#21b
Southern docks, Wednesday morning (continued)
They entered the unlit hangar cautiously. Matt glanced at the windows, which, as far as he could see, were walled up.
“Well, it's certainly dark at your friend's place.”
“He's not me friend. Not really, dat is. And yeah, he hates sunlight.”
“He's some kind of vampire?” Matt asked. His tone made it impossible to know if he was joking.
“Nah.” Hitchgins answered casually, “He's a lot worse than dat.”
In fact, the only light source allowing them to distinguish the rows of tall racks disposed through the room came from the open door behind them. Hitchgins went up to one of the shelves, checking the various boxes, packages and drums it contained.
“Shall we use the torch?” Matt asked, dithering, before deciding to follow his superior.
Hitchgins observed that objects had fallen from the shelves in several places, as if they had been shoved violently, and a drum had crashed onto the ground. Hitchgins knew perfectly well what was in those casks, but the condition of the floor where the liquid had sloshed before evaporating completely would have eliminated any doubt he might have had. The concrete had been stripped of the mixture of oil and dust that covered it everywhere else and was now smooth and shiny. To tell the truth, he seriously considered the possibility of taking one of those drums for his own consumption, but Matt's presence would make that a tad complicated. He decided that it would be better not to linger in this room.
“No one's here. Let's have a peek at the offices.” He said, pointing to a steel door in a dividing wall.
On the other side was a peeling, green-painted corridor that turned to the right about five or six metres further on. Laminated wood doors opened off it on both sides. Hitchgins listened carefully to make sure the place was empty. Nothing was to be heard, but something was wrong. He couldn't tell what, but his instinct was relentlessly whispering that he should watch out. He stepped warily into the first office where everything seemed normal, albeit a little messy, and the mess that could impress Hitchgins had yet to be made.
“You're sure you don't want me to use the torch?” asked Matt from the corridor.
“Mmm? Oh, yeah. It's dark as da inside of a nigger's underpants in here. Just wait a second.”
The sergeant located a switch and reached for it. A crude ceiling light immediately illuminated the room.
“I'll have to check through diz damn heap of paper, but I'm going to have a quick look 'round da place first, just to be sure there's nothin' more excitin'.”
“What if we meet someone?”
“Why, we talk to them of course. What would ya wanna us do? It's not as if I didn't know da owner, eh?”
Still, there was this stubborn humming of concern deep in his mind. He noticed that Matt was on edge as well. It would probably have been better to leave, but he had to find enough evidence to flesh out his report so he decided to do a quick survey of the place before getting out. There was a small collection of keys hooked on a small, painted board decorated with flashy flowered patterns in the most exquisitely bad taste. Hitchgins grabbed them all. He thought that anything interesting would most probably be found on the first level of the basement and only glanced quickly at the other rooms in this section of the corridor, just in case there was a corpse or something equally delightful. In one of the offices a chair had been knocked over and the desk shoved in a precarious position against a wall, spilling its contents onto the floor. This was the first place they would have to investigate on this floor. Matt felt his stomach churning more and more and he would have run away as fast as his legs could carry him if he had been alone. This place gave him goose-flesh even though, on the surface, there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary.
They passed the angle of the corridor and headed towards another steel door. This one opened onto a passage leading downstairs, the steps plunging into darkness. Hitchgins was about to venture down when he suddenly froze. He peered into the blackness below, his nostrils dilated and contracted like jellyfish as he sniffed the cool air that wafted up. Matt could have sworn he even saw his ears prick. The sergeant suddenly stepped back, shut the heavy door, quickly looked through his keys until he found the right one and feverishly turned it in the lock. That done, he grabbed Matt's arm and dragged him along towards the exit.
“We mustn’t stay here, lad. Let's scarper, and quickly!”
As they were about to reach the storeroom, which was lit only by the dim daylight from the door, they heard an ominous, metallic, thumping noise. To Matt, the sound evoked an image of a strongbox shutting or, perhaps, the sealing of a tomb. The wide room before them was plunged into complete darkness. It did not occur to either of them that the wind might have blown the main door shut.
Hitchgins let go of Matt's arm and hurried to the storeroom door and slammed it shut. He firmly secured it with his foot until he managed to find the appropriate key to lock it. His usual composure had vanished and he was quite rough as he pushed his subordinate into the nearest office. It happened to be the one where the furniture had been shoved around. They went round the desk and Hitchgins indicated the empty space under it as he placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and forced him to kneel.
“Hide there.” he said, “Don't say anything. Don't move. Don't make a sound, and I’d feel even better if you could stop breathing as well.”
Matt noticed that Hitchgins forgotten to use his usual unfathomable language, probably because of the stress, but he was much too scared himself to point it out. He hunched as well as he could into his tiny hideout while the sergeant took his own shoes off. Hitchgins frowned at him, put a finger to his lips and went away silently.
The old cop had spotted a telephone of black bakelite in one of the offices and quickly headed that way. Once there, he took the time to drag a small bottle from an inside pocket and was unscrewing the cap when the light went out. He swore under his breath. The obscurity was complete and his eyes needed a few seconds to adjust. He finished uncapping the bottle and took a slug of the corrosive liquor; he was certainly going to need the beef-up in the coming minutes. He recapped the bottle and put it back in his pocket before grabbing for the phone, desperately hoping that the line was still working.
.
