Read Online Murder on Wheels by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Palmer
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for you when she’s willing to see you.”
“Oh, yes? Well, she’ll see me now. I represent the law here in this house. And besides, something may have happened to the old lady.” The Inspector rapped again. “Mrs. Stait, if you don’t open this door I’m going to kick it in.”
“Why don’t you try the knob first?” Miss Withers suggested.
Automatically the Inspector dropped his hand to the knob, and it turned easily. The door opened inward—and a thick, musty odor struck their faces. The room was black as pitch. “There ought to be a light switch just inside the door here,” said Piper, fumbling through the darkness.
His fingers collided with something which was not a light switch, and there was the smash of breaking glass as something toppled to the floor.
“What in the devil … a lamp in this place?…”
But the Inspector didn’t get a fair start with what he was intending to say. From across the room there burst an avalanche of purple language, double strength and 100-proof, that sizzled around his ears.
“Hellfire! Hellfìre and Brimstone! Batten down your hatches and stand by to repel boarders, you stinking lubbers … where’s the Skipper, the Skipper? … Here Fido, here Fido, sic ’em Fido … Bloody, bloody boogies, all of you!”
“Great Scott, what’s that?”
The harsh old voice went on without pausing to draw breath. “Hell and damnation … stowaways, Skipper, stowaways … feed the sharks, Skipper … Belay me for a bloody lubber … Rats, Fido, rats … Help, murder, bloody murder!”
Miss Withers had firm hold of the Inspector’s arm. She could see nothing, not even the glow of light from a window … nor could she hear anything except that rush of full-flavored language.
At that moment a further door, across the room, opened suddenly, disclosing the tall, gaunt figure of an old woman in a red shawl. Beneath the shawl, Miss Withers could see by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp held in the old lady’s hand, she wore a dress that had once been black silk, but that now was a purplish green with dust and age.
Her face was as seamed and wrinkled as a dried russet apple, and her little beady eyes gleamed out of dark caverns in her skull.
She spoke, in a voice that was strangely younger than herself. “That dratted parrot! Quiet, Skipper!”
Sitting on a perch across the impossibly cluttered room, a fat, featherless monstrosity squawked once and then subsided obediently.
In all her thirty-nine years Miss Withers had never seen a dodo, except in one of Sir John Tenniel’s fantastic drawings. But this unspeakably-evil fat naked slug, with its tremendous hooked beak and its expression of cheerful malevolence, was as close to being that extinct horror of the Indian Ocean as anything she could imagine.
“Policemen are always the same,” said the old lady none too pleasantly. “Always a lot of blackguards, bursting their way into decent people’s homes and shooting innocent bystanders while the footpads flourish and wax fat.”
“Excuse the intrusion, Madam, but it was necessary. It’s about your grandson Laurie.”
“I will not bail him out if he’s in trouble again, and that’s final!” The old lady stalked toward the inner door. “Laurie has been a disgrace to this family since his birth.”
“He’ll never be a disgrace to this family again,” cut in the Inspector hastily. “You see, Mrs. Stait, your grandson has been killed!”
She turned around, a look of polite incredulity. “Killed? Don’t be silly. The Staits don’t have such things happen to them. He’s not dead. Pour water on him. Probably he’s been scorching at the cocktail bar down at the Haymarket.”
“But you don’t understand, Mrs. Stait. Your grandson has been murdered!”
“Rats, rats, Fido, rats! Bloody murder, boys!” The parrot caught his gnarled claws around his perch and hung head downwards, swinging merrily. “Bloody murder abaft the mizz’mast! Belay him good,
“Oh, yes? Well, she’ll see me now. I represent the law here in this house. And besides, something may have happened to the old lady.” The Inspector rapped again. “Mrs. Stait, if you don’t open this door I’m going to kick it in.”
“Why don’t you try the knob first?” Miss Withers suggested.
Automatically the Inspector dropped his hand to the knob, and it turned easily. The door opened inward—and a thick, musty odor struck their faces. The room was black as pitch. “There ought to be a light switch just inside the door here,” said Piper, fumbling through the darkness.
His fingers collided with something which was not a light switch, and there was the smash of breaking glass as something toppled to the floor.
“What in the devil … a lamp in this place?…”
But the Inspector didn’t get a fair start with what he was intending to say. From across the room there burst an avalanche of purple language, double strength and 100-proof, that sizzled around his ears.
“Hellfire! Hellfìre and Brimstone! Batten down your hatches and stand by to repel boarders, you stinking lubbers … where’s the Skipper, the Skipper? … Here Fido, here Fido, sic ’em Fido … Bloody, bloody boogies, all of you!”
“Great Scott, what’s that?”
The harsh old voice went on without pausing to draw breath. “Hell and damnation … stowaways, Skipper, stowaways … feed the sharks, Skipper … Belay me for a bloody lubber … Rats, Fido, rats … Help, murder, bloody murder!”
Miss Withers had firm hold of the Inspector’s arm. She could see nothing, not even the glow of light from a window … nor could she hear anything except that rush of full-flavored language.
At that moment a further door, across the room, opened suddenly, disclosing the tall, gaunt figure of an old woman in a red shawl. Beneath the shawl, Miss Withers could see by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp held in the old lady’s hand, she wore a dress that had once been black silk, but that now was a purplish green with dust and age.
Her face was as seamed and wrinkled as a dried russet apple, and her little beady eyes gleamed out of dark caverns in her skull.
She spoke, in a voice that was strangely younger than herself. “That dratted parrot! Quiet, Skipper!”
Sitting on a perch across the impossibly cluttered room, a fat, featherless monstrosity squawked once and then subsided obediently.
In all her thirty-nine years Miss Withers had never seen a dodo, except in one of Sir John Tenniel’s fantastic drawings. But this unspeakably-evil fat naked slug, with its tremendous hooked beak and its expression of cheerful malevolence, was as close to being that extinct horror of the Indian Ocean as anything she could imagine.
“Policemen are always the same,” said the old lady none too pleasantly. “Always a lot of blackguards, bursting their way into decent people’s homes and shooting innocent bystanders while the footpads flourish and wax fat.”
“Excuse the intrusion, Madam, but it was necessary. It’s about your grandson Laurie.”
“I will not bail him out if he’s in trouble again, and that’s final!” The old lady stalked toward the inner door. “Laurie has been a disgrace to this family since his birth.”
“He’ll never be a disgrace to this family again,” cut in the Inspector hastily. “You see, Mrs. Stait, your grandson has been killed!”
She turned around, a look of polite incredulity. “Killed? Don’t be silly. The Staits don’t have such things happen to them. He’s not dead. Pour water on him. Probably he’s been scorching at the cocktail bar down at the Haymarket.”
“But you don’t understand, Mrs. Stait. Your grandson has been murdered!”
“Rats, rats, Fido, rats! Bloody murder, boys!” The parrot caught his gnarled claws around his perch and hung head downwards, swinging merrily. “Bloody murder abaft the mizz’mast! Belay him good,
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