Read Online In the Teeth of the Evidence by Dorothy L. Sayers - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dorothy L. Sayers
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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well be “son” and not “Benson,” mightn’t it?’
‘So it might,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘But if you mean to suggest that the murderer was this man Fletcher, or his father, how did he know where to find Mr Robbins? Nobody knew he was coming up to the Mills except you and me and Bowles, and Mr Edgar Robbins and Hughie.’
‘One other person, sir,’ replied Monty. ‘The elderly party who was sitting in the bar with his newspaper – the man who was a stranger to you, Mr Bowles. He went out just after he had heard that Mr Robbins would be up at the Mills, and that Mr Edgar would not be there to protect him.’
‘By jove, you’re right!’ Charteris thought this over for a moment. ‘But all this about playing in goal—’
‘Ah!’ said Monty, ‘if you bar “gauge,” which they always spell “guage,” that word is the biggest stumbling-block a printer can have. Trips him up every time. It’s a disease with ’em. “You’ve acted like a thief by my son, and deserve by right to be put in gaol.” Don’t you think that sounds more natural? Personally,’ added Mr Egg. ‘I take the soft option and write it JAIL – mayn’t look so classy, but it’s safer.’
DIRT CHEAP
A Montague Egg Story
Mr Montague Egg was startled out of his beauty sleep by the ugly noise next door.
‘Wah! wah! wah!’ in a series of crescendo roars. Then followed a long, choking gurgle.
The Griffin at Cuttlesbury was an old-fashioned and ill-kept hotel. Neither Mr Egg nor his fellow-commercials would have dreamed of patronising it in ordinary circumstances. But the Green Man had been put temporarily out of commission by a disastrous fire; and that was how Mr Egg, after an ill-cooked and indigestible dinner, came to be lying in a lumpy bed in this fusty, dusty bedroom, without electric light or even a bedside candle and matches, so slovenly was the service.
As full consciousness slowly returned to him, Mr Egg took stock of the situation. There were, he knew, only three bedrooms in this isolated corridor; his own, in the middle; on the left, No. 8, containing old Waters, of Messrs Brotherhood, Ltd, the soft-drinks-and-confectionery firm; on the right, No. 10, allotted to that stout man who travelled in jewellery, whose name was Pringle, and who had stuffed himself up that evening with dubious mackerel and underdone pork, to the admiration of all beholders. Close behind the head of Monty’s bed, the rich and rhythmical snoring of old Waters shook the thin partition like the vibration of a passing lorry. It must be Pringle who was making the uproar; mackerel and pork were the most probable explanation.
The bellowing had ceased; only a few faint grunts were now to be heard. He didn’t know Pringle, and hadn’t liked the look of him very much. But perhaps the man was really ill. It would be only decent to go and find out.
He swung his legs reluctantly over the side of the bed and thrust his feet into his slippers. Without troubling to search for matches and light the gloomy gas-jet with the broken mantle at the far end of the room, he felt his way to the door, unlocked it and stepped out into the corridor. At the far end, another gas-jet burned dimly on the by-pass, throwing a misleading jumble of light and shadow on the two creaking steps that separated the corridor from the main landing.
In No. 8, old Waters snored on undisturbed. Monty turned to his right and knocked at the door of No. 10.
‘Who’s there?’ demanded a stifled voice.
‘Me – Egg,’ said Monty. He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door was locked. ‘Are you all right? I heard you call out.’
‘Sorry.’ The bed creaked as though the speaker were levering himself up to a sitting position. ‘Nightmare. Sorry I disturbed you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Mr Egg, pleased to have his diagnosis confirmed. ‘Sure there’s nothing I can do?’
‘So it might,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘But if you mean to suggest that the murderer was this man Fletcher, or his father, how did he know where to find Mr Robbins? Nobody knew he was coming up to the Mills except you and me and Bowles, and Mr Edgar Robbins and Hughie.’
‘One other person, sir,’ replied Monty. ‘The elderly party who was sitting in the bar with his newspaper – the man who was a stranger to you, Mr Bowles. He went out just after he had heard that Mr Robbins would be up at the Mills, and that Mr Edgar would not be there to protect him.’
‘By jove, you’re right!’ Charteris thought this over for a moment. ‘But all this about playing in goal—’
‘Ah!’ said Monty, ‘if you bar “gauge,” which they always spell “guage,” that word is the biggest stumbling-block a printer can have. Trips him up every time. It’s a disease with ’em. “You’ve acted like a thief by my son, and deserve by right to be put in gaol.” Don’t you think that sounds more natural? Personally,’ added Mr Egg. ‘I take the soft option and write it JAIL – mayn’t look so classy, but it’s safer.’
DIRT CHEAP
A Montague Egg Story
Mr Montague Egg was startled out of his beauty sleep by the ugly noise next door.
‘Wah! wah! wah!’ in a series of crescendo roars. Then followed a long, choking gurgle.
The Griffin at Cuttlesbury was an old-fashioned and ill-kept hotel. Neither Mr Egg nor his fellow-commercials would have dreamed of patronising it in ordinary circumstances. But the Green Man had been put temporarily out of commission by a disastrous fire; and that was how Mr Egg, after an ill-cooked and indigestible dinner, came to be lying in a lumpy bed in this fusty, dusty bedroom, without electric light or even a bedside candle and matches, so slovenly was the service.
As full consciousness slowly returned to him, Mr Egg took stock of the situation. There were, he knew, only three bedrooms in this isolated corridor; his own, in the middle; on the left, No. 8, containing old Waters, of Messrs Brotherhood, Ltd, the soft-drinks-and-confectionery firm; on the right, No. 10, allotted to that stout man who travelled in jewellery, whose name was Pringle, and who had stuffed himself up that evening with dubious mackerel and underdone pork, to the admiration of all beholders. Close behind the head of Monty’s bed, the rich and rhythmical snoring of old Waters shook the thin partition like the vibration of a passing lorry. It must be Pringle who was making the uproar; mackerel and pork were the most probable explanation.
The bellowing had ceased; only a few faint grunts were now to be heard. He didn’t know Pringle, and hadn’t liked the look of him very much. But perhaps the man was really ill. It would be only decent to go and find out.
He swung his legs reluctantly over the side of the bed and thrust his feet into his slippers. Without troubling to search for matches and light the gloomy gas-jet with the broken mantle at the far end of the room, he felt his way to the door, unlocked it and stepped out into the corridor. At the far end, another gas-jet burned dimly on the by-pass, throwing a misleading jumble of light and shadow on the two creaking steps that separated the corridor from the main landing.
In No. 8, old Waters snored on undisturbed. Monty turned to his right and knocked at the door of No. 10.
‘Who’s there?’ demanded a stifled voice.
‘Me – Egg,’ said Monty. He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door was locked. ‘Are you all right? I heard you call out.’
‘Sorry.’ The bed creaked as though the speaker were levering himself up to a sitting position. ‘Nightmare. Sorry I disturbed you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Mr Egg, pleased to have his diagnosis confirmed. ‘Sure there’s nothing I can do?’
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