Read Online Greek Coffin Mystery by Ellery Queen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellery Queen
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person,” said Joan with a little frown. “Not only didn’t he say one solitary word—after all, he could have seen that I wasn’t a slavey— but when I led the way to the library door and was about to knock, he actually jostled me away from the door and opened it himself! He didn’t knock, and he and Grimshaw slipped inside and shut the door in my face. I was so angry I could have chewed a tea-cup.”
“Shocking,” murmured Ellery. “You’re sure, then, that he didn’t utter a word?”
“Positive, Mr. Queen. As I say, I was angry and began to go upstairs.” It was at this moment that Miss Joan Brett betrayed evidences of a very lively temper. Something in what she was about to say touched springs of rancor within her, for her brilliant eyes smoldered and she threw a glance of extreme bitterness in the direction of young Alan Cheney, who slouched against a wall not ten feet away, hands plunged in his pockets. “I heard a key fumbling and scratching against the vestibule door, which is always kept locked. I turned about on the stairs and, lo and behold! whom should I see tottering into the foyer but Mr. Alan Cheney, quite, quite muzzy.”
“Joan!” muttered Alan reproachfully.
“Muzzy?” repeated the Inspector in bewilderment.
Joan nodded emphatically. “Yes, Inspector, muzzy. I might say—squiffy. Or pot-valiant. Or maudlin. Obfuscated. I believe there are some three hundred English colloquialisms for the condition in which I saw Mr. Cheney that night. In a word, drunk as a lord!”
“Is this true, Cheney?” demanded the Inspector.
Alan grinned in a feeble way. “Shouldn’t be surprised, Inspector. When I’m on a bat I generally forget home and country. I don’t remember, but if Joan says it’s so—well, then, it’s so.”
“Oh, it’s true enough, Inspector,” snapped Joan, tossing her head. “He was foully, disgustingly drunk—slobbering all over himself.” She glared at him. “I was afraid that in his despicable condition he would raise a row. Mr. Khalkis had said he wanted no noise, no commotion, so I—well, I had very little choice, don’t you see? Mr. Cheney grinned at me in his characteristically muddled fashion, and I ran down, grasped his arm very firmly, and marched him upstairs before he could rouse the household.”
Delphina Sloane was sitting very haughtily on the edge of her chair, looking from her son to Joan. “Really, Miss Brett,” she said icily, “I see no excuse for this disgraceful …”
“Please!” The Inspector focused his sharp eyes on Mrs. Sloane and she promptly shut her mouth. “Go on, Miss Brett.” Alan, against the wall, seemed to be praying for the floor to give way and remove him peremptorily from the scene.
Joan twisted the fabric of her skirt. “Perhaps,” she said in a less impassioned voice, “I shouldn’t have. … At any rate,” she continued, raising her head and looking defiantly at the Inspector, “I took Mr. Cheney upstairs to his room and—and saw to it that he went to bed.”
“Joan Brett!” gasped Mrs. Sloane in an outraged whimper. “Alan Cheney! Do you two mean to admit—”
“I didn’t undress him, Mrs. Sloane,” said Joan coldly, “if that’s what you’re insinuating. I just scolded him”—her tone implied that this was more properly the province of a mother than of a mere secretary—“and he quieted down, to be sure, almost at once. He quieted down, that is to say, only to become—become very nastily sick after I tucked him in …”
“You’re straying from the point,” said the Inspector sharply. “Did you see anything more of the two visitors?”
Her voice was low now; she seemed absorbed in studying the design of the rug at her feet. “No. I went downstairs to fetch some—some raw eggs; I thought they might jog Mr. Cheney up a bit. On my way to the kitchen, I had to pass by the study here, and I noticed that there was no light from the crack under the door. I assumed that the visitors had
“Shocking,” murmured Ellery. “You’re sure, then, that he didn’t utter a word?”
“Positive, Mr. Queen. As I say, I was angry and began to go upstairs.” It was at this moment that Miss Joan Brett betrayed evidences of a very lively temper. Something in what she was about to say touched springs of rancor within her, for her brilliant eyes smoldered and she threw a glance of extreme bitterness in the direction of young Alan Cheney, who slouched against a wall not ten feet away, hands plunged in his pockets. “I heard a key fumbling and scratching against the vestibule door, which is always kept locked. I turned about on the stairs and, lo and behold! whom should I see tottering into the foyer but Mr. Alan Cheney, quite, quite muzzy.”
“Joan!” muttered Alan reproachfully.
“Muzzy?” repeated the Inspector in bewilderment.
Joan nodded emphatically. “Yes, Inspector, muzzy. I might say—squiffy. Or pot-valiant. Or maudlin. Obfuscated. I believe there are some three hundred English colloquialisms for the condition in which I saw Mr. Cheney that night. In a word, drunk as a lord!”
“Is this true, Cheney?” demanded the Inspector.
Alan grinned in a feeble way. “Shouldn’t be surprised, Inspector. When I’m on a bat I generally forget home and country. I don’t remember, but if Joan says it’s so—well, then, it’s so.”
“Oh, it’s true enough, Inspector,” snapped Joan, tossing her head. “He was foully, disgustingly drunk—slobbering all over himself.” She glared at him. “I was afraid that in his despicable condition he would raise a row. Mr. Khalkis had said he wanted no noise, no commotion, so I—well, I had very little choice, don’t you see? Mr. Cheney grinned at me in his characteristically muddled fashion, and I ran down, grasped his arm very firmly, and marched him upstairs before he could rouse the household.”
Delphina Sloane was sitting very haughtily on the edge of her chair, looking from her son to Joan. “Really, Miss Brett,” she said icily, “I see no excuse for this disgraceful …”
“Please!” The Inspector focused his sharp eyes on Mrs. Sloane and she promptly shut her mouth. “Go on, Miss Brett.” Alan, against the wall, seemed to be praying for the floor to give way and remove him peremptorily from the scene.
Joan twisted the fabric of her skirt. “Perhaps,” she said in a less impassioned voice, “I shouldn’t have. … At any rate,” she continued, raising her head and looking defiantly at the Inspector, “I took Mr. Cheney upstairs to his room and—and saw to it that he went to bed.”
“Joan Brett!” gasped Mrs. Sloane in an outraged whimper. “Alan Cheney! Do you two mean to admit—”
“I didn’t undress him, Mrs. Sloane,” said Joan coldly, “if that’s what you’re insinuating. I just scolded him”—her tone implied that this was more properly the province of a mother than of a mere secretary—“and he quieted down, to be sure, almost at once. He quieted down, that is to say, only to become—become very nastily sick after I tucked him in …”
“You’re straying from the point,” said the Inspector sharply. “Did you see anything more of the two visitors?”
Her voice was low now; she seemed absorbed in studying the design of the rug at her feet. “No. I went downstairs to fetch some—some raw eggs; I thought they might jog Mr. Cheney up a bit. On my way to the kitchen, I had to pass by the study here, and I noticed that there was no light from the crack under the door. I assumed that the visitors had
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