[The Girl From UNCLE 04] - The Cornish Pixie Affair - Leslie Peter (читать книги полностью без сокращений бесплатно .TXT) 📗

The rain drummed on the dome of his helmet, slid in glittering cascades down the rubber cape, and drenched the lower half of his trouser legs. Angrily, he stamped up and down, trying to pound some warmth into the sodden soles of his socks.

For two pins, he thought, he'd nip on up the road a bit and sit down in the bus shelter at the Falmouth signpost. But you had to be careful. Only last night, Watkins had copped it properly from the Super when some villains had got into the field and started shooting at each other — or so they said: no one seemed to know what had really happened, least of all poor Watkins! He had hoped that, what with those two foreigners finding the body in the harbour, it might all have been forgotten — after all, nothing had been taken, nobody was hurt, and apparently no one at the circus itself was involved. But Sergeant Trelawnay had been really difficult about the thing and had compared Watkins floundering about with his torch to a man lost in a fog made by his own pipe. That, of course, was probably because the Sergeant still had a sore head from his daughter's wedding the day before. They did say he had consumed a prodigious quantity of drink.

Even so, he had still been fairly narked this afternoon when he had detailed the constable for tonight's late trick. "You let anyone through that gate or over that fence tonight, Trewithick," he said, "and I'll have your liver for breakfast!"

It was a sad thing, having men of low sensitivity for superiors, the constable reflected. Still — it wasn't worth the risk. If he did go to the shelter for a sit-down and a smoke, old Curnow just might drive past in one of the Wolseleys; somebody just might get into the field and kick up some kind of a shindig; Trelawnay just might take it into his great head to do the rounds on a bicycle, despite the rain... and if he was found to be away from his post with murders and burglaries all over Porthallow... Constable Trewithick shivered under his cape at the thought of the action which would inevitably follow such a discovery!

He reached the end of his self-imposed beat, from the elm tree below the gate to the shuttered ticket office beyond it, stamped his feet again, swung round, and moved ponderously back towards the tree. If only it had been summer, now, he thought with a disgruntled frown, then there would have been leaves on the tree and he could have simply stood there, sheltering from this dratted rain. As it was, all the bare branches did was to increase the size of the drops which fell on him.

Turning, he trudged back again, idly remarking the reflection in the window of the office of the metal numerals sewn to the collar of his uniform. The seven and the three, dulled by the humidity and beaded with rain, still shone well in the lamplight, he thought, regarding their reversed images with a glow of pride in the handiness of his wife.

Then he remembered — and as his large face creased once more into a scowl, he saw something else reflected in the glass. Somebody was walking up the road towards him.

It was a girl, he saw as he turned to face the newcomer. A pretty girl, too, in her trousers and her boots and her shining black raincoat, with the rain misting her hair and lying in large drops on the soft skin of her face. He gazed approvingly at her as she approached the gates.

"Good evening, Sergeant," she said pleasantly, smiling. "I'm a little late tonight, I'm afraid, but I imagine you'll let me in all right, won't you?" She gave a low musical laugh, completely confident.

And then he remembered her. Of course — it was the new girl! The one who had taken over the sideshow run by the bird who got herself knocked off. Foreigner, she was — a real foreigner, too, he had heard. South African or Australian or American or something like that. Very pretty, though, for all that.

"Evening, Miss," he said. "It's Constable, actually. Constable Trewithick. Of course you can go in... Seeing as you live here, as it were, it'd be a bit of a liberty on my part to try and stop you, wouldn't it?" He chuckled in his turn, moving towards the big gate.

"Oh, well," the girl said. "If all the local police were as charming as you are, I'm sure there'd be nothing but sergeants in the Force!"

"Very kind of you, Miss, I'm sure," the policeman said, swinging the gate wide for her. Was that a blur of movement he had seen by the hedge, a bit farther down the hill there? Or was it simply a drift of rain blowing across the road in the lamplight?... Oh, well: he'd look in a minute. The girl was speaking again.

"I really do sympathize — having to stay out on a night like this just so that people like me can sleep safely in our beds," she said. "I'm sure you will be a sergeant very soon. Then you can tell other policemen to do this kind of job, can't you?" She smiled once more.

"Yes, Miss," P.C. Trewithick said. "Thank you kindly."

"Look," the girl said. "Why don't you come in yourself for a moment? Let me make you a hot drink — a cup of coffee or something. You must be perished out here all night. Do."

Trewithick was scandalized. "Oh, no, Miss, thank you," he said. "That would never do. A married man like me alone in a caravan late at night with (you'll excuse me?) a beautiful young lady! Oh, dear me no. Besides — I'm not allowed to leave my post. That's what I'm here for: to see nobody gets in as shouldn't. Thank you kindly just the same, though."

The girl wrinkled her nose. "Who cares what people think!" she said. "But if you're not allowed to, that's a different matter. I'd hate to be accused of contributing to the dereliction of an officer's duty, or whatever it is!... You will give me a call, won't you, nevertheless — if you change your mind about that drink, I mean. I can always bring it out to you, you know."

The policeman smiled. "Very nice of you," he said. "But I think I'd just better stay here, all the same. It's pretty late, after all."

"All right, then. Just as you like. Good night, officer."

The girl walked through the open gate, waved, and hurried along between the sideshows towards the caravans. At the end of the aisle, she turned right by the roundabout and disappeared. That was odd, the constable thought. He could have sworn the murdered girl's caravan was to the left. Oh, well — never mind. Perhaps old Bosustow had given this one a different trailer... Now there was that matter of the movement he thought he had seen farther down the hill. He flashed his torch along the dripping hedge, letting its beam probe the long grasses on the bank and lance on towards the cottages beyond.

No. He had been mistaken, after all. Nothing moved in the dark patch between the lamps. There was only the rain, slanting ceaselessly down from the overcast sky. He must have seen from the corner of his eye a particularly heavy drift blowing into the pool of light cast by the lamp. The wind had dropped all the same — that was one consolation! He shrugged deeper into the clammy cape and walked back up the hill towards the office. Somewhere among the lights winking up from the valley, the town clock chimed midnight.

"Twelve o'clock!" April Dancer exclaimed in the dense shadow behind the Big Top. "I guess it's safe to move now. We'd better start: there's a lot to do tonight."

"You are absolutely sure about the bobby, are you?" Mark Slate asked in a whisper. "I thought he glanced my way just as I was nipping over the hedge back there."

"Don't worry," the girl reassured him. "I tell you he was far too busy being flattered and struggling to play the unaccustomed role of the gallant himself. He was sweet. Those big fatherly ones are always a piece of cake."