Read Online Puzzle of the Pepper Tree by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Palmer
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obtaining the five-dollar room.
But Miss Withers had a strong hunch that Phyllis La Fond was not the only one of the Dragonfly’s passengers likely to seek the luxurious shelter of the St. Lena. “Lucky I came here instead of taking a bungalow,” she told herself.
She made a survey of her room and discovered that from the vantage point of a chair mounted beneath the open transom above her door, she could obtain an excellent view of the stair—with only two upper floors the St. Lena did not have or need a lift—and of the hallway.
During the hour or two remaining before dinner, Miss Withers at the cost of a stiff neck had the pleasure of watching Roscoe, the octogenarian who acted as bellhop for the St. Lena, as he variously disposed of the Dragonfly’s passengers.
The first to come was T. Girard Tompkins, who bore, as if in explanation of his disappearance, additional baggage consisting of a pair of very decorative blue glaze bowls. He was given a room across the hall—Number 17.
Mr. Ralph O. Tate, who followed very soon after, was led on up the stairs toward the more expensive suites. Mr. Tate’s two sad-eyed henchmen, Tony and George, were placed in Room 18, far down the hall of the second floor. Then came Captain Thorwald Narveson, freckled and blue-eyed, with his corncob pipe going full blast. His was Room 19—like all the odd-numbered rooms, it faced, not the ocean, but the hills in the rear. It was evident that Captain Narveson placed no premium on a sea view.
One by one Miss Withers checked them off—there had been nine passengers aboard the Dragonfly. One of them lay in the infirmary with a sheet over his face. That left only the honeymoon couple unaccounted for. They were probably mooning through the curio shops that lined the waterfront, Miss Withers hazarded a guess as she climbed down from her chair.
The schoolteacher shook her head a little sadly as she thought of the sobering effects that the events of the morning must have had upon the young couple. It was not the sort of excitement that honeymooners seek, to have a dead man topple into the midst of their orange blossoms.
But they were young enough to forget it easily, Miss Withers reminded herself. Probably were too full of the future to think of the present anyway.
Miss Withers replaced the chair in its proper place beside the wide windows that opened out on the balcony above the sea and went down to dinner.
On the stairs she passed T. Girard Tompkins, who, if he was glad to see her, managed to hide his delight admirably.
“Fancy meeting you here,” said Miss Withers cheerfully.
“Oh, yes,” said Tompkins. “I always stay here. Good hotel, don’t you think?” He started to move on and then paused.
“I suppose you’re wondering what happened to me after our ride into town together?” Miss Withers wasn’t wondering anything of the kind, but she put on an interested expression.
“I made an effort to find Chief Britt, who is a personal friend of mine,” explained Mr. Tompkins unnecessarily. “When I heard that he was already at the infirmary, I went about my business at the pottery works, which is very urgent. I hope my absence did not inconvenience anybody?”
“On the contrary,” said Hildegarde Withers, and went on. She could not have explained why she disliked the man, but there was something in the air when he was near—an aura of Rotary good-fellowship and cheap gin. Besides, when he talked to her his glance turned to the floor, the ceiling, the pictures on the wall—anywhere but at her.
But then, murderers were rarely shifty-eyed and unpleasant, as Miss Withers had learned to her sorrow. She shrugged her shoulders and strode onward, through the wide doorway that led into the palatial dining room of the St. Lena. Outside the thousand windows a sea was fast losing its blue-green color, and the gulls were swinging back and forth with their haunting cry like the creak of a rusty gate. But Miss Withers had no eye for
But Miss Withers had a strong hunch that Phyllis La Fond was not the only one of the Dragonfly’s passengers likely to seek the luxurious shelter of the St. Lena. “Lucky I came here instead of taking a bungalow,” she told herself.
She made a survey of her room and discovered that from the vantage point of a chair mounted beneath the open transom above her door, she could obtain an excellent view of the stair—with only two upper floors the St. Lena did not have or need a lift—and of the hallway.
During the hour or two remaining before dinner, Miss Withers at the cost of a stiff neck had the pleasure of watching Roscoe, the octogenarian who acted as bellhop for the St. Lena, as he variously disposed of the Dragonfly’s passengers.
The first to come was T. Girard Tompkins, who bore, as if in explanation of his disappearance, additional baggage consisting of a pair of very decorative blue glaze bowls. He was given a room across the hall—Number 17.
Mr. Ralph O. Tate, who followed very soon after, was led on up the stairs toward the more expensive suites. Mr. Tate’s two sad-eyed henchmen, Tony and George, were placed in Room 18, far down the hall of the second floor. Then came Captain Thorwald Narveson, freckled and blue-eyed, with his corncob pipe going full blast. His was Room 19—like all the odd-numbered rooms, it faced, not the ocean, but the hills in the rear. It was evident that Captain Narveson placed no premium on a sea view.
One by one Miss Withers checked them off—there had been nine passengers aboard the Dragonfly. One of them lay in the infirmary with a sheet over his face. That left only the honeymoon couple unaccounted for. They were probably mooning through the curio shops that lined the waterfront, Miss Withers hazarded a guess as she climbed down from her chair.
The schoolteacher shook her head a little sadly as she thought of the sobering effects that the events of the morning must have had upon the young couple. It was not the sort of excitement that honeymooners seek, to have a dead man topple into the midst of their orange blossoms.
But they were young enough to forget it easily, Miss Withers reminded herself. Probably were too full of the future to think of the present anyway.
Miss Withers replaced the chair in its proper place beside the wide windows that opened out on the balcony above the sea and went down to dinner.
On the stairs she passed T. Girard Tompkins, who, if he was glad to see her, managed to hide his delight admirably.
“Fancy meeting you here,” said Miss Withers cheerfully.
“Oh, yes,” said Tompkins. “I always stay here. Good hotel, don’t you think?” He started to move on and then paused.
“I suppose you’re wondering what happened to me after our ride into town together?” Miss Withers wasn’t wondering anything of the kind, but she put on an interested expression.
“I made an effort to find Chief Britt, who is a personal friend of mine,” explained Mr. Tompkins unnecessarily. “When I heard that he was already at the infirmary, I went about my business at the pottery works, which is very urgent. I hope my absence did not inconvenience anybody?”
“On the contrary,” said Hildegarde Withers, and went on. She could not have explained why she disliked the man, but there was something in the air when he was near—an aura of Rotary good-fellowship and cheap gin. Besides, when he talked to her his glance turned to the floor, the ceiling, the pictures on the wall—anywhere but at her.
But then, murderers were rarely shifty-eyed and unpleasant, as Miss Withers had learned to her sorrow. She shrugged her shoulders and strode onward, through the wide doorway that led into the palatial dining room of the St. Lena. Outside the thousand windows a sea was fast losing its blue-green color, and the gulls were swinging back and forth with their haunting cry like the creak of a rusty gate. But Miss Withers had no eye for
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