Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust by Robert G. Barrett Read Free Book Online Page A

his apple. He had another look at the address, then got the street directory from the phone cabinet and came back to the kitchen. Brassie ran between Gilgandra and Warners; about five minutes’ drive away. Les closed thestreet directory and looked out the kitchen window. Noticing it was getting dark, he glanced at his watch. I’ll have a bite to eat and watch TV for a while, he thought, then go round and see what’s going on. But between Jacko and Irish John half full of ink, you can bet I’ll be wasting my time. Les finished his apple then made himself a Promite sandwich with all the trimmings and took it into the loungeroom with a cup of tea.
    The TV was off, it was completely dark outside and Les was standing in the kitchen dressed in a black bomber jacket, the same grey T-shirt, Levis and a pair of black, ten-hole Doc Martens. So what am I going to say to these kind folks when I knock on their door, he mused, absently jiggling his car keys. Good evening. My name’s Les. Do you mind if I have the green bag with the eagle on the side, please? I know what they’ll say. Les shook his head and stared out at the darkness. Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose. He switched off the lights and locked the house, then climbed behind the wheel of his battered Berlina and drove off.
    The lounge at the Rex was in full swing as Les cruised past. But they were long gone at Azulejos when he turned left into Warners Avenue, and Barraclough Park was deserted when he hung a right into Brassie. The house was sitting between two other cottages facing a block of four home units near the end of the street. Les pulled up beneath a streetlight on the opposite side of the road and left the engine running while he checked it out.
    It was an old, single-storey brick cottage with a white brick fence at the front divided by a metal gate. A short path lead through weeds and long grass to a small verandah and a front door set between two heavily curtained windows facing the street. A faint light shone through a small pane of stained glass on top of the door, and on the right an empty carport sat in front of a wooden gate leading to a passage running alongside the house. The house was in silence, the surrounding buildings were quiet and the street was empty. Les did a U-turn and parked down from the house with the car facing Warners Avenue, then got out and walked back.
    The gate creaked slightly in the darkness when Les opened it; he closed it quietly behind him, then he stepped up and knocked on the door.There was no immediate answer. But Les was sure he heard movement inside. So he waited a few moments and knocked again. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, then the door opened and Norton found himself facing a lean man with a dark buzz cut and skinny sidelevers, wearing jeans and a dirty white T-shirt several sizes too big for him. From deep in a gaunt, lined face, two bloodshot eyes were spinning around like crazy and he oozed paranoia. Les snatched a quick glance behind the man and saw a short, badly lit hallway with two doors on either side and a dirty wooden floor that led to another door at the end. The man glared wild-eyed at Les, his face a volatile mixture of hatred and suspicion.
    ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he snarled. ‘What do you fuckin want?’
    ‘Mate,’ said Les easily. ‘All I want is a green bag. That’s all.’
    Les was about to explain it belonged to a friend of his, just give it back, he’d be on his way and there’d be no hard feelings, and if he was wrong he’d apologise, when suddenly the bloke started to hyperventilate and the crazed look on his face switched to complete lunacy.
    ‘Green bag,’ he shrieked. ‘Green fuckin bag. I’ll give you nothing, you cunt. I’ll fuckin kill you.’Without warning, the man attacked Les in a hissing, cursing hail of punches and kicks.
    Taken completely by surprise, Les hardly had time to defend himself and a couple of punches managed to get through, catching him