rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第4部分

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t　was　difficult　to　make　out　his　features　clearly；　but　they　seemed　wide　and　flat　and　had　more　than　the　suggestion　of　the　Orient　about　them。
　The　two　men　rose　from　the　ground；　patting　away　at　their　clothes。　The　fight　was　over；　the　ref　s　decision　being　a　draw。　They　beat　a　hasty　retreat　to　the　doubtful　safety　of　Pooley's　allotment　shed。　Through　a　knot…hole　in　the　slatted　side　they　squinted　at　the　grey　figure。　He　was　as　immobile　as　a　shop…window　dummy；　and　stared　towards　them　unblinkingly　in　a　manner　which　the　sensitive　Jim　found　quite　upsetting。　He　was　of　average　height　with　high　cheek…bones　and　a　slightly　tanned　plexion　and　bore　a　striking　resemblance　to　a　young　Jack　Palance。
　Pooley　sought　about　for　his　tobacco　tin。　'I　don't　like　the　look　of　this；'　he　said。
　Omally；　who　had　liberated　Pooley's　tin　from　his　pocket　during　the　fight；　was　rolling　a　cigarette　behind　his　back。　'He　is　probably　some　workman　chappy；'　he　suggested；　'or　possibly　a　bus　conductor　or　site　engineer　from　the　gas　works。'　The　hollow　tone　in　Omally's　voice　was　not　lost　upon　his　panion。
　'He　has　more　of　the　look　of　a　municipal　worker　to　me；'　said　Jim；　shaking　his　head　dismally。　'A　park…keeper　perhaps；　or。。。'
　'Don't　say　it；'　said　John。　'Some　spy　from　the　Council　e　to　inspect　the　allotment？'
　Pooley　clenched　his　fists。　'This　is　all　too　much。　Discriminated　against　and　ostracized　from　the　Council　courses；　now　tracked　down　here　for　further　discrimination　and　ostracization；　hounded　down　because　of　our　love　of　the　game。　It　is　all　too　much　to　bear。　Let　us　kill　him　now　and　bury　his　body。'
　Omally　agreed　that　it　was　all　too　much　to　bear　but　thought　Pooley's　solution　a　little　drastic。　'All　may　not　be　lost；'　he　said。　'He　may　have　only　just　arrived　and　may　only　have　witnessed　our　slight　disagreement　regarding　the　excellence　of　your　trick　shot。　He　may　not　suspect　the　cause。'
　Pooley　gestured　through　a　broken　window…pane　to　where　his　golf　caddy；　a　converted　supermarket　trolley；　stood　bristling　with　its　assortment　of　unmatched　clubs。
　Omally　hung　his　head。　'The　game　is　up；'　said　he　in　a　leaden　tone。
　Pooley　put　his　eye　once　more　to　the　knot…hole。　'He　is　still　there。　Perhaps　we　could　reason　with　him；　or　better　still　offer　a　bribe。'
　Omally　thought　this　sound　enough；　every　man　having　his　price。　'How　much　have　you　in　your　pockets？'　he　asked。
　Pooley　smiled　grimly。　'We　have　not　yet　settled　up　over　the　game。　I　think　that　it　is　for　you　to　approach　him；　John。　Employ　your　silken　tongue　and　feel　free　to　invest　a　portion　of　my　winnings　if　needs　be。　You　can　always　owe　me　the　difference。　I　consider　you　to　be　a　man　of　honour。'
　Omally　licked　the　end　of　his　captured　roll…up。　'All　right；'　he　said　nobly；　'I　shall　go。　We　shall　consider　your　winnings　to　be　an　investment　to　secure　a　further　season　of　uninterrupted　play。　During　this　period　I　have　not　the　least　doubt　that　if　your　game　continues　at　its　present　standard　you　will　have　the　opportunity　to　lighten　my　pockets　continually。'
　Pooley　opened　his　mouth　to　speak　but　thought　better　of　it。　In　such　matters　Omally　generally　held　the　verbal　edge。　'Go　then　with　my　blessings；'　he　said；　'but　kindly　leave　me　my　tobacco　tin。'
　Omally　straightened　up　his　regimental　necktie；　squared　his　broad　and　padded　shoulders；　threw　open　the　hut　door；　and　stepped　out　into　the　sunlight。　The　figure　lurking　amongst　the　bean　poles　watched　the　Irishman　with　an　inscrutable　expression。　Omally　thrust　his　hands　into　his　trouser　pockets　and　gazed　about　the　allotment　with　extreme　nonchalance。　He　yawned；　stretched；　and　then；　as　if　seeing　the　figure　for　the　first　time；　flicked　at　his　mop　of　curly　black　hair　and　bid　the　stranger　a　hearty　'Good　morning　there。'
　The　figure　uttered　not　a　word　but　merely　stared　on　regardless。
　'There'll　be　rain　before　the　evening　I　shouldn't　wonder；'　said　Omally；　who　was　rarely　rattled。　'Won't　do　the　ground　any　harm　though。'　As　he　spoke　he　slowly　strolled　in　the　stranger's　direction；　covering　his　approach　with　the　occasional　sidestep　to　scrutinize　some　flowering　bloom。　But　soon　there　was　less　than　fifteen　yards　between　them。　'Should　get　a　rare　old　crop　of　beans　up　this　year；'　said　John；　stepping　nimbly　over　Old　Pete's　watering　can。
　In　order　that　he　might　reach　the　Council　spy；　for　by　this　time　Omally　felt　one　hundred　per　cent　certain　that　this　was　in　fact　the　lurker's　despicable　calling；　it　was　necessary　for　him　to　pass　behind　Soap　Distant's　heavily…bolted　corrugated　iron　shed。　Soap　himself　had　vanished　away　from　Brentford　under　most　extraordinary　circumstances；　but　his　rental　upon　the　shed　was　paid　up　until　the　turn　of　the　following　century　and　his　hut　remained　untouched　and　inviolate。
　Omally　sneaked　away　behind　it。　He　lost　sight　of　the　spy　for　but　a　moment；　but　when　he　emerged　at　the　spot　where　the　malcontent　should　have　been　standing；　to　John's　amazement；　not　a　soul　was　to　be　seen。
　Pooley　came　ambling　up。　'Where　did　he　go？'　he　asked。　'I　took　my　eyes　off　him　for　a　moment　and　he　was　gone。'
　Omally　shook　his　head。　'There　is　something　not　altogether　kosher　about　this；　I　am　thinking。'
　'He　must　have　legged　it；　had　it　away　on　his　toes。'
　Omally　scratched　at　the　stubble　of　his　chin。　'Perhaps；'　said　he；　'perhaps。　There　is　a　terrible　smell　of　creosote　hereabouts；　has　anybody　been　pasting　his　paintwork？'
　'Not　to　my　knowledge。'
　Omally　shrugged；　'Shall　we　play　another　round　then？'
　Pooley　scrutinized　his　Piaget　wristwatch。　'I　feel　a　little　unsettled；'　he　said。　'Perhaps　we　should　adjourn　now　to　the　Swan　for　a　cooling　pint　of　Large　to　ease　our　fractured　nerves。'
　'That；'　said　Omally；　smacking　his　hands　together；　'is　not　a　bad　idea　by　any　reckoning。'
　
　5
　Bitow。。。　Bitow。。。　Bitow。。。　Bitow。。。　Whap。。。　'What？'　The　ungodly　sounds　echoed　across　the　library…silent　saloon…bar　of　the　Flying　Swan；　rattling　the　optics　and　jarring　the　patrons　from　their　contemplation　of　the　racing　dailies。　Neville　the　part…time　barman　clapped　his　hands　about　his　ears　and　swore　from　between　freshly　clenched　teeth。
　Nicholas　Roger　Raffles　Rathbone；　currently　serving　his　time　as　local　paperlad；　stood　before　the　Captain　Laser　Alien　Attack　Machine；　his　feet　at　three　of　the　clock　and　his　shoulders　painfully　hunched　in　his　bid　to　defend　planet　Earth　from　its　never…ending　stream　of　cosmic　cousins　ever　bent　upon　conquest；　doom；　and　destruction。
　Bitow。。。　Bitow。。。　Bitow。。。　Bitow。。。　His　right　forefinger　rattled　away　at　the　neutron　bomb　release　button　and　a　bead　of　perspiration　formed　upon　his　ample　brow。　'Go　on　my　son；　go　on。'　Little　streamers　of　coloured　light；　like　some　residue　from　a　third…rate　firework　box；　flew　up　the　bluely…tinted　video　screen　to　where　the　horde　of　approaching　spacecraft；　appearing　for　all　the　world　like　so　many　stuffed　olives；　dipped　and　weaved。
　Bitow。。。　Whap。。。　'What？'　Young　Nick　levelled　his　cherry…red　boot　at　the　machine；　damaging　several　of　his　favourite　toes。
　Neville　watched　the　performance　with　a　face　of　despair。　He　too　had　made　that　gesture　of　defiance　with　an　equal　lack　of　success。
　The　boy　Nick　dug　deeply　into　his　denim　pockets　for　more　small　change；　but　found　only　a　pound　note；　whose　serial　number　corresponded　exactly　with　one　which　had　lain　not　long　before　in　Norman's　secret　cashbox　beneath　his　counter。　He　turned　his　back　momentarily　upon　his　humming　adversary　and　bounced　over　to　the　bar　counter。　'Give　us　change　of　a　quid　then；　Nev。'
　Neville　viewed　the　diminutive　figure　with　the　lime…green　coiffure。　'I　cannot　give　out　change；'　he　said　maliciously。　'You　will　have　to　buy　a　drink。'
　'OK　then；　a　half　of　shandy　and　plenty　of　two…bobs　in　the　change；　the　Captain　awaits。'
　Neville　drew　off　a　mere　trickle　of　ale　into　the　glass　and　topped　it　up　from　the　drips　tray。　'We've　no　lemonade；'　he　sneered。
　'No　sweat；'　said　Nick。
　Neville　noticed；　as　he　passed　the　flat　half…pint　across　the　gleaming　bar　top；　that　the　boy's　right　forefinger　drummed　out　a　continual　tattoo　upon　an　imaginary　neutron　bomb　release　button。　Accepting　the　pound　note；　he　rang　up　'No　Sale'　and　scooped　out　a　fistful　of　pennies　and　halfpennies　and　a　ten…bob　piece。　'Sorry　I　can't　let　you　have　more　than　a　couple　of　florins；'　he　told　the　bouncing　boy；　'we　are　a　little　down　on　silver　this　morning。'
　The　boy　shrugged。　'No　sweat。'　He　was　well　acquainted　with　the　old　adage　about　a　prophet　being　without　honour　in　his　own　land；　and　he　made　a　mental　note　that　he　would　always　in　future　take　his　perks　in　silver　before　settling　in　for　a　lunchtime's　cosmic　warfare。　Without　further　ado　he　pocketed　his　ten…bob　piece；　swept　up　his　pennies；　pushed　his　half…pint　pointedly　aside　and　jogged　back　to　the　humming　machine。
　Pooley　and　Omally　entered　the　Flying　Swan。　'God　save　all　here；'　said　the　Irishman；　as　more　bitowing　rent　the　air；　'and　a　pox　upon　the　Nipponese　and　all　their　hellish　works。'
　Raffles　Rathbone　heard　not　a　word　of　this；　he　was　hunched　low；　aiding　the　Captain　in　his　bid　to　defeat　Earth's　attackers。　His　face　was　contorted　into　the　kind　of　expression　which　made　Joseph　Carey　Merrick　such　a　big　attraction　in　the　Victorian　side…shows。　His　right　forefinger　twitched　in　a　localized　St　Vitus'　Dance　and　his　body　quivered　as　if　charged　with　static　electricity。
　Neville　ground　his　teeth；　loosening　yet　another　expensive　filling；　and　tore　his　eyes　away　from　th