Read Online Run! by Patricia Wentworth - Free Book Online Page B

‘you’d better ask someone else’? Not much!”
    â€œGirls are different,” said James.
    â€œThey’ve more sense,” said Miss Callender, and tossed her head. Then, as he turned to go, she dropped her voice. “It seems funny Mr. Jackson not turning up, all the same.”
    James found the words coming back to him as he threaded his way through the traffic. He was a very good driver. He was, as a matter of fact, a better driver than Jackson—better nerve, better judgment, quicker in the uptake. He wondered what had happened to Jackson … Nonsense! Nothing had happened to him. There wasn’t anything to happen. Daisy Callender had made a mountain out of a molehill. He didn’t believe she could have heard half the things she said she had heard over the telephone. She might have got a word here and there, but she had imagined the rest. He knew what girls were. He didn’t believe the conversation had anything to do with the Rolls which he had sold to Colonel Pomeroy. The whole story sounded most awfully far-fetched. Daisy Callender had probably mixed up two conversations, one with some Mr. Hazeby who had rung up about a car, and another quite different conversation in which Jackson was making a date with a girl. Daisy said she had lost a bit in the middle. She had probably left Jackson talking to Hazeby and come back to Jackson talking to his girl.
    James felt extraordinarily pleased with this explanation. It put him in excellent spirits for about half an hour, after which something looked out of a dark corner of his mind and said quite loud, “Where is Jackson?”
    Well, it wasn’t really James’s business. He said so firmly as he drew up at the rustic abode of the Misses Palmer. It was very rustic. There was no drive in. A rustic arch led by way of a pergola to a rustic porch. There was a great deal of crazy paving. There was so many gables in the roof that it worried James to think what shape the rooms inside must be.
    There were two Misses Palmer, a large authoritative one, and a little dried-up one with a bright beady eye and a twittering voice. They both drove a little, and they both wanted to drive the car. James’s attention was fully occupied. The large Miss Palmer just missed a lamp-post and wrecked a bicycle. The little one would suddenly twitter “Oh, Mr. Elliot!” and abandon the wheel.
    When he landed them again at their rustic arch they were almost effusive in their thanks.
    â€œA beautiful car—a really beautiful car. But my sister and I will have to talk it over. I am not sure whether something smaller—”
    And the massive Miss Palmer:
    â€œWe will let you know what we have decided.”
    â€œAnd we should have to consider the question of a garage—”
    â€œIt’s not the slightest use considering the garage until we have decided about the car. Good afternoon, Mr. Elliot.”
    James drove away. The Misses Palmer would certainly be a menace on the road. He hoped he would never have to watch either of them drive again. Why couldn’t they stick to gardening? There was still room for another two or three rockeries and a whole lot of crazy paving. It would be harmless, virtuous, healthful work. But no, they must urge powerful engines over which they had practically no control along the public highways until they killed some unoffending pedestrian and got sent to jug. All of which would be avoided if they would stick to gardening.
    And right in the midst of these pious reflections up bobbed the question of Jackson again. The satisfying explanation seemed to have died quietly while he was engaged with the Misses Palmer. It was quite, quite dead. All his efforts at resuscitation were a complete failure. Suppose Mr. Hazeby’s client was not a girl at all. Suppose Mr. Hazeby was the person who had fired at him and Sally in the empty house, or suppose it was Mr. Hazeby’s client who had fired at