Tales From Gavagan's Bar Read Free Page A

shadows.
     
                  "Look at the table," repeated Witherwax, pointing.
     
                  The glass that had held his drink was empty. Thott's still held about half a cocktail. Mrs. Jonas' glass lay on its side, and from its lip about a thimbleful of Presidente cocktail had flowed pinkly into an irregular patch the size of a child's hand.
     
                  As the other two followed Witherwax's finger, they saw that, from this patch, a line of little damp footprints led across the table to the far edge, where they suddenly ceased. They were circular, each about the size of a dime, with a small scalloped front edge, as if made by ...              
     
    -
     
THE ANCESTRAL AMETHYST
     
                  "We were very good to the Swedes when they ruled over us in Bornholm three hundred years ago," said the stocky man, downing his cherry brandy at a gulp and motioning Mr. Cohan for a refill. "We had to kill all of them one night. While it was being done, some of our people ran into the church and rang the church bells, so that the souls of all the Swedes should rise to heaven on the music. For several hours they continued to pull the ropes, although it was terribly hard work for their arms and they became very tired."
     
                  The second cherry brandy followed the first. Professor Thott contemplated the bald cranium, surrounded by a crescent of pale hair, and said thoughtfully: "I can perceive that you Danes are an extremely tenderhearted people."
     
                  "That is most true," said the stocky man. His whole face was covered by a network of tiny red lines. "But it is not always for us—how do the English say it?—'beer and skating.' I remember—"
     
                  The door opened, and he checked as into Gavagan's came a tall, thin, knobby policeman, accompanied by a small man with sharp eyes, in a neat blue serge suit. The policeman extended a hand across the bar to Mr. Cohan, who shook it fervently.
     
                  "How are you, Julius?"
     
                  "How are you, my boy?" Then he turned to face the others. "Hello, Professor," he said to Thott. "Meet my friend, Mr. McClintock."
     
    There was more handshaking. Thott said: "This is Captain Axel Ewaldt, of the Danish merchant marine, Officer Cohan, Mr. McClintock. Shall we have a round? He was just telling a story to illustrate how sentimental the Danes are. Make mine a Rye Highball, Mr. Cohan."
     
                  "Just a sherry," said McClintock. "A people of high moral standards. They have less crime than any nation in Europe."
     
                  Captain Ewaldt beamed; Patrolman Cohan said: "Mr. McClintock gives talks on crime. He's just been over to the Police Boys' Club doing it. He's an expert."
     
                  "I have often wondered how one became an expert on crime," said Professor Thott, meditatively.
     
                  "By personal association in my case," said McClintock. "I don't in the least mind telling you, not in the least. Until the grace of the Lord came upon me, I was engaged in criminal activity. The title of my talk is 'Crime does not pay,' and I am happy to say my efforts have been rewarding."
     
                  Patrolman Cohan said: "This was known as Dippie Louie. He was a left breech hook and could kiss the dog."
     
                  Professor Thott gazed at Dippie Louie with polite interest, but Ewaldt said: "Some schnapps, Mr. Cohan. This cherry makes one cold inside, and a man should warm himself." He addressed the officer: "Be so good to explain. I am not understanding."
     
                  "A left breech hook can lift a poke—beg pardon, take a wallet out of a man's left breeches pocket. And kissing the dog means he can do it while standing face to face."
     
                  "A highly