Read Online Dark of the moon - Dr. Gideon Fell 22 by John Dickson Carr - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Dickson Carr
Tags: Mystery
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said without rancor and almost with affection. "What's the matter with baseball?"
"There's nothing the matter with baseball, if you happen to like it. I don't. I was merely wondering—"
"And in the third place," cried Valerie, sticking insistently to her main theme, "let's us go downstairs, Bob! You're not a dried-up old . . . what I mean is, let's us forget chess and baseball too." Her tones grew coy and honeyed. "There are other things, aren't there? While I sort of hint at it, in a nice way, you can just tell me some more limericks and typographical errors. You have got some more of those, haven't you?"
"Woman, I've got a bushel of 'em. Come along."
Henry Maynard drew a breath of relief as they left the study. But he had not in any sense heard the last of them. Due to the carelessness either of Mrs. Huret or of Mr. Crandall, the door did not quite close. A confused murmur, no words distinct, could be heard from the enclosed staircase to the floor below. Then, suddenly, something else jabbed through serenity. Valerie Huret's voice went shrilling up.
"You're a nice man; you're too nice, really!"
"Now look, Semiramis!"
"You don't know what's happening here! I can't bear it!"
"Sh-h!"
"I can't bear it, I tell you!"
But they heard no more. They would have heard no more in any case. A deluge burst; the windows blurred and grew darker with driving rain.
More emotional pressures, but from what source? It was no use speculating, Alan decided. He turned back, and was looking round the walls when Henry Maynard caught his eye.
"It will have occurred to you, Mr. Grantham, that this room has a nautical flavor foreign to my essential tastes. Yes, that is the ship's bell from the Palmetto, rescued like her logbook when she sank in the Caribbean. There over the Sheraton desk—head and shoulders, full beard, gray naval uniform—is Luke Maynard himself. It is not a water-color, though it appears to be. Actually it is a photograph, enormously enlarged and tinted by hand. You, Dr. Fell, are goggling at the picture as though it stunned you. May I ask your thoughts?"
"Why, sir. . . . (harrumph!) ... to begin with, I was thinking of colors."
"Colors, sir?"
"Various Confederate uniforms (harrumph!) which in past days I have seen at museums here in the South. Their colors varied considerably."
"Yes?"
Rain roared against the windows. Dr. Fell poked at the carpet with the ferrule of his stick.
"Some were of the customary and conventional gray. Others looked so close to what nowadays we should call air force blue that without C.S.A. on the belt-buckle I might have ascribed the uniform to the wrong side." A sniff rumbled in Dr. Fell's nose. "Then, again, as any human being must, I was thinking—O my hat!—of Commodore Maynard and his violent death on the beach."
"That happened so long ago, Dr. Fell, that surely it need not detain us?"
"To a degree, I fear, it must always detain us. And in the third place, as Mrs. Huret would say," he whacked his stick on the floor, "my thoughts (or feelings) are purely personal. I have come from some considerable distance in response to your letters of weeks ago. I arrive from the hotel, not a little dishevelled, in response to the urgency of your telephone call. Confound it, sir, what do you want of me?"
"Ah, yes. What I want of you!"
Here their host took on a bustling air.
"Sit down, gentlemen; make yourselves comfortable. You will find cigarettes on the writing-table. Or a cigar, if Dr. Fell would prefer one? . . . There, that is better. At least you have sat down.
"Speaking of Commodore Maynard, there on the wall towards the billiard-room is a water-color: some contemporary artist's conception of the Palmetto leaving Charleston harbor on her last voyage. Observe the flag she flies at her mizzen-peak.
"Though most people are acquainted with only one Southern flag, the famous battle-flag of stars and bars, at various times the Confederacy adopted four different ones. That flown by the
"There's nothing the matter with baseball, if you happen to like it. I don't. I was merely wondering—"
"And in the third place," cried Valerie, sticking insistently to her main theme, "let's us go downstairs, Bob! You're not a dried-up old . . . what I mean is, let's us forget chess and baseball too." Her tones grew coy and honeyed. "There are other things, aren't there? While I sort of hint at it, in a nice way, you can just tell me some more limericks and typographical errors. You have got some more of those, haven't you?"
"Woman, I've got a bushel of 'em. Come along."
Henry Maynard drew a breath of relief as they left the study. But he had not in any sense heard the last of them. Due to the carelessness either of Mrs. Huret or of Mr. Crandall, the door did not quite close. A confused murmur, no words distinct, could be heard from the enclosed staircase to the floor below. Then, suddenly, something else jabbed through serenity. Valerie Huret's voice went shrilling up.
"You're a nice man; you're too nice, really!"
"Now look, Semiramis!"
"You don't know what's happening here! I can't bear it!"
"Sh-h!"
"I can't bear it, I tell you!"
But they heard no more. They would have heard no more in any case. A deluge burst; the windows blurred and grew darker with driving rain.
More emotional pressures, but from what source? It was no use speculating, Alan decided. He turned back, and was looking round the walls when Henry Maynard caught his eye.
"It will have occurred to you, Mr. Grantham, that this room has a nautical flavor foreign to my essential tastes. Yes, that is the ship's bell from the Palmetto, rescued like her logbook when she sank in the Caribbean. There over the Sheraton desk—head and shoulders, full beard, gray naval uniform—is Luke Maynard himself. It is not a water-color, though it appears to be. Actually it is a photograph, enormously enlarged and tinted by hand. You, Dr. Fell, are goggling at the picture as though it stunned you. May I ask your thoughts?"
"Why, sir. . . . (harrumph!) ... to begin with, I was thinking of colors."
"Colors, sir?"
"Various Confederate uniforms (harrumph!) which in past days I have seen at museums here in the South. Their colors varied considerably."
"Yes?"
Rain roared against the windows. Dr. Fell poked at the carpet with the ferrule of his stick.
"Some were of the customary and conventional gray. Others looked so close to what nowadays we should call air force blue that without C.S.A. on the belt-buckle I might have ascribed the uniform to the wrong side." A sniff rumbled in Dr. Fell's nose. "Then, again, as any human being must, I was thinking—O my hat!—of Commodore Maynard and his violent death on the beach."
"That happened so long ago, Dr. Fell, that surely it need not detain us?"
"To a degree, I fear, it must always detain us. And in the third place, as Mrs. Huret would say," he whacked his stick on the floor, "my thoughts (or feelings) are purely personal. I have come from some considerable distance in response to your letters of weeks ago. I arrive from the hotel, not a little dishevelled, in response to the urgency of your telephone call. Confound it, sir, what do you want of me?"
"Ah, yes. What I want of you!"
Here their host took on a bustling air.
"Sit down, gentlemen; make yourselves comfortable. You will find cigarettes on the writing-table. Or a cigar, if Dr. Fell would prefer one? . . . There, that is better. At least you have sat down.
"Speaking of Commodore Maynard, there on the wall towards the billiard-room is a water-color: some contemporary artist's conception of the Palmetto leaving Charleston harbor on her last voyage. Observe the flag she flies at her mizzen-peak.
"Though most people are acquainted with only one Southern flag, the famous battle-flag of stars and bars, at various times the Confederacy adopted four different ones. That flown by the
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