The Devil and the Detective Read Online Free Page B

screamed at the top of my lungs and then eventually he started backing out of the house. The neighbours to the right of us, the Walton-Fischers, were standing in their driveway, wondering what was going on. The officer got in his squad car and I didn’t stop screaming till he was gone. It felt good to chase him out of my home.
    RJ : You did the right thing. He sounds like a maniac.
    EA née J : You should come over here. I don’t like being alone here right now.
    RJ : Perhaps you should stay with family or friends while this investigation’s underway, for the next few weeks at least.
    EA née J : I have no family anywhere near here, and I have no friends I want to stay with. I want to be in my home, even though Gerald was murdered here – I won’t be scared away. Why don’t you stay here, too?
    RJ : I should keep some distance from things.
    EA née J : Think about it. Anyway, come over soon.
    RJ : I will …
    EA née J : Bye.
    RJ : Bye.
    ( Call terminated at 1336h. I return the phone to its mount shortly after pressing the end key. )



    4
    F lowers, I thought, weren’t such a bad idea after all. I called the florist, whose shop was just down the street, and I asked if I were to go through with my order, for forty dollars, to 19 Tower Street, could I maybe get a lift with the delivery driver. She asked me where I live and I told her and then she said, ‘Okay, sure. He’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.’ I prepaid over the phone with my Visa and asked for a receipt. While waiting I brushed my teeth again and reapplied underarm deodorant and sprayed on a little eau de toilette, a gift from a former girlfriend, and I also put on a clean shirt, even though the other wasn’t dirty, because I wanted to appear fresh, despite the hangover. The delivery driver will be here any minute, I thought, and I put on my coat and grabbed a notepad and pen, put them in my inside pocket, and I grabbed my keys, with a small penknife and small flashlight on the keychain. I drank two glasses of ice water. I wondered whether I was forgetting anything, then I grabbed my wallet. I grabbed my sunglasses, too, remembering what a friend’s uncle said to me once: ‘Never leave home without your wallet, keys and sunglasses.’ I looked at my watch and decided to wait out front for the flower delivery driver, since he was doing me a favour.
    The delivery driver showed up in a small black hatchback, and the back of the car was full of bouquets. The passenger-side seat, too, had a large bouquet on it but the driver, Darren, made some space for it in the back. Darren was tall and slim and I’d guess seventeen, though he told me on the car ride that he studied philosophy and history at one of the local universities, so he was probably around twenty, if not a few years older than twenty; nevertheless, he looked like he was seventeen. He asked why I don’t drive and I said it’s because I don’t have a car or a driver’s licence. He asked what I did for a living and I told him that I’m a private detective. I thanked him for picking me up. ‘No problem,’ he said. The car, obviously, smelled of flowers; at first it was pleasant, though as Darren drove, slowly, I started to develop an acute headache.
    I said to Darren, ‘Do the flowers ever get to your head?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ he said. ‘All the time. Crack your window.’
    I opened my window slightly, so as not to damage the ­flowers.
    â€˜You have a headache?’ said Darren.
    â€˜Yeah,’ I said, ‘though I’m also hungover.’
    Darren drove fast and told me a story about a philosopher, one from a small mountain village, a hundred-odd years ago, who leaves his cottage and goes into town so as to get some flour, sugar, eggs, milk and meat, if there is meat, from a store that a friend of his, a philosopher too, runs from home.