Comes the Dark Stranger Read Free

mahogany that the management must have picked up cheaply at a sale, but the bed was clean and the bathroom adequate. The room had that unpleasant, musty odour, peculiar to such places and redolent of old sins, and he went to the window and threw it open.
    When he turned, the girl was standing just inside the room regarding him with what was supposed to be a mysterious smile. ‘Will that be all?’ she said.
    He moved across the floor, took the key from her hand, and gently pushed her out of the door. ‘I’ll let you know if I want anything, kid.’
    As he closed the door she smiled eagerly. ‘If there’s anything - anything at all, Mr Shane, just ring.’
    It was very quiet in the room when she had gone, and suddenly the pain was with him again, moving inside his skull like a living thing, taking his breath away and sending him reeling into the bathroom.
    He quickly turned on the cold tap and filled a glass with water; and then he took a small glass bottle from his pocket and unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers. He poured two red pills into the palm of his hand, hesitated for a moment, and then shook out two more. He crammed them into his mouth and swallowed the water. For a moment longer he stayed there, eyes closed, leaning heavily on the wash-basin, and then he lurched into the other room and fell across the bed.
    It was the worst attack he had ever known. He lay with his face turned into the pillow, sweating with fear, and then, abruptly as it had always done before, the pain left him and he could breathe again.
    He pushed himself up slowly and sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments with his head in his hands. After a while he reached for his canvas grip and unzipped it. He took out a half-bottle of whisky, pulled the cork, and took a generous swallow.
    The liquor seeped through his body, warming him with new life, and he lit a cigarette and peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt. After he had pulled on a clean one he stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and examined his face anxiously. A strong neck lifted from wide shoulders, but the skin of his face was pale and stretched too tightly over the prominent cheek bones.
    The eyes were black and expressionless, deep pools set too far back in their sockets. From the right eyebrow a jagged, red scar bisected the high forehead and disappeared into black hair.
    He gently traced the course of the scar with one finger, but there was no further pain and he sighed with relief and quickly finished dressing. He pulled on his trench coat, and then he got the glass from the bathroom and poured himself another shot of the whisky.
    As he was drinking it he stood looking down at the canvas grip, a slight frown on his face. As if coming to a decision, he finished the whisky in one quick swallow, fumbled in the bottom of the canvas grip, and took out a Luger automatic pistol. He checked the action, then slipped it into his inside breast-pocket and left the room, locking the door behind him.
    He walked quickly through the centre of the town, hat pulled down low over his eyes against the heavy rain, hands thrust deep into his pockets. It had been a long time, and it took him almost an hour to find the place he was looking for. It was a small bar in a backstreet not far from the university, and when he went inside the place was deserted except for an old, white-haired barman, who was polishing a glass and listening to the radio.
    Shane stood just inside the door, his eyes passing quickly over the old-fashioned Edwardian booths and the leather-covered stools that stood in front of the marbletopped bar. Nothing had changed. He ordered a beer and sat on the stool at the far end of the bar, staring at himself in the ornate gilt mirror and for a brief moment time stood still and he was back eight years. Back to the Monday after the start of the Korean war, sitting on that same stool and listening to the call for volunteers over the radio.
    The door swung open behind him, and he turned in