Read Online Murder on Wheels by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stuart Palmer
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what?”
“Well, doesn’t that suggest to you that perhaps someone took down a picture recently? There’s enough dust in this town so that it must have been recently.”
“But why must the frame be empty?” The Inspector was humbler.
“That was a wild guess,” admitted Miss Withers, conscious of her victory. “But it seemed natural that if someone wanted a picture off the wall, he’d keep the frame, at least … and throw away the picture.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Or suppose he didn’t throw away the picture?”
There was a wastebasket by the door, but it was empty. The picture hadn’t gone there, at any rate—not today. And Miss Withers had an idea that very few hours had passed since that strangely clean spot on the wall was covered.
“Oscar—suppose you wanted to hide a picture, in a room like this. Where would you put it?”
The Inspector was thoughtful. “Let me see. Behind the wall-paper ? No, that would be difficult to get loose and more difficult to get stuck on again. Under a carpet—but there’s only scatter-rugs in this room.”
“We’ve got to do better than this,” Miss Withers reminded him. “Could it be in one of those books—no, they’re all too small for a picture that size. Under the lining of one of the bureau drawers?”
“I’ve got an idea!” The Inspector was galvanized into action. Swiftly, while Miss Withers watched, he drew out the drawers of both bureaus. He didn’t look under the linings, but hoisted each drawer up over his head and stared intently at the underside.
He found what he was looking for under the next to the last drawer, pinned with four thumb tacks against the bottom.
“Somebody is smart,” he observed. “Most people think of hiding an article on top of something, not underneath it. We’re all accustomed to laying things down, not sticking them up.” But he didn’t explain how the idea had come to him.
Nor did Miss Withers give him the congratulations he was angling for. She was staring at the photograph in his hand.
It showed the head of a striking looking young woman of twenty or thereabouts, a girl with light tawny hair curled at the ends, above whose wide eyes were stuck two ridiculously diminutive eyebrows. The mouth was firm and resolute, for all the sculptured softness of the lips.
“She looks to me like a girl who’d get anything she wanted, or else,” observed Miss Withers.
The Inspector nodded slowly. A single sentence rang through his brain. “I love you more than anybody else in the world and nobody … is going to stand in our way.” Those were the words written on that sheet of crisp notepaper tucked away in his pocket.
There was writing on the bottom of the photograph, writing that was vaguely familiar to the Inspector.
“To Lew, with all my love,” it read. It was signed “Your Dana.”
VII
Abaft the Mizz’mast
“W ELL, THIS IS THE DOOR ,” said Miss Withers in a whisper. She and the Inspector were standing on the attic-floor landing, in semi-darkness. “Though I wish you’d tell me what you expect to find out from the old lady.”
“You’ll see,” Piper told her. He rapped on the door. The only answer was a thick, almost gummy silence.
He knocked again, this time with the heel of his hand. There was a booming echo inside, together with faint thumpings and stirrings and rustlings that betokened someone’s stealthy presence.
“May I trouble you a moment, Mrs. Stait?”
A shrill cackle of inhuman, uncanny laughter answered him. But no one came to the door.
“Hello in there! Mrs. Stait, this is the police. We must ask you a few questions!” Piper knocked again, this time with a clenched fist. He had had no dinner this night, and he had exhausted his stock of patience.
“I say, Inspector!” a voice interrupted from the foot of the stairs. “It’s no use with Gran. She’ll do just as she pleases.”
It was Hubert, outside the door of his room, in dressing gown and slippers. “She’ll send
“Well, doesn’t that suggest to you that perhaps someone took down a picture recently? There’s enough dust in this town so that it must have been recently.”
“But why must the frame be empty?” The Inspector was humbler.
“That was a wild guess,” admitted Miss Withers, conscious of her victory. “But it seemed natural that if someone wanted a picture off the wall, he’d keep the frame, at least … and throw away the picture.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Or suppose he didn’t throw away the picture?”
There was a wastebasket by the door, but it was empty. The picture hadn’t gone there, at any rate—not today. And Miss Withers had an idea that very few hours had passed since that strangely clean spot on the wall was covered.
“Oscar—suppose you wanted to hide a picture, in a room like this. Where would you put it?”
The Inspector was thoughtful. “Let me see. Behind the wall-paper ? No, that would be difficult to get loose and more difficult to get stuck on again. Under a carpet—but there’s only scatter-rugs in this room.”
“We’ve got to do better than this,” Miss Withers reminded him. “Could it be in one of those books—no, they’re all too small for a picture that size. Under the lining of one of the bureau drawers?”
“I’ve got an idea!” The Inspector was galvanized into action. Swiftly, while Miss Withers watched, he drew out the drawers of both bureaus. He didn’t look under the linings, but hoisted each drawer up over his head and stared intently at the underside.
He found what he was looking for under the next to the last drawer, pinned with four thumb tacks against the bottom.
“Somebody is smart,” he observed. “Most people think of hiding an article on top of something, not underneath it. We’re all accustomed to laying things down, not sticking them up.” But he didn’t explain how the idea had come to him.
Nor did Miss Withers give him the congratulations he was angling for. She was staring at the photograph in his hand.
It showed the head of a striking looking young woman of twenty or thereabouts, a girl with light tawny hair curled at the ends, above whose wide eyes were stuck two ridiculously diminutive eyebrows. The mouth was firm and resolute, for all the sculptured softness of the lips.
“She looks to me like a girl who’d get anything she wanted, or else,” observed Miss Withers.
The Inspector nodded slowly. A single sentence rang through his brain. “I love you more than anybody else in the world and nobody … is going to stand in our way.” Those were the words written on that sheet of crisp notepaper tucked away in his pocket.
There was writing on the bottom of the photograph, writing that was vaguely familiar to the Inspector.
“To Lew, with all my love,” it read. It was signed “Your Dana.”
VII
Abaft the Mizz’mast
“W ELL, THIS IS THE DOOR ,” said Miss Withers in a whisper. She and the Inspector were standing on the attic-floor landing, in semi-darkness. “Though I wish you’d tell me what you expect to find out from the old lady.”
“You’ll see,” Piper told her. He rapped on the door. The only answer was a thick, almost gummy silence.
He knocked again, this time with the heel of his hand. There was a booming echo inside, together with faint thumpings and stirrings and rustlings that betokened someone’s stealthy presence.
“May I trouble you a moment, Mrs. Stait?”
A shrill cackle of inhuman, uncanny laughter answered him. But no one came to the door.
“Hello in there! Mrs. Stait, this is the police. We must ask you a few questions!” Piper knocked again, this time with a clenched fist. He had had no dinner this night, and he had exhausted his stock of patience.
“I say, Inspector!” a voice interrupted from the foot of the stairs. “It’s no use with Gran. She’ll do just as she pleases.”
It was Hubert, outside the door of his room, in dressing gown and slippers. “She’ll send
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