6 Seconds of Darkness
Autor: Cohen, Octavus Roy
Nakladatelství:
Thomas C. Breuer
ISBN:
Původní cena:
88 Kč
Vaše cena:
80 Kč
Popis knihy:
a selection from CHAPTER I: THE old-timer at the telephone board made a casual entry on the report sheet spread before him, relighted his offensively fragrant pipe, and swung his swivel chair around idly. “That was O'Rafferty on nine,” he reported. “All's quiet.” Desk Sergeant Larry O'Brien grinned cheerfully through the haze of rancid smoke. “As I was afther sayin',” he remarked, “ye cannot always sometimes tell. 'Tis these clear and aisy nights which beget action for us poor coppers. Ye wouldn't be afther thinkin' by the quietude which has gripped us hereabouts these past sivin days that there's a bombshell sizzlin' under headquarters waitin' to be busted.” The other answered sagely: “That all depends on how much you've been talking to reporters, Larry. They've been asking so many questions and taking so many notes that I'm afraid to say me name's Farris. They're wise that something's up.” “Bad cess to 'em—the whole beloved lot. There's Stinson of the News'—him that's so thin he could sit on a dime an' ye'd shtill be able to read In God We Trust'—he wanted to know was I in on the graft?” “And you told him....” “I'm afther givin' nothin' away, me bhye. I merely raymarked that I'm no special pals with Barret Rollins, an' that Police Commissioner Clement Hall app'inted me personally.” Farris lowered his voice discreetly and hitched his chair confidentially closer. “They're wise, ain't they? The whole crowd?” “Topwhat?” “That Rollins is in the middle of the fireworks? That Hamilton's been trying to get him ever since Hall became interested in this Civic Reform League? I don't see,” he complained, “why they always start in on the police when they decide a city needs cleanin' up?” “Logic, most likely. And as for Robbins, he don't be afther lovin' Commissioner Hall nor Mister Edward J. Hamilton anny more than they're lovin' him; which is considerable less than none at all. An' he's a good detective, too; he's keen, an' he's got a good head on a pair of hefty shoulders. But, Al, me bhye, Oi'm thinkin' Oi'd rather be a disk sergeant right this minute than Mister Barret Rollins, chief av detictives. An'—well, speakin' av angels—or divils....” The street door swung back and a man of medium height briefly acknowledged the salute of the gray-haired doorman. The newcomer swung across to the desk, and nodded a curt greeting. “O'Brien,” he said, “how goes it?” “So-so, chief. How's the bhye?” “Well enough. Anything new tonight?” “Everything's dead. Nothing stirring anywhere except a stiff was drug out av the river an' carried to Carson's undertaking joint. What's new with you?” “Nothing, nothing at all. I'll be going into the office yonder for a smoke and a bit of a snooze. If you want me....” He waved his hand airily. O'Brien's eyes followed the man with interest as he walked across the room toward the little door which opened into his private office. Barrett Rollins radiated strength and physical ability in every well-knit line of his stocky figure. His unusual breadth and depth of chest conveyed an impression of lack of height to which a tape measure easily gave the lie. Nor was his face that of the average plain-clothes man; the eyes were a bit too close set, perhaps, but they were level eyes—eyes blessed with the rare faculty of penetration. The brain behind those eyes was alert and ruthless. He had worked himself to his present position as chief of the plain-clothes force by dint of sheer ability. A little political pull may have helped here and there, but that assistance had been inconsiderable. He was an efficient man, greatest testimony to which was given by the unanimous praise of his worst enemies—who, by the way, numbered legion. He was a martinet; unbending, inexorable, heartless. His third degree was a classic.Hodnocení uživatelů:
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