The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman Page A
Authors: Philip Pullman
Tags: General, Historical, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Europe, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Lockhart, Sally (Fictitious character)
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move.
"And I will have it now," she said.
Chaka, at her feet, growled softly.
Suddenly Bellmann moved. He flicked open the paper, read it, and in one movement tore it in half and
flung it into a wastepaper basket. His pale face was a shade darker.
"Get out," he said.
"Without the check? I assume you will send it to me. You know where my office is."
"I shall send you nothing."
"Very well." She snapped her fingers, and Chaka got to his feet. "I don't intend to swap allegations with you; its a silly game. I know enough about you now to make a very interesting article in the papers. North Star, for instance. Nordenfels. What's more, I know where to look next, and look I shall, and when I find out what you're doing I shall publish it. And I will have that money, Mr. Bellmann. Make no mistake about that."
"I do not make mistakes."
"I think you might have done so now. Good morn-mg.
He did not reply. No one came near her as she left the building. It took half an hour in an A.B.C. teashop, a currant bun, and a pot of tea to stop her trembling. Then she found herself wondering, to her considerable annoyance, whether the mistake hadn't been hers after all.
As SOON as she'd gone, Bellmann came out from behind his desk and picked up the card that had fluttered to the carpet from her glove. He'd said nothing as he watched it fall. He stooped to gather it and read:
MRS. BUDD
147 TOLLBOOTH ROAD STREATHAM
He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment or two, and then sent for Mr. Windlesham.
cJLavendi
Jim Taylor considered he had an interest in Alis-tair Mackinnon, much as if he'd bought shares in him. For all the distaste he felt for the man, he couldn't help feeling annoyed when Frederick lost him; and when Frederick retorted that no one could be expected to keep hold of a man who could turn himself into smoke and pour out through a keyhole, Jim said that he must be losing his grip, as he couldn't even keep hold of his own watch. It'd be his trousers next.
So he decided to look for Mackinnon himself He called at every house in Oakley Street, Chelsea, where Mackinnon had said he lived, and drew a blank; he tried the manager of the music hall he'd rescued Mackinnon from, and was told that no one knew his address; he went to several other music halls in case Mackinnon was appearing under a different name, but he had no luck there either.
Still, he didn't give up. He'd amassed, in his short and scruffy hfe, an astonishing number of criminal, semicriminal, sporting, theatrical, and even one or two downright respectable acquaintances; and they were all
linked by favors owed or owing—racing tips, loans of half a crown, casual hints that the copper on the corner was looking this way, and so on. There wasn't much, Jim reckoned, that he couldn't find out if he wanted to.
So it was that on the evening of the day Sally visited Axel Bellmann, Jim found himself standing elbow to elbow in the four-ale bar of a Deptford pub with a shifty little man in a white muffler, who jumped as Jim tapped his shoulder.
"Wotcher, Dippy!" Jim said. "How are yer, mate?"
"Eh? Oh, it's you, Jim. How do."
Dippy Lumsden looked around furtively, but then he was professionally furtive, being a pickpocket.
"Listen, Dippy," said Jim. "I'm trying to find a bloke. A feller called Mackinnon—a magician. Scotch geezer. He's been on the halls a year or two; you might've seen him."
Dippy nodded at once. "I seen him. And I know where he is, too."
"Eh? Where?"
The pickpocket looked crafty and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "What's it worth?" he said.
"Worth Felspar," said Jim. "What you still owe me for, remember?"
Felspar was a horse that had won at twenty to one and had brought them both a tidy sum. Jim had tipped him, thanks to a jockey he knew.
Dippy nodded philosophically. "Fair enough," he
said. "Hes staying in Lambeth. Dirty little place called Allen's Yard. With a fat old Irish cow called Mrs. Mooney. I seen him last night—I
"And I will have it now," she said.
Chaka, at her feet, growled softly.
Suddenly Bellmann moved. He flicked open the paper, read it, and in one movement tore it in half and
flung it into a wastepaper basket. His pale face was a shade darker.
"Get out," he said.
"Without the check? I assume you will send it to me. You know where my office is."
"I shall send you nothing."
"Very well." She snapped her fingers, and Chaka got to his feet. "I don't intend to swap allegations with you; its a silly game. I know enough about you now to make a very interesting article in the papers. North Star, for instance. Nordenfels. What's more, I know where to look next, and look I shall, and when I find out what you're doing I shall publish it. And I will have that money, Mr. Bellmann. Make no mistake about that."
"I do not make mistakes."
"I think you might have done so now. Good morn-mg.
He did not reply. No one came near her as she left the building. It took half an hour in an A.B.C. teashop, a currant bun, and a pot of tea to stop her trembling. Then she found herself wondering, to her considerable annoyance, whether the mistake hadn't been hers after all.
As SOON as she'd gone, Bellmann came out from behind his desk and picked up the card that had fluttered to the carpet from her glove. He'd said nothing as he watched it fall. He stooped to gather it and read:
MRS. BUDD
147 TOLLBOOTH ROAD STREATHAM
He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment or two, and then sent for Mr. Windlesham.
cJLavendi
Jim Taylor considered he had an interest in Alis-tair Mackinnon, much as if he'd bought shares in him. For all the distaste he felt for the man, he couldn't help feeling annoyed when Frederick lost him; and when Frederick retorted that no one could be expected to keep hold of a man who could turn himself into smoke and pour out through a keyhole, Jim said that he must be losing his grip, as he couldn't even keep hold of his own watch. It'd be his trousers next.
So he decided to look for Mackinnon himself He called at every house in Oakley Street, Chelsea, where Mackinnon had said he lived, and drew a blank; he tried the manager of the music hall he'd rescued Mackinnon from, and was told that no one knew his address; he went to several other music halls in case Mackinnon was appearing under a different name, but he had no luck there either.
Still, he didn't give up. He'd amassed, in his short and scruffy hfe, an astonishing number of criminal, semicriminal, sporting, theatrical, and even one or two downright respectable acquaintances; and they were all
linked by favors owed or owing—racing tips, loans of half a crown, casual hints that the copper on the corner was looking this way, and so on. There wasn't much, Jim reckoned, that he couldn't find out if he wanted to.
So it was that on the evening of the day Sally visited Axel Bellmann, Jim found himself standing elbow to elbow in the four-ale bar of a Deptford pub with a shifty little man in a white muffler, who jumped as Jim tapped his shoulder.
"Wotcher, Dippy!" Jim said. "How are yer, mate?"
"Eh? Oh, it's you, Jim. How do."
Dippy Lumsden looked around furtively, but then he was professionally furtive, being a pickpocket.
"Listen, Dippy," said Jim. "I'm trying to find a bloke. A feller called Mackinnon—a magician. Scotch geezer. He's been on the halls a year or two; you might've seen him."
Dippy nodded at once. "I seen him. And I know where he is, too."
"Eh? Where?"
The pickpocket looked crafty and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "What's it worth?" he said.
"Worth Felspar," said Jim. "What you still owe me for, remember?"
Felspar was a horse that had won at twenty to one and had brought them both a tidy sum. Jim had tipped him, thanks to a jockey he knew.
Dippy nodded philosophically. "Fair enough," he
said. "Hes staying in Lambeth. Dirty little place called Allen's Yard. With a fat old Irish cow called Mrs. Mooney. I seen him last night—I
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