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The Darkest Minds PG 01 hours 45 minutes. Christopher Robin PG 01 hours 44 minutes. Night School PG Alpha PG BlacKkKlansman 02 hours 15 minutes. Mile Seven and Half Date. Pay Day. Teen Titans Go! To the Movies PG.

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Blockers TBC 01 hours 42 minutes. Peter Rabbit TBC 01 hours 33 minutes. Acrimony TBC. Deadpool 2 TBC. Avengers TBC. Rampage TBC. New Money TBC. Pacific Rim Uprising 2 PG Sherlock Gnomes TBC. Tomb Raider PG Gringo 18 01 hours 50 minutes. Game Night TBC 01 hours 40 minutes. Game Night R 01 hours 40 minutes. A Wrinkle in Time PG. Red Sparrow TBC. Disguise TBC. Early Man TBC 01 hours 29 minutes. Black Panther The Royal Hibiscus Hotel 12A. Fifty Shades Freed Sergeant Tutu 15 01 hours 42 minutes. Den of Thieves 18 02 hours 20 minutes. Proud Mary 18 01 hours 29 minutes.

The Foreigner 18 01 hours 53 minutes. The Commuter TBC 01 hours 44 minutes. The Greatest Showman 12A 01 hours 45 minutes. Ferdinand PG 01 hours 48 minutes. Pitch Perfect 3 TBC 01 hours 33 minutes. I visited him—Mr. Darned shame, too. Meanwhile, ladies and gentlemen, we have a less serious matter to consider. Then I ran down here to the pond for an eye- opener swim. He was skulking over by the entrance road, as if he were waiting for someone. I ran to wake up Jason and Professor Cooney, and they tried to find the man. Tell them what else you saw, Tina.

I dropped the towel and jumped right back into the pond. Her blush slipped over her face and down her body like a pink shift. He smoothed his mustache into line with his beard, gazing up toward the trees that screened the grounds of the Spice Pond Nudist Camp Swimming Club from the public highway. Our legislators are pretty square.

He turned to one side as though expecting to find a blackboard behind him, his fingers pinched as though he were holding a piece of chalk. You suggest, Miss Toffler, that we call the police. I counter with the proposal that we cause Mr. Peeper, himself, to call the police. No ordinary play, my friends. Ferguson suggests, through the viewfinder of an unauthorized camera. We commit a murder for him to see and report. I back up, protesting innocence. You draw a bead and fire.

Ka-powl Splat! I stumble backwards, gory with tomato sauce, and fall lifeless to the sand. Jason Bailey stood up and bored a toe into the sand. Peeper will be persuaded to run to the cops. At most, he'd phone in an anonymous tip. I really would. Peeper, and bust him one in the mouth. Just you see. Ferguson assured the girl.

Frank, keep a careful watch out toward the highway. If Mr. Peeper is not a person of good moral character. Therefore, he must spy on us, condemned forever to be an outsider, a looker-in upon our gentle revels. He rubbed his hands together. He looked down into his ketchup-filled hand. Frank, you be especially careful not to smile. The thought will keep me properly grim. Chasing Bailey was Tommy Ferguson, the right-handed twin, screaming that the red-bearded man had stolen his pistol.

Pure ham all the way, Bailey held the toy gun down his right side, his face screwed up in an exr pression of insane anger. He lifted the gun. Twang-wheel Smoke curled out of the muzzle. Linda Walters peered down at him. Frank Junior trotted out with a chair on his head.

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Ferguson washed off the rest of the ketchup at the sink. He walked over to the stove, lifted the lid from a bubbling kettle, and sniffed. Please pass the coffee. He wants to come in. He got out to gaze around the playground above Spice Pond. He savored the coffee. Knowing who Mr. Peeper was, we could then persuade him to respect our privacy. When he saw me, he ran and hid. The bartender told me. Bearing in mind Mr. It seemed possible that he was one of the two masked gunmen who shot Mr. I trailed MacClure here to the camp, early this morning. Rolfe finally stopped beside the rotisserie, covered through the spring and summer with its sheath of canvas.

He tugged at the tie ropes and peeled the canvas back from the plastic bubble. Inside, lying on his face, was Mr. Boots MacClure. He knelt to peer through the plastic. He stroked his beard with a thoughtful air. Reaching for his cup, Rolfe bumped it with the back of his hand, slopping the steaming fluid onto the table in front of Jason Bailey who leaped up to keep from being burned. Where the spirit gum had pulled free from his chin and upper lip, the skin was red and fuzzy. Not MacClure? It was he who talked me into taking two weeks off in the spring. Mine was in the shop and he had insisted.

It was hypnotic, driving behind the other car, and, as I drove, I thought back over the last ten years and wondered why I had become a cop. Lots of security, sure, but damn low pay. And you never manage to get tough enough to keep things from getting to you, from getting down through your thickened hide and stinging the few soft parts you had left.

I thought of the Miller kid and of the hammer murders in the shanty down by the river, and the gray, bloated look of the bodies that came out of the river. Diseases of the mind. Shifty eyes.

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A thousand lineups. You walk into small, dingy sitting rooms and you can smell the blood in the air Copyright by Street and Smith ; originally titled "Fatal Accident. The guy ahead of me had Pennsy plates. A few miles north of Roaring Branch, Mr. Buick ahead of me slowed down and I dropped back, figuring he was about to turn. A light rain had started, cutting the fog, and his tail-lights were clearer.

The road made a gradual bend to the right. He had dropped down to about forty. I held back, waiting for him to let me know what he was going to do. He went part way around the turn, and the tires on the right side dropped off onto the wet shoulder. He kept on going, right across the shoulder and the right front of the big car smashed into a mammoth tree with a noise like a million bricks falling into a greenhouse. The smash threw the big car onto its side and it slid forty feet in the mud, wheels turning in the air. The rain pattered on the black metal of the car.

The front end was a complete mess. There was no sound. The door stuck. I managed to yank it open and pry it back. I climbed up and flashed the light down in there. A man moaned. He was at the bottom of the heap. A bleeding woman was. The fresh blood matted her light hair. I bent down through the open door and felt for her wet arm.

No pulse. I flashed the light on her face. I pulled up hard on her arm, got her body up through the door, and put it on the grass. His mouth opened as I held the light on him and he moaned again. Ambulance business. I crawled in with him, hearing the glass of the window on his side crack as I stepped on it. No big holes in him that I could find. Another car stopped. I handed the kid driving the car a buck and told him to bring back a couple of red flares. I flashed my light back on the wreck. The guy was slowly climbing up out of the door I had propped open.

I ran to him and steadied him as he climbed down. Fell asleep. There was a big gouge in the bark and the white wood underneath was ragged and splintered. Are you? He had a flashlight. He stared at the dead woman while I set the flares out on the shoulder. I put my hands pn his shoulders and held him down.

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They bounced to a stop on the shoulder. They gave the woman one look and turned to the man. One flashed his light on the license and papers while I explained what I had seen and what I had done. The other looked the car over, got a camera and flash bulbs out of his car, and took pictures of the tracks in the mud, the scar on the tree, the overturned car. The man was moaning again. They got a stretcher and made him stretch out on it. The intern went over him with quick, careful hands.

More cars stopped. People got out, their eyes big with curiosity. They had, of course, learned that I was one of the brotherhood, and, after a drink, they asked me to stay overnight; one of the troopers was on leave and I could use his bed. I was too tired to object.

He tossed his hat on the hall table, came into the room, and sat down wearily. They gave him a drug to quiet him. Just shock and being shaken up. A fool nurse told him his wife is dead. He cried like a baby. Damn fool to drive while he was sleepy. Upper Darby to be exact. He and his wife were driving up to Elmira to visit her cousin there.

His name is Walker Drock. Just another statistic to write up, Charlie.

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Dented it right in. Funny about him slowing down. Usually they speed up when they fall asleep. Drock was insistent about that. He told me that about four times. I put ten pounds back on and got a little tanned in the sun and cut Jack enough stove wood to last him for six months. I stopped off to see Charlie and Sid on the way back. Charlie told me that Drock had stayed in the hospital for two days and then had gone back to Philly with the body of his wife.

The car had been counted out as a total loss, and sold for salvage value. The thing was open and shut. And yet, somehow, it bothered me. Curiosity is an occupational disease with a cop, I suppose. Banning is the guy who taught me the cop business. Banning says to always assume the worst and work a case from that end. It was none of my business. And it was silly.

A guy climbed out from under a car and looked at the records and told me that the Drock car had been sold to an outfit named Higgins and Rigo. Higgins was a puffy little man with watery eyes and a soiled shirt. He gave me the busy-man routine and I flashed the badge and watched him become very affable.

He left me alone with a boy named Joe Baydle who had pulled the Drock car apart. What do you mean?

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It had been stripped. I borrowed a flashlight and stretched out so I could look in there. It was empty. At first I thought there was no clue to what it had contained. Then I noticed a small fragment caught in a front corner. I pulled it out. It looked to me like a piece of sponge. I showed it to Joe. He shrugged and I put it in my pocket. He was very upset about his wife.

The morning after he came in here. He sent a few wires. Just shock. That fluid has to be replaced. Go right ahead.

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Get the doubts out of your thick skull so you can come back to work. The couple of days, my boy, will be leave without pay. Walker Drock had moved down to an inexpensive apartment hotel on Chestnut. I picked him up the first night he left the office and followed him to his apartment hotel. They got pleasantly tight and then went up and took a room at a cheap hotel on Market near Thirty- eighth. He left her there at dawn and I let him go. She came out at quarter to eleven and walked two blocks toward town before she found a breakfast spot. She sat at the counter and I went in and sat beside her, in spite of the empty stools on both sides of us.

In the mirror I saw her give me a long, skeptical look while she ordered a big breakfast. She was the type who always have trouble with citizens trying to pick her up. A long lean girl with abundant curves in the right places, pale, go-to-hell eyes, and a wide, heavy mouth. Known Walker Drock long? Depends on how you look at things. His name happens to be Walker Drock. That sounds good. You can wait for him to get tired of you and get chummy with some other gal. Her eyes widened and her hands shook. It was an accident. Walker was in it, too! He could have been killed.

Suppose you ask Walker. I threw a dime on the counter for my coffee and walked out. I propped the door open a crack so that I could watch his door. I had nothing to go on. Just a hunch. She probably met him for lunch. He looked down the hall behind him as he fumbled with the key. His face was white. He went on in. I gave him three minutes. Then I took the passkey and let myself in. He was bending over the fireplace. I slammed the door behind, me. He rushed me. I rolled away from his punch, feeling the wind of it on my cheek.

I dug a left hook deep into his gut and crossed a right to his face as he bent over. He dropped on his back and was still. I dragged the smoldering, stinking mess out of the fireplace and stamped on it until it no longer smoked. He planned it nicely. What he forgot to do was to get rid of the gimmick while he had a chance. His wife had gone to sleep. That made it tougher for him, but he managed. I was the sucker witness—to tell people that he was in the car when it happened. He came out babbling about having fallen asleep, you remember. He slowed down to forty, and as he headed for the tree he yanked it up between him and the steering wheel, leaning hard against it to kill the shock.

The smash into the tree threw her against the dashboard with killing force. The car turned over. She had no protection at all. She looked up and saw me, and her lip curled. I hate him, now. I hate him! A sort of integrity. Maybe some day you can buy me that drink. You always, end up hating yourself, too. Paula slammed her empty cup down into its saucer. Mother Thorpe lifted her head at the sound like a startled rabbit and hastily snatched the last blueberry muffin from the bun warmer.

From earliest memory Paula had yearned for the company of artists. And then, at a cocktail party last fall, she met Howard Thorpe. She had plunged with fanatical zeal into her new role. Then she sat patiently while the old woman droned on and on until she finally talked herself into her morning nap. For the harsh truth was, there was very little else to pin them on.

And the book? Paula had clung to this long after her other illusions about Howard were dashed. So even that satisfaction was to be denied her. Then she closed it. What was the use? She merely nodded silently and went on with the dishes. The view of the well-trimmed campus surrounded by its stone wall seemed to Paula like nothing so much as a neat, orderly trap. It just might make all the difference.

There might still be some hidden spark to be struck in Howard if only he could be freed from the deadening influence of this dismal town and its suffocating college. A gentle snoring from the wheel chair brought Paula rudely back to reality. Not a chance, she thought bitterly. The famous sixty- fifth birthday was only a week away, and the old woman, sleeping peacefully in the shade, looked fit for another fifteen years at least. She gasped as the chair, loosened from its place, rolled forward a few feet and came to a stop precariously near the beginning of the long downward slope.

Paula relaxed at last, exhausted from fear. What a close call! How easy it had been. She stretched her leg out cautiously, and with her foot gave the chair another shove. It moved only a few inches this time and then held, caught by a rut at the very edge. Again Paula waited, her heart pounding. And again there was no sound except the snoring, and no movement from the woman in the wheel chair. Paula rose silently.

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She grasped the back of the chair with both hands. Then with a strong thrust she sent the chair forward. It started down the grade slowly, then gained momentum. Paula, sitting in the hall outside, knew by his face that the old woman was dead. He came to her quickly and sat beside her. These last few months have been the happiest Mother has ever known, thanks largely to you. That would be her only regret, I think.

Her mouth felt dry. And he may have been right, you know. Dear Mother, she found it very hard to deny me anything. She could hardly bring herself to ask it. As he turned to face her now, he was shocked to see the crushing effect his words had been having on her. Why, I have my work, a good wife, our little home—what more could I possibly want? Except that poor Mother is no longer with us, nothing has changed at all.

Instead, he was marveling at a young lady. In addition to a vibrant beauty which reached him all too clearly at the next table, there was something in her smile, both warmiand exciting, that made him feel-fwFSimply had to meet her. He had slumped over the table, oddly inert. He seemed to study the young man closely, then he straightened and said something in a low voice to the other three people at the table.

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Guy, who was frankly straining his ears, caught the words dead, poison, and police. Guy felt his blood boil. Dru- erre. Over there is Ramora Glussot, and her agent, Herr Girden. He—the d-d-dead man—is—was— Peter Osch. He seems to have been poisoned—in the champagne, the glass smells of it—and we had just switched glasses. Besides, his glass was between him and me. No one else could have given him poison. They think I doctored my glass and then asked him to change, but actually it was he who suggested changing glasses.

Even you, son, I saw it! Dru- erre, Herr Girden, and Mile. Glus- sot, as well as Melissa and himself. A reminiscent chuckle rumbled out of Sir Marvin when Guy gave his name. Those were great times we had in America. I ask you, sir, does she look like a murderess? Ask Starmes here. Today was the great day of his life —when he came of age—and we were celebrating his birthday.

But he was out of touch—we were his only acquaintances in England, and he hardly knew Mile. Glussot and he only met Herr Girden this morning. It would not make sense for them to take his life. But the young lady here—I do not like to say it, but she is of a hot temper, and she sat next to the wine glass. I can only suppose that they had a—what do you call it? Just so. Guy felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest.

That my friend had actually given him a drug that would make you fall in love with him. Druerre added suavely. The famous movie star shrugged her beautiful shoulders. An imaginative type —that young man. Ramora, where did you get such a crazy idea? If Miss St. Dinserd was the intended victim, Girden might have handed Osch a poison to give to her under pretense of this claptrap.

He was sitting next to her —on her other side—so he might even have done it himself. We never took our eyes off him, and I personally can vouch for the fact that he put nothing in any drink. We only have M. Or maybe Osch took vitamins and they were doctored. My man just told me. Starmes can find out easy enough. I expect you felt threatened with exposure when Osch came back and became of age to manage his own affairs. I was nowhere near his glass. What you gave him for Miss St.

Dinserd was harmless, but for himself it was poison. For once again the author, whose real name is Mrs. Once again she has converted every proper name in the story except London and England into an anagram. To wit: M. Jorricks a wonderful anagram! Lights were burning inside the bank, but the day was raw and murky.

Two of the newcomers went to the counter, where they accosted the cashiers with pistol muzzles cradled over their arms. The third, who wore no hat or coat, walked behind the counter, and before anybody knew what he was doing, began quietly drawing the blinds on the windows. The fourth, who had taken a. But with great precision the man who had drawn the blinds was now clearing out the safe, transferring what he wanted to a neat leather bag.

Outside bustled the traffic of St. The manager, risking it, ducked under the counter for a gun, and was shot down. Their car was away from the curb before the alarm sounded. Now the robbery of the City and Provincial Bank failed because of one small but important fact. Skipper Morgan wanted to shoot it out, and was brought down in a flying tackle which broke his arm. Chief Inspector Ames visited Skipper Morgan that night. Even if he pulls through, you can reckon on a good long stretch. It was Ames who had broken his arm.

But it might, Skipper. It might. And you might tell us whether that young clerk at the bank, the one you said would get his cut, was really in it with you. Cheer up. Sam McCain mystery. We all fall down : by Eric Walters. United we stand : by Eric Walters. Safe as houses : by Eric Walters. Michael Hague's Treasured Classics. Power of habit : Charles Duhigg. Act of Congress : Robert G. Days of fire : Peter Baker. Private empire : by Steve Coll. The oath : Jeffrey Toobin. Detroit : Charlie LeDuff. Flash boys : Michael Lewis. The Snowden files : Luke Harding. Hack attack : Nick Davies. Law of the jungle : Paul M.

Predator : Richard Whittle. Liar's poker : Michael Lewis. Under the wire : Paul Conroy. Savage harvest : Carl Hoffman. Angry optimist : Lisa Rogak. This changes everything : Naomi Klein. Go set a watchman : Harper Lee. The complete short stories of Ernest Hemingway. Hope Solo : Hope Solo. Birdsong Sebastian Faulks.

Cold mountain : by Charles Frazier. The secret history Donna Tartt. The art of fielding : Chad Harbach.