The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

It was a short walk past the Spalentor, across the park and down the steps that tapered like a long funnel into the market place. No sinister figures lurked in the doorways. No strange faces crossed his path, except for the occasional woman dutifully heaving the day’s shopping home from the market. The square itself was peacefully attending to the routine of the city’s housewives under the watchful presence of the mediaeval town hall that dominated the area with the same heavy sandstone of the cathedral. Apart from the stallholders or the chestnut seller on the corner, few men were to be seen at that time. Those who were took no part in the business of the day, but shuffled through their morning in retirement, a stick in one hand and cigar stump in the mouth. He found it hard to imagine the violence that was taking place on the fringes of this ordinary humdrum world, although he had witnessed it himself. Even had a part in it. Would the women buying their cauliflowers and carrots believe him if he interrupted their transactions to tell them of the slaughter he had seen and the putrefying cadavers that lay at that very moment just a short tram-ride from where they stood? More likely they would think him completely mad, he told himself.

The everyday normality of the scene in the market place had the curious effect of heightening his unease and sharpening his sense of menace. So, having purchased the essentials he needed to get him through the next few days, he made his way cautiously back over the river to tie up the loose ends that remained hanging in his room at the Kolping house. With the added security of the gun in his pocket, he was ready for most eventualities, but the welcome waiting for him was one for which he was not prepared.

Having taken the precaution of using the back street to the building, he was stopped in his tracks by a disagreeably familiar figure: the ugly face of the cloth-capped man, leaning on the railings, his concentration seemingly focused on the newspaper that he held in front of him. Frank cautiously retraced his steps and walked around the building to the front of the house. It appeared to be clear.

The fist that drove itself viciously into his solar plexus as he turned into the doorway told him otherwise.

“We’ve been looking for you, runt.”

He knew the American accent instantly. It went with the fist. But above all it was the way the man pinned him to the wall before he could see straight or even take air that told him it was Silverstone. He had been here before.

“You got some explaining to do, friend. So why don’t we take a walk?”

Putting Frank’s left arm in the vice of a grip that Frank had got to know when Silverstone dragged him off to Achim’s all those lifetimes ago, the American marched him back out of the building and down to the promenade beside the river. The cloth cap was still lurking. And when he saw the two walking down to the river in what must have looked a rather comical tandem, he discarded the newspaper and let a smile open up like a deep scar across his face as he approached them. It was the first time Frank had seen any light of humanity in the man’s expression, but it seemed fitting that it should shine so darkly. The man said nothing, and his silence disturbed Frank. It was a dumb kind of muteness that suggested he had no power of speech. As if to compensate for the affliction, he hissed slightly through his bearded smile when Silverstone spoke.

“I found him. Says he was just stepping out for some fresh air and why don’t we join him. I call that real neighbourly. What do you think, Bert?”

The cloth cap now had a name, and the cicatricial grin looked ready to split his face wide open in response. But still he remained mute and just followed Silverstone, who guided Frank with the brachial force of his grip along the river promenade. In the half-light of the archway beneath the bridge was the inconspicuous door to a public convenience. Frank had never noticed it before. And he recalled with a sense of irony all the times he had searched in vain for a place to relieve himself in this vicinity, as Silverstone kicked open the door and bundled him inside. Bert, the cloth cap, stood back in the doorway. Frank caught him in the corner of his eye grinning with perverse pleasure at the sight of Silverstone pushing him back against the porcelain so that he was forced to stand as best he could in the slippery glazed gutter of the urinal.

“I thought we had a deal, Eigenmann. So what went wrong?”

Silverstone thrust his face into Frank’s. It was the first time he had noticed a thin line on the American’s upper lip masquerading as a moustache.

“I agreed to do a favour for my old friend, Achim,” Frank said, tightening his grip on the gun in his pocket. “I don’t recall making any deals with you.”

“Achim. Yes, of course. Your friend Achim.” There was a menacing mockery in his tone now. “That brings me to the other little matter we need to talk about.”

As if taking out a pen to make a note in his diary, he drew a knife from his inside pocket and flicked it open in Frank’s face. The cloth cap looked on, still beaming his inane smile from the doorway – until it was wiped from his primitive face by the gun that Frank pushed into Silverstone’s belly.

“Just drop the knife and back off.”

His speech contorted to the most threatening growl he could muster as his lips were palsied by agitation. But the delivery was immaterial. It was the message that counted. This was a refreshing new experience for Frank,