Other Paths to Glory Read Free Page A

it was no longer a short-cut, because he had outgrown his schoolboy habit of cutting through the goods yard, squeezing between the last line of hoarding and the beginning of the iron railings, and sliding down directly on to the path by way of the river bridge embankment. But it was still the coolest and most pleasant route in summer and the quietest and most relaxing one in winter, giving him an undisturbed quarter of an hour in which to consider the day’s events and the evening’s possibilities.
    This evening was ideal for short-cutting: dark, but not too dark, with the towpath lamps catching the mist as it rose from the dark river like steam and picking out the puddles ahead; in fact just light enough to walk and think without fear of stepping off into the water, just dark enough to discourage casual walkers, and just chilly enough to drive courting couples under cover.
    Only for once he regretted the reflexes which had automatically taken him along it, rather than among the bright lights and distractions of the town, because the day’s events had been disturbing and the evening, like all evenings since his arrangement with Valeric had broken up, was very likely to be a drag.
    And the bloody inescapable thing about this was that the drag was neither his nor Valerie’s, but entirely in Mother’s mind, probably because her married life had been such a succession of contrived tragedies that she was no longer able to identify a happy ending when she met one. For Mother, boy meets girl had to be one extreme or the other - happy ever after or paradise lost. She just couldn’t accept that rather than get married, girl wanted to become a publishing tycoon and boy wanted to write a book on the Hindenburg Line.
    But that was not what was worrying him now - in fact it was not even important, only irritating. What was important was his failure so far to raise Professor Emerson at Parley Green in order to warn him about the afternoon’s mystery men, and to apologise in advance for his big mouth. It might not matter at all, because Emerson wasn’t the sort of man to take offence so easily, but that only made him feel more guilty. So if the phone was still dead he’d just have to get the car out and drive over there himself after supper, no matter how much it offended Mother.
    As it undoubtedly would offend her. And as he’d now reached the first of the weir bridges he had only another five minutes in which to frame an explanation …
    He moved to one side to allow a wide berth to two men he could see approaching from the other side of the bridge, the first he had seen since he had come down to the riverside. The water, he noticed, was not quite as high as might have been expected after the previous day’s rain, with no more than half the curved weir gates raised. But then it had been a dryish autumn so far.
    He needed an explanation for Mother - it would be no good telling her about the enigmatic Dr Audley and his uninformative colleague, because she’d only make a great dramatic production of it straightaway. But a mention of the professor would be like a red rag to her; she was quite irrationally jealous of the poor man.
    ‘Mr Mitchell?’
    One of the two men checked his stride as they came alongside him.
    ‘Eh?’ Mitchell looked at him in surprise, fearful for an instant that he was about to be asked for the price of a cup of tea. But the educated voice and respectable overcoat reassured him. This was evidently a day for strangers.
    ‘It is Mr Mitchell, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes. But I don’t believe - oooof ’
    Two hands grasped him from behind simultaneously, the first gripping his arm at the elbow and pulling him towards the railings while the other, in the small of his back, turned him sideways, face to the river. Their combined force slammed him into railings brutally. His briefcase was wrenched from his fingers.
    Oh, God! he thought despairingly, terrified not for the £20 in his breast-pocket, but for the three