Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery by Ian Sansom Page B
Authors: Ian Sansom
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Fiction - General, Humorous fiction, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Fiction - Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Librarians, English Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Northern Ireland, Librarians - Northern Ireland
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raised handlebars with once white, now grey moulded hand grips, slide-pull calliper brakes with brake blocks as thin as cigarette paper, and black and white Raleigh Record 26 x 13/8 tyres bald as an old man in a cap in a park in winter. The old three-speed Sturmey Archer gears were encased in grease with a dodgy trigger control and the full-cover mudguards must once have been chrome but now were rust. The saddle was worn almost to the point of extinction.
'Does it go?' said George.
'Well, the wheels turn,' said Israel.
'That'll do you then,' said George, who promptly disappeared back into the farmhouse.
After a few tentative turns around the yard, Israel had left himself a good hour to make it into Tumdrum for the Easter service; the roads had been deserted and everything had gone smoothly until he'd come round the corner near the Four Road Ends, down there by Maureen Minty's kennels, cattery and pet cemetery, Animal Magic ('Caring For Pets From Cradle to Grave'). As he turned the corner another cyclist, who was coming at some speed in the other direction, and who'd clipped off the corner and was way over on the wrong side of the road, came hurtling towards him. Israel jammed on his brakes, which worked only under considerable pressure, and skidded to a halt, successfully avoiding the other cyclist, just as a little Peugeot driven by an old lady wearing a hat came cruising round from behind him at around 50 miles an hour and narrowly avoided killing them all.
The old lady sped on, keen to get to church, presumably, rather than get involved in any kind of road rage incident or insurance claim. Israel righted himself on the bike and prepared to start screaming at the other cyclist, who was wearing skin-tight leggings, a shiny silver helmet, wrap-around shades, and a bright blue cycling shirt with a zip front and back pockets.
'Armstrong!' called the cyclist, dismounting.
'Hello?' said Israel.
The cyclist flipped up his shades. It was Pearce Pyper.
'Good grief!' said Israel. 'It's you.'
'It is indeed!' said Pearce. 'Didn't know you cycled.'
'No. I didn't either,' said Israel. 'Not until this morning. I didn't know you cycled.'
'Ah. Hardly at all these days,' said Pearce, who was eighty if he was a day. 'Given it up. Do the odd one at the weekend, just to keep my hand in, you know.'
'Nice bike,' said Israel, admiring the black steel-framed cycle with its white lettering.
'Ah, yes. A De Selby. Italian. With Campag kit. Armstrong uses Shimano, you know.'
'Right.'
'But I prefer the Campag. More elegant.'
Another car came round the corner, from Pearce's direction this time, again driven by an old lady in a hat, and again narrowly missing them. Pearce raised his fist in anger as the car sped away.
'Shall we move?' said Israel, indicating the grass verge.
'Roadhogs,' said Pearce, hauling his bike to the side of the road. 'Do you shave your legs?' he asked.
'No, I don't,' said Israel.
'You'll have to shave your legs,' said Pearce.
'Right.'
'Aerodynamics. Not against your religion, is it?'
'No, I don't think so,' said Israel.
'My first wife, she wouldn't shave her legs. She was Jewish, did I say?' said Pearce.
'Yes. Yes, I think you did.'
'Strange woman. I'm all for the Mosaic laws, mind, when it comes to food. Perfectly sensible. You keep kosher?'
'No, I don't.'
'She was a great one for the pickles, my wife. Used to ship them over.'
'Good.'
'Anyway. Well done you!' said Pearce nonsensically. 'Good to see a young man out getting fit. The old transfer of atoms twixt man and machine.'
'Quite,' said Israel.
'More of it!' said Pearce, as he saddled up again and sped away.
It was always nice to bump into Pearce Pyper.
Israel cycled slowly and carefully the rest of the way and was delighted when he finally made it safely into Tumdrum and parked his bike outside the Baptist church.
The Baptist was one of the four churches in Tumdrum's main square. The churches sat one on each side of the square, like the
'Does it go?' said George.
'Well, the wheels turn,' said Israel.
'That'll do you then,' said George, who promptly disappeared back into the farmhouse.
After a few tentative turns around the yard, Israel had left himself a good hour to make it into Tumdrum for the Easter service; the roads had been deserted and everything had gone smoothly until he'd come round the corner near the Four Road Ends, down there by Maureen Minty's kennels, cattery and pet cemetery, Animal Magic ('Caring For Pets From Cradle to Grave'). As he turned the corner another cyclist, who was coming at some speed in the other direction, and who'd clipped off the corner and was way over on the wrong side of the road, came hurtling towards him. Israel jammed on his brakes, which worked only under considerable pressure, and skidded to a halt, successfully avoiding the other cyclist, just as a little Peugeot driven by an old lady wearing a hat came cruising round from behind him at around 50 miles an hour and narrowly avoided killing them all.
The old lady sped on, keen to get to church, presumably, rather than get involved in any kind of road rage incident or insurance claim. Israel righted himself on the bike and prepared to start screaming at the other cyclist, who was wearing skin-tight leggings, a shiny silver helmet, wrap-around shades, and a bright blue cycling shirt with a zip front and back pockets.
'Armstrong!' called the cyclist, dismounting.
'Hello?' said Israel.
The cyclist flipped up his shades. It was Pearce Pyper.
'Good grief!' said Israel. 'It's you.'
'It is indeed!' said Pearce. 'Didn't know you cycled.'
'No. I didn't either,' said Israel. 'Not until this morning. I didn't know you cycled.'
'Ah. Hardly at all these days,' said Pearce, who was eighty if he was a day. 'Given it up. Do the odd one at the weekend, just to keep my hand in, you know.'
'Nice bike,' said Israel, admiring the black steel-framed cycle with its white lettering.
'Ah, yes. A De Selby. Italian. With Campag kit. Armstrong uses Shimano, you know.'
'Right.'
'But I prefer the Campag. More elegant.'
Another car came round the corner, from Pearce's direction this time, again driven by an old lady in a hat, and again narrowly missing them. Pearce raised his fist in anger as the car sped away.
'Shall we move?' said Israel, indicating the grass verge.
'Roadhogs,' said Pearce, hauling his bike to the side of the road. 'Do you shave your legs?' he asked.
'No, I don't,' said Israel.
'You'll have to shave your legs,' said Pearce.
'Right.'
'Aerodynamics. Not against your religion, is it?'
'No, I don't think so,' said Israel.
'My first wife, she wouldn't shave her legs. She was Jewish, did I say?' said Pearce.
'Yes. Yes, I think you did.'
'Strange woman. I'm all for the Mosaic laws, mind, when it comes to food. Perfectly sensible. You keep kosher?'
'No, I don't.'
'She was a great one for the pickles, my wife. Used to ship them over.'
'Good.'
'Anyway. Well done you!' said Pearce nonsensically. 'Good to see a young man out getting fit. The old transfer of atoms twixt man and machine.'
'Quite,' said Israel.
'More of it!' said Pearce, as he saddled up again and sped away.
It was always nice to bump into Pearce Pyper.
Israel cycled slowly and carefully the rest of the way and was delighted when he finally made it safely into Tumdrum and parked his bike outside the Baptist church.
The Baptist was one of the four churches in Tumdrum's main square. The churches sat one on each side of the square, like the
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