Read Online Rex Stout by Red Threads - Free Book Online
Authors: Red Threads
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, New York (N.Y.), Murder, Murder - Investigation, Police - New York (State) - New York, Widowers, Cherokee Indians
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dusk of twilight slowly settled on to the meadow. Once, hearing a rustling near by, she opened her eyes; but, deciding it was a scampering squirrel or rabbit and not worthy of investigation, she closed them again without turning her head.
Well … she had accepted Mrs. Barth’s invitation to dinner. It must be nearing nine o’clock. She would have to get up, brush herself off, walk back to the house, and join the gay party. Tomorrow morning she would have the skirt and jacket packed and sent by parcel post to Guy Carew. Indian giver! Was it actually possible thathe wanted them for Portia Tritt—to have her wear the bayeta? In that case, he was socially a monster … no, she didn’t mean socially, she meant … to the devil with it—
The train of thought ended as if cut off by a flashing sword. What cut it was a shrill sound—a piercing, earsplitting note—seemingly from the ground behind her head. Startled, she jerked herself up, sitting erect, and, as she did so, the sound was completed and she recognised it as the call of a whip-poor-will. Simultaneously she heard a rustling of the shrub and felt something strike the side of her head. Or rather, she didn’t feel, because her nervous system had quit; she was unconscious.
Twilight had thickened to darkness when she stirred. Not that she was immediately aware of it; the first twitching of her arms and legs was an experiment of the nerves, independent of the will, testing the lines of communication. Then sentience crawled timidly back and crept through the alleys of her brain. Her first demonstration of consciousness was a dim but overpowering awareness that she had a head, and cloudy irritation with it…. Why the deuce should so much importance be attached to anything so obvious as the fact that she had a head? Anyway, the head was no good, because it couldn’t be moved—or could it? She might try—good God! It was full of hot lead! Then she remembered. She had been hit on the head, a terrific, shattering blow, by a whip-poor-will. But no, it couldn’t have been like that—
Hey! She jerked up sitting, terrified, in spite of the head. Something had bit her on the leg—or something sharp had stuck her—Oh. Probably a grass stubble or a twig. But by that time she was sufficiently conscious to feel astonishment that she could see her leg, both her legs, nearly all of them, quite bare from the top of herstocking to the edge of the—what was it? Shakespeares. But why, in the name of heaven, bare legs? And why—she would investigate that. With her right hand she felt at her left shoulder, and was touching thin silk. She began to realise that there was something highly peculiar about this whole situation; she had been assaulted by a whip-poor-will, it was dark, and her jacket and skirt were gone….
She put up her hands to feel her head.
Chapter 4
T he terrace was adequately lit by two electric lanterns hanging high, surrounded at the bottom by a circular trough which was half filled with electrocuted bugs. From the table beneath the corpses could not be seen, though if you cared to look you could catch glimpses of the insects hurtling to their doom.
A fair amount of jollity was being displayed by Mr. and Mrs. Melville Barth and their twenty guests, most of which was instigated by Adele Worthy of
Harvey’s Bazaar,
who told stories in a voice loud enough for all. Even Woodrow Wilson laughed heartily at her tale of the drunken Indian who operated with a hatchet on the tail of his dog because abbreviated tails were fashionable, missed his aim entirely and cut off the dog’s head, and threw the hatchet down in disgust, mumbling, “Too short!” Miss Worthy regarded that tale as especially apropos for the present group, since it referred both to Indians and to fashions. She said so, and no one contradicted her.
The roast veal was being consumed, with fresh lima beans and a modest but cheerful Moselle, when the butler approached Mrs. Barth’s chair and spoke
Well … she had accepted Mrs. Barth’s invitation to dinner. It must be nearing nine o’clock. She would have to get up, brush herself off, walk back to the house, and join the gay party. Tomorrow morning she would have the skirt and jacket packed and sent by parcel post to Guy Carew. Indian giver! Was it actually possible thathe wanted them for Portia Tritt—to have her wear the bayeta? In that case, he was socially a monster … no, she didn’t mean socially, she meant … to the devil with it—
The train of thought ended as if cut off by a flashing sword. What cut it was a shrill sound—a piercing, earsplitting note—seemingly from the ground behind her head. Startled, she jerked herself up, sitting erect, and, as she did so, the sound was completed and she recognised it as the call of a whip-poor-will. Simultaneously she heard a rustling of the shrub and felt something strike the side of her head. Or rather, she didn’t feel, because her nervous system had quit; she was unconscious.
Twilight had thickened to darkness when she stirred. Not that she was immediately aware of it; the first twitching of her arms and legs was an experiment of the nerves, independent of the will, testing the lines of communication. Then sentience crawled timidly back and crept through the alleys of her brain. Her first demonstration of consciousness was a dim but overpowering awareness that she had a head, and cloudy irritation with it…. Why the deuce should so much importance be attached to anything so obvious as the fact that she had a head? Anyway, the head was no good, because it couldn’t be moved—or could it? She might try—good God! It was full of hot lead! Then she remembered. She had been hit on the head, a terrific, shattering blow, by a whip-poor-will. But no, it couldn’t have been like that—
Hey! She jerked up sitting, terrified, in spite of the head. Something had bit her on the leg—or something sharp had stuck her—Oh. Probably a grass stubble or a twig. But by that time she was sufficiently conscious to feel astonishment that she could see her leg, both her legs, nearly all of them, quite bare from the top of herstocking to the edge of the—what was it? Shakespeares. But why, in the name of heaven, bare legs? And why—she would investigate that. With her right hand she felt at her left shoulder, and was touching thin silk. She began to realise that there was something highly peculiar about this whole situation; she had been assaulted by a whip-poor-will, it was dark, and her jacket and skirt were gone….
She put up her hands to feel her head.
Chapter 4
T he terrace was adequately lit by two electric lanterns hanging high, surrounded at the bottom by a circular trough which was half filled with electrocuted bugs. From the table beneath the corpses could not be seen, though if you cared to look you could catch glimpses of the insects hurtling to their doom.
A fair amount of jollity was being displayed by Mr. and Mrs. Melville Barth and their twenty guests, most of which was instigated by Adele Worthy of
Harvey’s Bazaar,
who told stories in a voice loud enough for all. Even Woodrow Wilson laughed heartily at her tale of the drunken Indian who operated with a hatchet on the tail of his dog because abbreviated tails were fashionable, missed his aim entirely and cut off the dog’s head, and threw the hatchet down in disgust, mumbling, “Too short!” Miss Worthy regarded that tale as especially apropos for the present group, since it referred both to Indians and to fashions. She said so, and no one contradicted her.
The roast veal was being consumed, with fresh lima beans and a modest but cheerful Moselle, when the butler approached Mrs. Barth’s chair and spoke
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