late as that. Mrs. Williams had made sure that he never overslept and the tempting smell of bacon cooking had been enough to wake him. Then he remembered that it was Saturday. On weekends Mrs. Williams would serve him a full Welsh breakfast—bacon, sausage, fried bread—the works! Evan swung his feet onto the cold linoleum and sighed.
At least it was a sunny Saturday for a change. Maybe Bronwen would like to go for a hike, or they could drive down to the Llyn Peninsula and do some bird-watching. Spring was the best season for the seabirds. Then he remembered something else. This was his weekend to work. He took a lukewarm bath, not having learned yet how to coax the water heater into producing hot water for more than a couple of minutes, shaved, and made himself toast and tea. At least the stove had a grill element that worked. As he carried the toast through to the vinyl table, he heard a sound—the pop-popping noise of a revving motorbike. Evan jumped up and rushed outside. Surely he’d remembered to lock the lean-to where he was keeping the motorbike? And surely nobody could start it without the key? He imagined what D.C.I. Meredith would say if he had to call in and report the bike stolen after one day. He rushed outside in time to see a lanky figure wobbling down the hill on the bike, a large bag on his back. As Evan watched in horror, the bike picked up speed and the man gave a yell and jumped off, just before the bike ran into the gatepost of the Red Dragon and fell over, its engine still roaring.
Evan rushed to pick the man up. It was Evans-the-Post, his large mailbag still over his shoulder. “You blithering idiot!” Evan yelled. “What did you think you were doing?”
Evans-the-Post staggered to his feet and started brushing himself off. “Is the bike wrecked?” he asked. “I bloody well hope so.”
“You hope my bike is wrecked? Are you out of your mind, man?”
“I told them I wouldn’t be able to handle it, didn’t I?” Evans-the-Post went on, his large, mournful eyes staring at the prone motorbike. “I kept telling them. ‘I’m not good with mechanical things,’ I kept on saying, but they wouldn’t listen. ‘Directive from the postmaster general,’—that’s what they told me. ‘Rural postmen have to be motorized.’”
Evan was beginning to get the gist of what the postman was saying. “Wait a minute—are you saying that this is your bike?”
“Not mine. No, indeed. Belongs to the post office, doesn’t it? And they’re welcome to it. Telling me I’m not productive enough just delivering the letters to this village. Been doing it for twelve years now, haven’t I? Never missed a day sick and they’re not satisfied. And they think I should be taking the mail out to all the farms too—and right over to Capel Curig. The nerve of it.”
Evan went ahead of him, picked up the bike, and switched off the engine. “You’re lucky,” he said. “It doesn’t seem much the worse for wear. You’d have been in big trouble if you’d wrecked their bike, wouldn’t you?”
“Do you think they’d have fired me?” The basset-hound eyes fixed on Evan. “They wouldn’t fire me, would they?”
“They could,” Evan said. “You’re just going to have to get used to that thing, you know. I’ve been given one too, and I’m not too thrilled about it either.”
“Ah, but it will help you catch crooks, won’t it?” He grinned like a ten-year-old. “Tell you what—I’ll learn to ride mine better and we’ll have a race someday.”
“You’d better start off going up hill.” Evan helped him onto the saddle and adjusted his mailbag for him. “That way you won’t go so fast.”
“Or gore, plisman,” Evans-the-Post said. “All right. If you say so. I think I’ll go up to the youth hostel first. They always get a lot of letters with interesting foreign stamps on them. There’s one from America today. It’s from this girl’s boyfriend. He says he’s coming out to join her. Won’t she be surprised, eh?”
“Dilwyn—how many times have I told you you’re not supposed to read the mail?” Evan said.
“There’s no harm to it. Not when it’s postcards.” Evans-the-Post sounded hurt. “Postcards are meant for everyone to read, or they’d be in an envelope, like letters.”
Evan turned for home, then checked himself. “I’ve just had an idea,” he said, touching the postman’s shoulder. “How would you like to help the police? If you have to deliver any mail to a girl called Rebecca Riesen, will you come and tell me about it?”
“Is she a crook on the run?” Evans-the-Post’s long, lugubrious face lit up.
“No, she’s a missing American student. I’ve been around all the youth hostels to see if she’s stayed there. So far no luck.”
“Rebecca Riesen. Right you are,” Evans-the-Post said importantly. “Off I go then.” And he set off up the hill, the bike still wobbling dangerously under its heavy load.
Evan went back to cold tea and cold toast, then went to open up the police station. His bike was where he left it the night before and he chuckled when he thought of his encounter with Evans-the-Post. If only all postmen read every piece of mail like Dilwyn Evans, maybe they’d have tracked down the missing girl by now, and solved a few crimes too!
As he came out of the lean-to, a white Ford Fiesta drove past, slowed, and honked at Evan. Betsy wound down the window and put her head out. “Guess what, Evan—I’ve got the job! Emmy called them this morning and they said they could use me right away, so Emmy’s driving me down there. Imagine me, working with famous people and swimming pools!”
“Have you told Harry?” Evan asked her. “It’s not really right to walk out on him and leave him stuck, is it?”
Betsy’s face fell. “I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been such a grumpy old devil,” she said. “He’s never done a thing to praise or encourage me, all this time. And I’m the one who brings in the customers for him. Let him see how full the bar is when there’s no pretty girl to gape at, that’s what I say.”
“I still don’t like it, Betsy. And I don’t think it’s like you, either.”
“I’ve got to take my chances in life, haven’t I? You were the one who told me to follow my dreams, remember? Well, now I’ve got a real opportunity. If my powers are as strong as Emmy thinks they are, maybe I’ll turn into a proper psychic someday, like Randy, and people will watch me on TV.” She leaned out of the window as the car sped up again. “Wish me luck, Evan.”
Evan watched her white hand fluttering in a wave as the car disappeared down the pass. Poor Betsy, always dreaming of big things. He did wish her luck. He hoped this turned out to be the break she wanted, but he didn’t
