Read Online Death of a Ghost by Margery Allingham - Free Book Online
Authors: Margery Allingham
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Linda. She was just the wild emotional type who might easily succumb to a sudden impulse. It was amazing that she had waited until the darkness.
Of course, even if the best happened and the matter were dropped for lack of evidence, she would have to be put under restraint.
He passed his hand over his forehead. It was damp and he felt cold. God, what a terrible thing to have happened! Poor Linda. Poor, tragic, insufferable young blackguard lying dead in the next room.
There was the model, too, who had probably been in love with him. Lisa was quietening her now, speaking harshly in her own language, bright startled tears on her withered cheeks.
Mr Campion checked himself. Something must be done immediately, before some bobby off the beat made matters even more difficult. He remembered that the telephone was on the landing and that the door on his left led into the garden. Inspector Stanislaus Oates was the man to get hold of; the shrewdest and at the same time most kindly member of the Yard.
It was Sunday afternoon; therefore he would probably be at home. Campion remembered the number as he ran: Norwood 4380.
Within the studio the atmosphere was becoming unbearable. There were sporadic silences, which hung heavily over the great room. One or two people were becoming hysterical. No one complained openly, largely out of deference to Belle, who with remarkable fortitude and typical good sense remained where she was, knowing that her presence alone prevented an open demonstration.
The little comedies continued, and some of them were tragicomedies.
Herbert Wolfgang, that bouncing, rosy dumpling of a man who always permitted his name at the head of his gossip articles and whose somewhat chequered career was drawing to an ignoble close in the paragraphing of his erstwhile friends, fingered his stock and considered the situation. Here was a heaven-sent piece of luck. Everybody present too.
He looked round at the white anxious faces, and almost smiled. It was too good to be true. One of his most profitable sidelines lay in publicity agenting for society women. The room contained at least four of his clients. And now, probably for the first time during his acquaintance with them, they were all genuinely in the news. It was really damnably fortunate. His fingers itched for his typewriter.
He made mental notes. Bernard, Bishop of Mold, too! And was that the woman who was playing at Dalyâs? And there by a stroke of luck was Sir Jocelyn!
Mr Wolfgang became thoughtful. Sir Jocelyn was on the verge of an appointment to the Household. Unless Mr Wolfgang was mistaken, Sir Jocelyn had worked for some years to attain this honour. It was a tricky business, this appointment. Sir Jocelyn might, very naturally, be anxious to avoid any sort of publicity, much less any which linked his name, however remotely, to something unpleasant. Perhaps the wealthy and ambitious knight would be interested in the suppression of his name from Mr Wolfgangâs snappy little paragraphs?
The cherubic little blackguard sidled towards his victim.
Standing alone, his hands behind his back, his feet slightly apart for the more comfortable balancing of his paunch, the man who had bought the picture regarded his purchase gloomily. Would this confounded business have any effect upon the value of the thing? Why didnât the police come, anyway? It was disgusting: a wealthy man, an important man kept hanging about like this because of a confounded trouble with which he had obviously nothing to do.
Mr Campion came in so unobtrusively that his reappearance was not noticed, and he spoke to Belle for some moments unobserved.
âIâve been on to Inspector Oates of Scotland Yard,â he murmured. âItâs quite all right. He says heâs coming round right away, but that meanwhile thereâs no point in keeping this crowd here. After all, everybody came by invitation, and anyone who was particularly anxious to escape after â well â
Of course, even if the best happened and the matter were dropped for lack of evidence, she would have to be put under restraint.
He passed his hand over his forehead. It was damp and he felt cold. God, what a terrible thing to have happened! Poor Linda. Poor, tragic, insufferable young blackguard lying dead in the next room.
There was the model, too, who had probably been in love with him. Lisa was quietening her now, speaking harshly in her own language, bright startled tears on her withered cheeks.
Mr Campion checked himself. Something must be done immediately, before some bobby off the beat made matters even more difficult. He remembered that the telephone was on the landing and that the door on his left led into the garden. Inspector Stanislaus Oates was the man to get hold of; the shrewdest and at the same time most kindly member of the Yard.
It was Sunday afternoon; therefore he would probably be at home. Campion remembered the number as he ran: Norwood 4380.
Within the studio the atmosphere was becoming unbearable. There were sporadic silences, which hung heavily over the great room. One or two people were becoming hysterical. No one complained openly, largely out of deference to Belle, who with remarkable fortitude and typical good sense remained where she was, knowing that her presence alone prevented an open demonstration.
The little comedies continued, and some of them were tragicomedies.
Herbert Wolfgang, that bouncing, rosy dumpling of a man who always permitted his name at the head of his gossip articles and whose somewhat chequered career was drawing to an ignoble close in the paragraphing of his erstwhile friends, fingered his stock and considered the situation. Here was a heaven-sent piece of luck. Everybody present too.
He looked round at the white anxious faces, and almost smiled. It was too good to be true. One of his most profitable sidelines lay in publicity agenting for society women. The room contained at least four of his clients. And now, probably for the first time during his acquaintance with them, they were all genuinely in the news. It was really damnably fortunate. His fingers itched for his typewriter.
He made mental notes. Bernard, Bishop of Mold, too! And was that the woman who was playing at Dalyâs? And there by a stroke of luck was Sir Jocelyn!
Mr Wolfgang became thoughtful. Sir Jocelyn was on the verge of an appointment to the Household. Unless Mr Wolfgang was mistaken, Sir Jocelyn had worked for some years to attain this honour. It was a tricky business, this appointment. Sir Jocelyn might, very naturally, be anxious to avoid any sort of publicity, much less any which linked his name, however remotely, to something unpleasant. Perhaps the wealthy and ambitious knight would be interested in the suppression of his name from Mr Wolfgangâs snappy little paragraphs?
The cherubic little blackguard sidled towards his victim.
Standing alone, his hands behind his back, his feet slightly apart for the more comfortable balancing of his paunch, the man who had bought the picture regarded his purchase gloomily. Would this confounded business have any effect upon the value of the thing? Why didnât the police come, anyway? It was disgusting: a wealthy man, an important man kept hanging about like this because of a confounded trouble with which he had obviously nothing to do.
Mr Campion came in so unobtrusively that his reappearance was not noticed, and he spoke to Belle for some moments unobserved.
âIâve been on to Inspector Oates of Scotland Yard,â he murmured. âItâs quite all right. He says heâs coming round right away, but that meanwhile thereâs no point in keeping this crowd here. After all, everybody came by invitation, and anyone who was particularly anxious to escape after â well â
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