Read The Man with a Load of Mischief for Free Online Page A

funny. He had run out of ideas by now, though.
    He looked out the window, saw nothing, tested the grillwork as a matter of form. She was watching him anxiously. He knew that if he hesitated too long, she would lose faith. Out of his pocket he took a tiny, round piece of metal and held it up. “Mrs. Wasserman, I really shouldn’t do this, it’s not legal” — and he grinned and so did she, sharing the secret — “but I’m putting this on your telephone.” He picked up the base of the phone and attached the disc to the metal plate underneath. “There. Now, if anyone should bother you, just lift the receiver and push this metal disc to the side. It’ll ring my phone upstairs.” Her face brightened. “But, look, only use it if you absolutely have to — an emergency — because it buzzes Central and I’d be in one hell of a jam.”
    Relief flooded her face and it was pathetic to see. He knew she wouldn’t use it; it was only the reassurance she wanted, and he was safe for another two months. Then the tension would build again and she would see The Feet. It was almost like the tension of a sexual deviant or a drug addict. And there was so little to distract her from her obsession. He often wondered about the emptiness of her life. He would look in her dark little eyes sometimes and see himself reflected there.
    â€œOh, Inspector Jury, what would I do without you? It’s such a relief you living here, a real Scotland Yard policeman.” Quickly, she walked over to the fireplace, where an electric log burned, and took down a package from the white plaster mantel. She held it out to him. “For Christmas. Go on, go, open it.” She made a pushing motion with her hands.
    â€œI don’t know what to say. Thank you.” He undid the bit of ribbon and flimsy tissue. It was a book. Quite beautiful, leather with gold tooling and a black, silk marker. Virgil’s Aeneid.
    â€œI saw you reading it one day, at the Angel, remember? I know you love to read. Me, I don’t understand that deep stuff. It’s all Greek to me.” (Jury smiled.) “I read film magazines, romances, trash, ah, you know. Is it all right?” She seemed truly anxious about whether she had got the right book.
    â€œIt’s wonderful, Mrs. Wasserman. Really. Merry Christmas to you. You’ll be okay now?”
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    As he climbed the stairs with his book, Jury thought, Poor woman. That particular He who terrified her, from what vantage point had she seen His feet? Ground-level? Mat-level? Bed-level? Had she had to look down in order to avoid looking up? It was better for Mrs. Wasserman that The Feet stopped just beyond her grilled windows than that they should kick down the doors of memory.

CHAPTER 5
    T he English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance. Who has not, in his imagination, leaned from its timbered galleries over the cobbled courtyard to watch the coaches pull in, the horses’ breath fogging the air as they stamp on dark winter evenings? Who has not read of these long, squat buildings with mullioned windows; sunken, uneven floors; massive beams and walls hung round with copper; kitchens where joints once turned on spits, and hams hung from ceilings. There by the fireplace the travelers of lesser quality might sit on wood stools or settles with cups of ale. There the bustling landlady sent the housemaids scurrying like mice to their duties. Battalions of chambermaids with lavendered sheets, scullions, footmen, drawers, stage-coachmen, and that Jack-of-all trades called Boots waited to assist the traveler to and from the heavy oaken doors. Often he could not be sure whether the floor would be covered with hay, or what bodies might have to be stepped over or crept past on his way to breakfast, if he slept in an inner room. But the breakfast more than made up for the