“Wiggins did what he always did in difficult circumstances—blew his nose. “Sorry to drag you out of sickbay, Sergeant,” said Racer with mock-solicitousness. With Wiggins, the sarcasm fell wide. Jury sat there thinking that Wiggin’s long survival was owing to his ability to take everything literally. “Quite all right, sir. It’s just this allergy. The pollen count this week has been fearful—” Racer’s face, already spongy-red from too many brandies for lunch at his club, grew redder with suppressed... rage. Not suppressed for long, however. “I don’t give a bloody damn about the pollen count. I’m not a bee. And put that damned packet away!” Some men went for their guns under stress, some for their cigarettes. Wiggins went for his cough drops. He had just been stripping the cellophane from a fresh box. “Sorry, sir.” Jury yawned and continued to look out of the window of Racer’s office at the sludgy gray sky above New Scotland Yard, at the small square of the Thames beyond the embankment.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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