The silent world of Nicholas Quinn Read Online Free

than a question. 'That's a nice little wine, my boy.'
    He pointed a stubby finger at one of the Burgundies. 'Good year, too.'
    Quinn noted (he'd known it anyway) that it was the most expensive wine on the list,
    and he ordered a bottle.
    'I don't think one's going to be much good, is it? With five of us—'
    'We ought to have a bottle and a half, you think?'
    'I think we ought to have two. Don't you, gentlemen?' Voss turned to the others and his
    proposal was happily approved.
    'Two bottles of number five,' said Quinn resignedly. The irritation was
    nagging away again.
    'And open them straightaway, please,' said Voss.
    In the restaurant Quinn seated himself at the left-hand corner of the table,
    with Voss immediately to his right, two of the others immediately opposite,
    and the fifth member of the party at the top of the table. It was invariably the
    best sort of arrangement. Although he could see little of Voss's lips as he
    was speaking, he was just about near enough to catch his words; and the
    others he could see clearly. Lip-reading had its limitations, of course: it was
    of little use if the speaker mumbled through unmoving lips, or held a hand
    over his mouth; and absolutely useless when the speaker turned his back,
    or when the lights went out. But in normal circumstances, it was quite
    wonderful what one could do. Quinn had first attended lip-reading classes
    six years previously, and had been amazed to discover how easy it was.
    He knew from the outset that he must have been blessed with a rare gift:
    he was so much in advance of the first-year class-that his teacher had
    suggested, after only a fortnight, that he should move up to the second-
    year class; and even there he had been the star pupil. He couldn't really
    explain his gift, even to himself. He supposed that some people were
    talented in trapping a football or in playing the piano: and he had a talent
    for reading the lips of others, that was all. Indeed, he had become so
    proficient that he could sometimes almost believe that he was in fact
    'hearing' again. In any case, he hadn't completely lost his hearing. The
    expensive aid at his right ear (the left was completely nerve-less) amplified
    sufficient sound at reasonably close quarters, and even now he could hear
    Voss as he pronounced the benediction over the escargots just placed
    before him.
    'Remember what old Sam Johnson used to say? "The fellow who doesn't
    mind his belly can't be trusted to mind anything." Well, something like that.'
    He tucked a napkin into his waistband and stared at his plate with the eyes
    of a Dracula about to ravish a virgin.
    The wine was good and Quinn had noticed how Voss had dealt with it.
    Quite beautifully. After studying the label with the intensity of a backward
    child trying to get to grips with the Initial Teaching Alphabet, he had taken
    the temperature of the wine, lightly and lovingly laying his hands around
    the bottleneck; and then, when the waiter had poured half an inch of the
    ruby liquid into his glass, he had tasted not a drop, but four or five times
    sniffed the bouquet suspiciously, like a trained alsatian sniffing for
    dynamite. "Not bad,' he'd said finally. 'Pour it out.' Quinn would remember
    the episode. He would try it himself next time. 'And turn the bloody music
    down a bit, will you,' shouted Voss, as the waiter was about to depart. 'We
    can't hear each other speak.' The music was duly diminished a few
    decibels, and a solitary diner at the next table came over to express his
    thanks. Quinn himself had been completely unaware that any background
    music was being played.
    When the coffee finally arrived Quinn himself was feeling more contented,

    and a little befuzzled. In fact, he couldn't quite remember whether it was
    Richard III on the First Crusade or Richard I on the Third Crusade. Or, for
    that matter, whether either Richard had been on either Crusade. Life was
    suddenly very good again. He thought of Monica. Perhaps he would call