Comes the Dark Stranger Read Free Page A

alarm as if expecting some ghost from a dead past, but it was only a small man in a wet raincoat and cloth cap, cursing the weather and ordering a drink from the barman. They started a conversation, and Shane took his beer into the telephone booth at the back of the bar and closed the door.
    He lit a cigarette and took a small notebook from his pocket. Inside were several names and addresses. The first was that of a man called Henry Faulkner, and he quickly flipped through the telephone book. After a moment he gave a grunt of satisfaction, and compared the address with that in the notebook. A moment later he dialled the number.
    It seemed very quiet there in the phone booth, and the ringing at the other end of the wire was from another world. He drummed softly with his fingers on the wall, and after several moments replaced the receiver and dialled the number again. There was still no reply, and after a third attempt he picked up his beer and went back into the bar.
    The barman and the other customer were arguing about the probable result of a local football match on Saturday, and Shane stood quietly at the end of the bar, sipping his beer and thinking. Suddenly, he was filled with a distaste for the place. It never paid to return to anything. He had been a fool to come here. He quickly swallowed the rest of his beer and left.
    Outside the rain was falling as heavily as ever, and he walked back towards the centre of the town until he came to a taxi rank. He gave the driver Faulkner’s address and climbed in.
    For five or ten minutes the cab passed through a grimy, industrial neighbourhood of factories, with terraced houses sandwiched in between, and then they turned into a road that wound its way through trees in a zig-zag, climbing higher and higher with each turn, until the city became invisible in the rain below.
    Once on top he found himself in another world. A world of quiet streets and gracious houses. The address was in Fairholme Avenue, and Shane told the driver to stop at the end of the street. When the cab had driven away he walked slowly along the pavement, looking for a house called Four Winds.
    The houses were typical homes of the wealthy town dweller, large without being mansions, stone built, and standing in their own grounds. The street turned into a quiet cul-de-sac at the far end, and it was there that he found what he was looking for.
    The house seemed somehow dead and neglected, the windows staring blindly down at him, and the garden was unkempt and overgrown. He walked along the gravel drive and mounted broad steps to the front door and tried the bell. He could hear it ringing somewhere in the depths of the house, but no one answered. He tried again, keeping his thumb pressed hard against the button for a full minute, but there was no reply.
    He went back down the steps and walked across the lawn. Someone had made an attempt to cut it in front of the stone terrace, and a french window stood ajar, one end of a red velvet curtain billowing out into the rain as a sudden gust of wind lifted it.
    He paused at the window, peering uncertainly into the darkness of the room beyond, and said softly, ‘Is anyone there?’
    There was no reply, and he had started to turn away when a high-pitched, querulous voice called, ‘Who is it?’
    Shane parted the curtains and stepped inside. The room was in half darkness, and it was several moments before his eyes were adjusted to the change of light. He walked forward cautiously, and the voice sounded again, almost at his elbow. ‘Here I am, young man.’
    Shane swung round quickly. An old man was sitting in a wing-backed chair beside a small table, on which stood a bottle and a glass. There was a rug over his knees, and an old-fashioned quilted dressing-gown was buttoned high around his scrawny neck. When he spoke, his voice was high and cracked, like an old woman’s.
    ‘I don’t often get visitors,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
    Shane pulled a chair forward