Read Online Hide My Eyes by Margery Allingham - Free Book Online
Authors: Margery Allingham
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rid of the prison ’aircut. Besides, whatever ’e is ’e’s something unusual, something one doesn’t meet every day.”
At this point the assistant barber removed the cape from Richard’s shoulders and gave his neck a cursory whisk.
“I ’tink he is of the po-lice,” he repeated, sighing. “Anyhow he has left his belongings.”
He nodded towards the corner where a wooden box, the coil of rope and the starting handle sprawled in an untidy heap.
“There now!” Mr. Vick’s scream was like a toy train. “’E brought them out of the street for safety and then forgot them. That proves ’e’s no p’liceman. You’ll see. ’E’ll be back. I’ve known ’im do
that
before. Ah, what did I tell you? No sooner out of my mouth then … There they are, Major.”
The door had shuddered open and the man in the trench coat appeared on the threshold. He was grinning and deeply apologetic, and his smile included Richard, who was putting on his jacket.
The wooden box seemed to be remarkably heavy and when he had hoisted it into his arms he was fully laden. Richard gathered up the rope and the handle.
“I’ll bring these.”
“Will you? Thanks a lot. My old ’bus is outside.”
When he had set the box carefully on the back seat he spoke again.
“That’s more than kind of you. I’m drifting down to the West End. Can I give you a lift?”
Richard was looking at the starting handle he was carrying. The worn label tied to his shaft had fluttered over and the pencilled inscription upon it was just readable. “Hawker. Rolf’s Dump, S.E.”
He scarcely saw it. As if it had attracted his attention for the first time the Major leaned over and pulled it off, pitching it into the gutter.
“Coming?” he enquired.
Richard looked up.
“Thank you,” he said with sudden deliberation, “I should like that.”
Chapter 6
LUNCHEON PARTY
MATTHEW PHILLIPSON, SENIOR PARTNER of Southern, Wood and Phillipson, family solicitors of Minton Terrace, West, was a spare elderly man with the figure of a boy and the pathetic face of a marmoset. At the moment he was very happy, an unusual condition with him, and his cold eyes had softened as he watched Polly Tassie as she bent over the stove.
He had telephoned to ask if he could drop round and see her. She had invited him to lunch as he knew she would and here he was, sitting in her kitchen waiting for his steak to be done just as he liked it, hard outside, rare inside.
The room, he reflected, looking at it with appreciation, was exactly like its owner, ordinary, comfortable and obstinately itself. There was a red linoleum on the floor patterned like a Turkey carpet, out of date for forty years. Staffordshire china greyhounds stood on the mantelshelf, pots of gloxinia and musk of all things were in the window, and there was a solid kitchen table with a white cloth on it for him to sit at. He had a hassock under his feet and a waisted glass of dark ale in his hand, and under the flowered cheese-dish cover he had already discovered as nice a piece of Blue Cheshire as he had ever seen. There was, moreover, a cottage loaf, a delicacy he had thought extinct, and while she was still busy he broke the top from the bottom and was engaged in slicing off the soft sponge between the two when she turned and caught him. He laughed, his sallow cheeks flushing.
“I haven’t done that for fifty years,” he said.
“Then get on with it,” said Polly, setting a plate before him. “Be a devil. Cut the other half. You are a fathead, Matt. I
am
fond of you. Freddy used to say you really are the finest stuffed shirt in captivity. Now try this. It ought to be just right.”
“It is,” he assured her. “You’re a wonderful cook. You always were. You’re looking young too, if I may say so. I mean unusually so. Radiant. Has anything happened?”
“Has it!” From across the table she looked up at him, her bright blue eyes dancing. “Matt, old sport, it came off. They sent her. Not the
At this point the assistant barber removed the cape from Richard’s shoulders and gave his neck a cursory whisk.
“I ’tink he is of the po-lice,” he repeated, sighing. “Anyhow he has left his belongings.”
He nodded towards the corner where a wooden box, the coil of rope and the starting handle sprawled in an untidy heap.
“There now!” Mr. Vick’s scream was like a toy train. “’E brought them out of the street for safety and then forgot them. That proves ’e’s no p’liceman. You’ll see. ’E’ll be back. I’ve known ’im do
that
before. Ah, what did I tell you? No sooner out of my mouth then … There they are, Major.”
The door had shuddered open and the man in the trench coat appeared on the threshold. He was grinning and deeply apologetic, and his smile included Richard, who was putting on his jacket.
The wooden box seemed to be remarkably heavy and when he had hoisted it into his arms he was fully laden. Richard gathered up the rope and the handle.
“I’ll bring these.”
“Will you? Thanks a lot. My old ’bus is outside.”
When he had set the box carefully on the back seat he spoke again.
“That’s more than kind of you. I’m drifting down to the West End. Can I give you a lift?”
Richard was looking at the starting handle he was carrying. The worn label tied to his shaft had fluttered over and the pencilled inscription upon it was just readable. “Hawker. Rolf’s Dump, S.E.”
He scarcely saw it. As if it had attracted his attention for the first time the Major leaned over and pulled it off, pitching it into the gutter.
“Coming?” he enquired.
Richard looked up.
“Thank you,” he said with sudden deliberation, “I should like that.”
Chapter 6
LUNCHEON PARTY
MATTHEW PHILLIPSON, SENIOR PARTNER of Southern, Wood and Phillipson, family solicitors of Minton Terrace, West, was a spare elderly man with the figure of a boy and the pathetic face of a marmoset. At the moment he was very happy, an unusual condition with him, and his cold eyes had softened as he watched Polly Tassie as she bent over the stove.
He had telephoned to ask if he could drop round and see her. She had invited him to lunch as he knew she would and here he was, sitting in her kitchen waiting for his steak to be done just as he liked it, hard outside, rare inside.
The room, he reflected, looking at it with appreciation, was exactly like its owner, ordinary, comfortable and obstinately itself. There was a red linoleum on the floor patterned like a Turkey carpet, out of date for forty years. Staffordshire china greyhounds stood on the mantelshelf, pots of gloxinia and musk of all things were in the window, and there was a solid kitchen table with a white cloth on it for him to sit at. He had a hassock under his feet and a waisted glass of dark ale in his hand, and under the flowered cheese-dish cover he had already discovered as nice a piece of Blue Cheshire as he had ever seen. There was, moreover, a cottage loaf, a delicacy he had thought extinct, and while she was still busy he broke the top from the bottom and was engaged in slicing off the soft sponge between the two when she turned and caught him. He laughed, his sallow cheeks flushing.
“I haven’t done that for fifty years,” he said.
“Then get on with it,” said Polly, setting a plate before him. “Be a devil. Cut the other half. You are a fathead, Matt. I
am
fond of you. Freddy used to say you really are the finest stuffed shirt in captivity. Now try this. It ought to be just right.”
“It is,” he assured her. “You’re a wonderful cook. You always were. You’re looking young too, if I may say so. I mean unusually so. Radiant. Has anything happened?”
“Has it!” From across the table she looked up at him, her bright blue eyes dancing. “Matt, old sport, it came off. They sent her. Not the
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