“How’s about telling me how you cornered Little Caesar and the fight you had with him?” he inquired hopefully. “It won’t take long, and we needn’t tell mummy.”
O’Brien pretended to be shocked. His son’s hero-worship was the biggest thing in his life. For a moment he wrestled with the temptation to tell the old favourite again, but it was already past nine o’clock and he had promised his wife he would have the kid in bed and asleep by eight.
“Can’t do it, son,” he said gravely. “We’ve got to keep a bargain. You said you’d be satisfied if I told you about Lingle, and we’re late as it is. I’ll tell you about Little Caesar when next I get some time off.”
“Is that a promise?” his son asked gravely.
“Yes, it’s a promise. Now go to sleep. If you want anything give me a call, but no false alarms.”
“Okay, pop,” his son said, accepting the inevitable. He had long learned it was useless to argue with his father. “See you in the morning.”
“God bless, son.”
“God bless, pop.”
O’Brien turned off the light and went down the stairs to the hall. The little house was very quiet. His wife had gone to the movies with her mother. She wouldn’t be back for another hour. O’Brien wondered if he should wash up the supper dishes or take a look at the fights on the television. The fights won after a minor wrestle with his conscience.
He pushed open the sitting-room door, then paused, frowning. He hadn’t remembered leaving the standard lamp on. He was usually pretty good about turning the lights off. He entered the room and shut the door. He had scarcely taken three steps towards the television set when he came to an abrupt standstill, his senses suddenly alert.