard and slipped it across the table. Con murmured, “Thank you, Mike!” and Mike moved back into the bar.

Con looked at the paper with unseeing eyes, but his ears and his mind were intent. The lounge door opened and closed again; slow footsteps moved across amongst the small tables and halted before Con’s; Con lifted casual eyes and looked into the eyes of Peter Falkner; and Peter Falkner’s eyes were amused and mocking and hard. He took the corncob pipe from between his teeth and pointed it at Con.

“You know who I am?” It was hardly a question. “I saw you in court this morning.”

“You are observant, Mr. Falkner,” Con said calmly. “I never caught your eye. Won’t you sit down and have a drink with me?”

Mr. Falkner did not sit down, and ignored the invitation to drink. He leaned one large, too-white hand on the table edge.

“You followed me in here?”

“I saw you come in.” Con was as calm as a post.

“You were talking at me out there with that Irish Michael?”

Con liked Peter Falkner for his insistency and directness. And he liked his voice, too, a resonant voice rather deep and with a quality of its own. His father had been Lowland, his mother half-Irish, he had grown to manhood in the West, and so his speech had a pleasantly flavoured drawl.

“The talk was about you out there,” Con said, “but I did not start it.”

“You kept it going, brother.”

“I did, and I’ll stand by anything I said as well.”

“I know who you are too,” said Peter. “You are one of those press-hounds snuffing around the law courts on the trail of more copy for your dirty rags.” He was plainly contemptuous.

“God forbid!” said Mr. Madden.

“What is your game then?” His eyes narrowed.

“I’m on the look-out for a job. I can be as direct as yourself, Mr. Falkner. That’s who I am.” He tendered a card to Peter who glanced at it, and opened his eyes mockingly.

“I apologize to the press-hound,” he said. “This must be the lowest thing there is this side of hell.” He glanced at the card again. “Cornelius J. Madden—”

“Con to his friends,” Con said.

“Cornelius suits me,” Peter said.

“Not on your life, young fellow,” said Con with some warmth. “I’m plain Mister to you for a little while yet.”

Peter glanced at the card again. “Private Investigator—”

“A term insisted on by the founder of the firm,” Con said.

“And are you his jackal, Mr. Cornelius J. Madden?”

“You might be a good judge of jackals, Mr. Falkner.”

Peter Falkner restrained himself finely. He had had a long and bitter year in which to learn restraint.

“You’ll explain that, Mr. Private Dick?”

“Sure, Mr. Peter Falkner! You enquired if I were a jackal? I’ll answer you. I pull down my own meat at the tiger’s side. And I’ll ask you a question in turn. Are you a king tiger who employed a jackal that turned and bit you?”

“My Lord! One hour out of jail and a rough house on my hands already.” He gazed down at the big man whose grey, wide-open, steadfast eyes had a gleam that he recognized. Whatever this man was he was no pan-handler. The rough house might come later.

“I asked for that,” Peter said quietly. “I withdraw the jackal.”

“Fair enough!” said Con. “I withdraw too. You have every reason to be bitter and suspicious.”

“I am not bitter,” Peter said, “but leave me my suspicions for this session.” He pulled a chair round and sat down. “You play your hand well, Mr. Cornelius J. Madden, Private Investigator. You’ve got me interested. I’m a free man, and like to be amused, but be careful of the cracks you pull.”

“Your mouth is too grim for freedom, Mr. Falkner.”

“I’ll be a free man till hell freezes over.” There was a harsh note in his voice.

“Freedom’s fight when once begun, though often lost is ever won,” quoted Con. “Will you have a drink?”

“I am not drinking with you just yet,” said Peter.

“I get you. Your very good health all the same.”

Con laid down his tankard, lit a cigarette and reached the lighting match to Peter who accepted it and got his corncob going. He picked up Con’s business card.

“Cornelius J. Madden, Private Investigator, looking for a job! How do you begin to pull it down, Mr. Madden?”

“Dam’d if I know!” Con said. “You heard what that Irish barman advised? For you to get out. He was dead right, you know.”

“I’ll take time off to prove him wrong.”

Con looked at him through half shut eyes and nodded. “You’ll face the music. You have decided to play with life.”

“What’s my game?” Peter Falkner asked. This big, seemingly quiet man had touched on the thing that Peter had been doing with all his might through many terrible months.

“To gather your resolution close about you, build up a philosophy to last all your days, deciding, while you had time, the course you would take if you won a doubtful freedom. You decided to go back to Eglintoun and live a free man till hell froze over.”

“I like your style, Mr. Madden. You say that I cannot?”

“Not unless you clear your name. You cannot live a free man under a cloud.”

“And you propose to get me out from under that cloud? There would be a fee of course? Quite a reasonable fee, but the expenses would mount up—isn’t that the usual technique?”

“To hell with you and your fee!” said Con warmly. “You can clear out of here when you want to, and go to hell your own road.”

Peter Falkner lifted a broad palm.

“Sorry if I touched you on the raw, but how sure are you that my road leads to hell?”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Peter Falkner.” Con sat up. “You’ll go back where you belong, and you’ll meet people who will congratulate you, and shake you by the hand, and all the time there will be speculation in their eyes; and some of them will wipe the hand that shook yours on the back of their britches; and some will slide inside shop doors when they see you coming; and others, fair enough to your face, will snigger behind your back and whisper that the big stake you played for was worth a few months in jail; and a few who believe in you will be terribly sorry for you, and grieve for you, and go on pouring their sympathy on you. And you’ll know that a killer is not far away, and you will go on living your free life till hell freezes over. Will you, Mr. Peter Falkner?”

“Blast your eyes!” said Peter Falkner savagely.

“And another thing, Mr. Falkner! All the time, while you are living this free life of yours, you might be going round with two little fears gnawing at you.”

“Two little fears?” Peter repeated.

“Yes, two! First, you might be afraid that if any more mud were stirred up someone might get soiled—someone you like—maybe a woman.”

Peter stiffened. “Be careful, you mud-stirrer,” he warned. “What is my second little fear?”

“I am not saying that you have it, but if you have you’ll do nothing. You’ll give me no job. I was once a policeman.”

“Is that not a recommendation?”

“Once a policeman always a policeman. I would not condone murder. If I investigated your case and found fresh evidence against you, I would do my damndest to get you hanged.”

“Is that a dare, sir?”

“A statement of principle. Don’t employ me or anyone if you have that second small fear.”

Peter spoke as if to himself.

“You have one hell of a kick, Mr. Cornelius J. Madden.”

“I am one thorough-going brute,” Con said, strangely touched. He put his hands on the arms of his chair. “The session is over, Mr. Falkner. I’ll not trouble you again.”