It was after midnight, during the first hour of that fateful Friday, when Norman had come back early with two fine young lasses he pulled from one of the local nightspots. The lure of a cocaine party in a suite at the Dorchester was an easy lure. When Norman had the girls, age 20 and 21, back at his suite he laid out several lines of the 'Bolivian Marching Powder', as he called it, and played some tunes on the stereo. After they had gone through half of the double album called 'Love You Live!' by the Rolling Stones, all the cocaine, marijuana, and each other, Norman saw them off in a taxi around four a.m. However, exhausted as he was, Norman stayed up drinking whiskey, unable to sleep. His insomnia was not caused by his drug use, or his conscience, no, our poor Norman had been plagued with the worst nightmares imaginable. Last night he dreamt he was on a bus, chained alone, as it drove along the road through the city, with no driver at the wheel. The buildings around him, outside the windows of the bus, had been burned down to the ground, with many sections of the city still ablaze, far off on the horizon of the obliterated waste land. Then, somehow, the bus began to catch fire and Norman could feel the heat and horror of the flames. Then he awoke shaken, stirred violently back to reality by his mind. Each time he awoke after the terrible, haunting dreams Norman was always in a foul, negative mood.
So it was, Norman drifted off to sleep, too wasted to recall any of the frightening visions that visited his troubled mind. However, when he awoke, around seven in the a.m. Friday morning Noman was in the most agitated mood he had ever been in his entire life. Norman had even cursed abusively at the little old man that had brought up his breakfast from room service, his complaint was his coffee was too hot! "That's what I hate about this country the coffee is always too damn hot!" he had shouted along with a string of epithets and the old man thought what a spoiled, fucking twat, this loud, overbearing, obnoxious, giant, bald, asshole was. The old man apologized, though he should have not, he just turned his back to Norman, rolling his eyes making a mental note to spit in this fuckers coffee, to make sure it was at an adequate temperature next time. Norman felt bad, but a good English breakfast and a pot of hot coffee was just what he needed to calm his nerves. So Norman ate his breakfast, had a shower and shave, dressing up in one of his silk and linen summer suits before he headed over to his shop to check in with Lillian.
Now Lillian had taken charge splendidly and was busy preparing that weeks pay packets for herself and the two employees she was in charge of. Lillian was always upbeat and cheerful, always good for a laugh, so Norman told her he wanted to give her a rise in pay, as she had done so well managing the little shop. Gladdened by this unexpected news Lillian reached up, throwing her arms around her employer's neck, kissing him on the cheek, with a joy and delight in her heart. "Now if I could only have your flat upstairs, I might just have to take you out to dinner!" she laughed sweetly, with a nudge of her elbow and wink of her eye. Norman laughed along with her, then he thought that might not be such a bad idea, her taking the room upstairs and having 'dinner' with her. But Norman had other dinner plans to think about for he would be, at long last, meeting up with Xavier in about nine hours. Norman needed something to do with his time as his workers spent a busy Friday going out on calls dealing with the hapless customers. So Norman went down to the British Museum, to clear his head as he walked through the long galleries filled with stolen treasures from Ancient Egypt, the priceless artifacts from the cradle of civilization; which the British Government had refused to return to the Egyptologist at the Cairo Museum. The Rosetta Stone sat before Norman who stared at it for a long time. There in it's glass case Norman wondered if it would ever be returned to Egypt, it was stolen by the French during the time of Napoleon, then sold off to the British. Norman thought of the hypocrisy committed by the 'men in charge' whom would have Norman put away for stealing all the items he had taken from his fellow British citizens. But there was no court in the world, or judge who could proclaim to the English Government 'Give back what you have taken.' Typical! Norman thought to himself as he wandered off to the portrait galleries. Now when he entered an exhibit, entitled the Masterworks of G.W.Stubbs, Norman was amazed to see a wall of paintings of horses, of the likes of which he had recognized as the style and manner of the painting he had given to Harry the Bastard for the information on the man in Slough. As a docent came through with a group of tourists he heard the young woman state one of the smaller paintings from 1792 was worth well over Two Hundred Thousand Pounds, or nearly $400,000 in American Dollars. Norman let out a loud laugh as he realized Harry had fucked him out of all that money. However, none of that mattered anymore, Norman scored big with money in the McDowell's safe, and, after all, that's why they call him Harry the Bastard! However, Norman thought he was more of a Tricky Dick!
After a time Norman grew hungry for lunch so he stopped at one of the outdoor cafes near the Museum District and had nice lunch and a bottle of red wine. Norman grew a bit sleepy after his enormous lunch of salmon, lobster and shrimp, roasted potatoes, etc... so he took a short stroll along the avenues on this cool early September day. A few white billowing clouds drifted in front of the sun in the blue sky and the city was busy with the sounds of cars passing by, people mingling with one another on the streets, as a gentle breeze blew down from the North. Norman was in a much better mood then when he had awoken this morning and he smiled at those he passed along the way as he made his way through the lush Hyde Park and over to his hotel.
Norman had a quick shower thinking of Lillian as he relaxed in the steamy water, then he wrapped up in his plush terry cloth robe, turned on the radio and rolled up a spliff as he reclined on the sofa. After about twenty minutes, just after one o'clock there came a loud knock upon his door. Norman jumped up thinking the valet had returned with the suits he had sent out to be cleaned and pressed. However, when Norman threw open the door, it was not the young valet he was expecting. There in the doorway stood four Metro Police Officers and a detective. Norman stared down at the tall man with black eyes, dark hair in a grey flannel suit who said " Norman Pierce! I am Chief Inspector Detective Fowler of Scotland Yard, and I am hereby placing you under arrest for the murder of Theodore Maxwell McDowell."
Norman gave a strange smile opened up the door motioning for the policemen to enter the room and then he sighed, folding his arms across his chest, giving the officers a disapproving look, and said to the Chief Inspector "What took you so long?"
So it was, Norman drifted off to sleep, too wasted to recall any of the frightening visions that visited his troubled mind. However, when he awoke, around seven in the a.m. Friday morning Noman was in the most agitated mood he had ever been in his entire life. Norman had even cursed abusively at the little old man that had brought up his breakfast from room service, his complaint was his coffee was too hot! "That's what I hate about this country the coffee is always too damn hot!" he had shouted along with a string of epithets and the old man thought what a spoiled, fucking twat, this loud, overbearing, obnoxious, giant, bald, asshole was. The old man apologized, though he should have not, he just turned his back to Norman, rolling his eyes making a mental note to spit in this fuckers coffee, to make sure it was at an adequate temperature next time. Norman felt bad, but a good English breakfast and a pot of hot coffee was just what he needed to calm his nerves. So Norman ate his breakfast, had a shower and shave, dressing up in one of his silk and linen summer suits before he headed over to his shop to check in with Lillian.
Now Lillian had taken charge splendidly and was busy preparing that weeks pay packets for herself and the two employees she was in charge of. Lillian was always upbeat and cheerful, always good for a laugh, so Norman told her he wanted to give her a rise in pay, as she had done so well managing the little shop. Gladdened by this unexpected news Lillian reached up, throwing her arms around her employer's neck, kissing him on the cheek, with a joy and delight in her heart. "Now if I could only have your flat upstairs, I might just have to take you out to dinner!" she laughed sweetly, with a nudge of her elbow and wink of her eye. Norman laughed along with her, then he thought that might not be such a bad idea, her taking the room upstairs and having 'dinner' with her. But Norman had other dinner plans to think about for he would be, at long last, meeting up with Xavier in about nine hours. Norman needed something to do with his time as his workers spent a busy Friday going out on calls dealing with the hapless customers. So Norman went down to the British Museum, to clear his head as he walked through the long galleries filled with stolen treasures from Ancient Egypt, the priceless artifacts from the cradle of civilization; which the British Government had refused to return to the Egyptologist at the Cairo Museum. The Rosetta Stone sat before Norman who stared at it for a long time. There in it's glass case Norman wondered if it would ever be returned to Egypt, it was stolen by the French during the time of Napoleon, then sold off to the British. Norman thought of the hypocrisy committed by the 'men in charge' whom would have Norman put away for stealing all the items he had taken from his fellow British citizens. But there was no court in the world, or judge who could proclaim to the English Government 'Give back what you have taken.' Typical! Norman thought to himself as he wandered off to the portrait galleries. Now when he entered an exhibit, entitled the Masterworks of G.W.Stubbs, Norman was amazed to see a wall of paintings of horses, of the likes of which he had recognized as the style and manner of the painting he had given to Harry the Bastard for the information on the man in Slough. As a docent came through with a group of tourists he heard the young woman state one of the smaller paintings from 1792 was worth well over Two Hundred Thousand Pounds, or nearly $400,000 in American Dollars. Norman let out a loud laugh as he realized Harry had fucked him out of all that money. However, none of that mattered anymore, Norman scored big with money in the McDowell's safe, and, after all, that's why they call him Harry the Bastard! However, Norman thought he was more of a Tricky Dick!
After a time Norman grew hungry for lunch so he stopped at one of the outdoor cafes near the Museum District and had nice lunch and a bottle of red wine. Norman grew a bit sleepy after his enormous lunch of salmon, lobster and shrimp, roasted potatoes, etc... so he took a short stroll along the avenues on this cool early September day. A few white billowing clouds drifted in front of the sun in the blue sky and the city was busy with the sounds of cars passing by, people mingling with one another on the streets, as a gentle breeze blew down from the North. Norman was in a much better mood then when he had awoken this morning and he smiled at those he passed along the way as he made his way through the lush Hyde Park and over to his hotel.
Norman had a quick shower thinking of Lillian as he relaxed in the steamy water, then he wrapped up in his plush terry cloth robe, turned on the radio and rolled up a spliff as he reclined on the sofa. After about twenty minutes, just after one o'clock there came a loud knock upon his door. Norman jumped up thinking the valet had returned with the suits he had sent out to be cleaned and pressed. However, when Norman threw open the door, it was not the young valet he was expecting. There in the doorway stood four Metro Police Officers and a detective. Norman stared down at the tall man with black eyes, dark hair in a grey flannel suit who said " Norman Pierce! I am Chief Inspector Detective Fowler of Scotland Yard, and I am hereby placing you under arrest for the murder of Theodore Maxwell McDowell."
Norman gave a strange smile opened up the door motioning for the policemen to enter the room and then he sighed, folding his arms across his chest, giving the officers a disapproving look, and said to the Chief Inspector "What took you so long?"
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