Danny Dempsey and the Unlikely Alliance Read Free

Pearson said, before Harrington could complete his question. ‘I want to speak to the Superintendent, and I want to speak to him now! I have a very serious complaint to make. Isn’t that right, Dermot?’ She turned just in time to see Mr. Pearson picking himself off the floor. ‘For heaven’s sake, what on earth are you doing down there? Can’t you do anything right?’
    Harrington muttered something to himself.
    â€˜What are you babbling about, young man?’ Mrs. Pearson barked. ‘What’s keeping you? Haven’t I just told you who I wish to speak to? And be quick about it, if you please!’
    Harrington sighed softly as he turned his back on her, rounded a corner into a corridor. He rapped on a door upon which the black lettering on the frosted glass portion of it proclaimed it to be the private domain of Superintendent Charles Clifford. Harrington stood there patiently, observing the ritual he’d observed on innumerable previous occasions.
    *
    His very first encounter with the Superintendent was about a month or so after he’d graduated. It was only on the second day after he’d been assigned to this particular Garda station, which he now knew every nook and cranny of, and he’d foolishly opened the door to the Superintendent’s office immediately after rapping on it. He was both startled and embarrassed at what had met his eyes on that occasion.
    Superintendent Charles Clifford, all six feet four inches of him, whom Harrington had never seen other than attired in the immaculate uniform of his illustrious standing, was dressed in yellow slacks, a colourful Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt, green trainers, and tartan stockings which reached up to his knees. He looked like a human rainbow.
    He was concentrating so much on a putt he was about to make into a glass tumbler six or seven feet from where he crouched sizing up the shot, that he wasn’t even aware Harrington had entered his office. He was muttering words of encouragement to himself, taking the putter back to guide the ball to its target, when Harrington cleared his throat by way of a gentle cough to announce his presence. Superintendent Clifford fluffed his attempt, striking the ball harder than he’d intended, resulting in it missing the tumbler by several inches and rebounding off the wall, shooting back across the carpet to land at Harrington’s feet. Harrington trapped it neatly beneath the sole of his foot, then, red-faced, gently kicked it towards the Superintendent.
    There was an ominous silence in the office for several seconds. Seconds during which Superintendent Clifford stared at Harrington in disbelief. And seconds which appeared to Harrington were never going to end. But they eventually did. ‘Who are you?’ Superintendent Clifford asked when he’d overcome his surprise. ‘And do you always barge into people’s offices without knocking?’
    â€˜I did knock, sir,’ Harrington replied apologetically. ‘You mustn’t have heard me.’
    â€˜Umm! Knocked, eh!’ the Superintendent said. ‘Let’s have a look at your knuckles.’
    â€˜Knuckles, sir?’ Harrington asked uncertainly, unsure if he’d heard correctly.
    â€˜You do have some, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, sir, but - - -’
    â€˜Over here, then!’ the Superintendent ordered him. ‘We’ll see if you’re telling the truth, my boy.’
    A bemused Harrington was then subjected to a thorough knuckle examination by means of a magnifying glass which his superior extracted from a drawer of his desk. After much hemming and hawing, the Superintendent satisfied himself the knuckles under scrutiny had indeed rapped on the door of his office.
    â€˜Particles of corridor dust on them all right,’ Superintendent Clifford finally confirmed, placing the magnifying glass back from where he’d taken it. ‘Altogether different from office dust.