sleep.”
Dora shook her head firmly. “He don’t like to be disturbed once he’s down for the night,” she stated.
“I’m sure not—who among us does?—but this is really an emergency,” said O’Leary. “My friend was shot, you see—he’s in hospital right this minute—and he can’t remember anything about Tuesday. Only Bob can tell us when my friend left the pub.”
This failed to impress Dora. She seemed completely uninterested in any of the events O’Leary described, and utterly unmoved by his plight.
“He can tell you when he wakes up,” she said. “Now, I got to get to my work.”
And she made to close the door.
“Perhaps I could wait, then,” suggested O’Leary desperately.
“Right,” she said sarcastically. “And then you’d be waking him up as soon’s I’d gone. I’m no fool, young man, and don’t you be thinking it.”
“Chris—call me Chris,” said O’Leary, trying for the smile again. “And of course I don’t think you’re a fool—why, Bob wouldn’t have married you if you had been. It’s just that I’m fair desperate to speak to him. Briefly,” he amended hastily, “very briefly. I’m sure he’d want to help.”
“Well, I’m not,” she retorted, trying again to close the door.
O’Leary was just about to give up and stage another attack after she had left the house when a shuffling footstep sounded behind her and a deep male voice said, “What’s all this then?”
Dora swung round, sprinkling ash down the front of her jumper, and said resignedly, “Well, that’s done it. There’s a young man wants to see you—I tried to tell him you were sleeping.”
“Well, couldn’t you have told him in a quieter voice? Who is it anyway?”
Crebbin squinted out at O’Leary over his wife’s shoulder and looked a bit surprised.
“Hullo,” he said. “It’s Sergeant O’Leary, isn’t it? Here, let him in, Dora.”
Dora acceded to this with a shrug and abandoned her post at the door. O’Leary swiftly stepped in after her lest she should change her mind, and smiled weakly at Crebbin.
“Awfully sorry to bother you,” he said.
“It’s all right,” said Crebbin, yawning. “I can’t imagine you’d be here if it weren’t important. Come through to the kitchen and have a cuppa.”
Inside, the furnishings were uninspired and the wallpaper in the hall was much faded, but the house was spotlessly clean and comfortably arranged. O’Leary took a seat at the Formica table and waited patiently while Crebbin poured tea from a pot already made on the counter.
“Milk?” he asked, turning.
“No, thanks,” said O’Leary, and accepted the mug Crebbin set in front of him, sipping gingerly at the hot brew. It was very strong and bitter, but considering his lack of sleep, O’Leary drank it happily.
Crebbin sat opposite him and concentrated on stirring several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee before he tasted it and let out a satisfied sigh.
“Now then,” he said. “That’ll do me for a bit. What have you come about, Sergeant?”
O’Leary explained his errand and the reason for it. Crebbin nodded sadly and sipped at his coffee.
“I heard about the shooting last night,” he said. “But you say Sergeant Gibbons will be all right?”
“They expect him to make a full recovery,” O’Leary assured him. “Mind, he’s pretty under the weather just now, but they say he’s healing up well.”
“Good, good. That’s a relief to my mind. I don’t know how you young ones stand all the violence nowadays—it wasn’t like that when I was on the beat.”
“No, I dare say not,” said O’Leary, cutting off any stream of reminiscence that might be forthcoming. “But you can see how important it is that we find out when Jack left the Feathers that night.”
“Yes, of course,” said Crebbin. He rubbed his chin and squinted up at the ceiling. “Let’s see, that would have been the night before last, right? Yes, yes, I remember. It was a quiet
Dora shook her head firmly. “He don’t like to be disturbed once he’s down for the night,” she stated.
“I’m sure not—who among us does?—but this is really an emergency,” said O’Leary. “My friend was shot, you see—he’s in hospital right this minute—and he can’t remember anything about Tuesday. Only Bob can tell us when my friend left the pub.”
This failed to impress Dora. She seemed completely uninterested in any of the events O’Leary described, and utterly unmoved by his plight.
“He can tell you when he wakes up,” she said. “Now, I got to get to my work.”
And she made to close the door.
“Perhaps I could wait, then,” suggested O’Leary desperately.
“Right,” she said sarcastically. “And then you’d be waking him up as soon’s I’d gone. I’m no fool, young man, and don’t you be thinking it.”
“Chris—call me Chris,” said O’Leary, trying for the smile again. “And of course I don’t think you’re a fool—why, Bob wouldn’t have married you if you had been. It’s just that I’m fair desperate to speak to him. Briefly,” he amended hastily, “very briefly. I’m sure he’d want to help.”
“Well, I’m not,” she retorted, trying again to close the door.
O’Leary was just about to give up and stage another attack after she had left the house when a shuffling footstep sounded behind her and a deep male voice said, “What’s all this then?”
Dora swung round, sprinkling ash down the front of her jumper, and said resignedly, “Well, that’s done it. There’s a young man wants to see you—I tried to tell him you were sleeping.”
“Well, couldn’t you have told him in a quieter voice? Who is it anyway?”
Crebbin squinted out at O’Leary over his wife’s shoulder and looked a bit surprised.
“Hullo,” he said. “It’s Sergeant O’Leary, isn’t it? Here, let him in, Dora.”
Dora acceded to this with a shrug and abandoned her post at the door. O’Leary swiftly stepped in after her lest she should change her mind, and smiled weakly at Crebbin.
“Awfully sorry to bother you,” he said.
“It’s all right,” said Crebbin, yawning. “I can’t imagine you’d be here if it weren’t important. Come through to the kitchen and have a cuppa.”
Inside, the furnishings were uninspired and the wallpaper in the hall was much faded, but the house was spotlessly clean and comfortably arranged. O’Leary took a seat at the Formica table and waited patiently while Crebbin poured tea from a pot already made on the counter.
“Milk?” he asked, turning.
“No, thanks,” said O’Leary, and accepted the mug Crebbin set in front of him, sipping gingerly at the hot brew. It was very strong and bitter, but considering his lack of sleep, O’Leary drank it happily.
Crebbin sat opposite him and concentrated on stirring several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee before he tasted it and let out a satisfied sigh.
“Now then,” he said. “That’ll do me for a bit. What have you come about, Sergeant?”
O’Leary explained his errand and the reason for it. Crebbin nodded sadly and sipped at his coffee.
“I heard about the shooting last night,” he said. “But you say Sergeant Gibbons will be all right?”
“They expect him to make a full recovery,” O’Leary assured him. “Mind, he’s pretty under the weather just now, but they say he’s healing up well.”
“Good, good. That’s a relief to my mind. I don’t know how you young ones stand all the violence nowadays—it wasn’t like that when I was on the beat.”
“No, I dare say not,” said O’Leary, cutting off any stream of reminiscence that might be forthcoming. “But you can see how important it is that we find out when Jack left the Feathers that night.”
“Yes, of course,” said Crebbin. He rubbed his chin and squinted up at the ceiling. “Let’s see, that would have been the night before last, right? Yes, yes, I remember. It was a quiet
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