Read Online Suspicious Circumstances by Patrick Quentin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patrick Quentin
Ads: Link
when I first set eyes on little Norma Delanay period at the time comma Norma comma a lovely lissome blonde child comma … Lissome, darling. You can spell it?’
‘I can spell it,’ said Delight, ‘but it’s a cinch I can’t visualize a lissome Norma Delanay.’
‘Now, dear!’ murmured Mother reprovingly and dictated flowingly on. She had the whole article finished and had started on another one for Screen Secrets when the time came to go up and change.
I was the first down in my funeral suit. There was no one in the hall except Tray. When he saw me, he tried to stand on his head and failed, flopping over on to his back in a sort of unintentional somersault which then, his creaky brain being what it was, turned into a genuine somersault and then another and then another until he was lumbering dementedly around the hall. The one thing I wanted to see least in the world at that moment was Tray somersaulting. I yelled at him. It didn’t do any good. I was still yelling and he was still somersaulting when Uncle Hans came wandering down the stairs.
‘Ach, Nickie, training Tray, I see.’
Uncle Hans was wearing a black cutaway with a high starched collar which looked incredibly non-Southern California, as if he were about to attend the funeral of a Belgian alderman in 1902 Ostend.
‘Uncle Hans,’ I said, ‘don’t you know how to stop him?’
But Uncle Hans’ mind was obviously still on his chess problem. His board, which he’d brought in from the garden, was on a little table by one of the goldfish pools. He went over to it, neatly side-stepping Tray, and sat down. At that moment Gino came hurrying down the stairs in a dark grey suit, whistling cheerfully. Gino was much better than I with Tray, who adored him almost as much as he adored Pam and Mother. Just as I was going to plead with him to do something about the somersaults, the front door buzzer rang.
Gino slapped me on the back. ‘Hi, Nickie, kid, go and answer it. You know how Anny hates overworking the help.’
I went to the door and opened it. A tall grey-haired man with very blue eyes was standing there. He was wearing a black suit and a black tie. An undertaker? I wondered. Then he did a lot of jovial crinkling with his eyes, which wasn’t an undertaker-type expression.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but is this where Miss Anny Rood is living?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
The merry crinkles grew to revolting proportions then. They were right out of Daddy Long Legs . The man felt in the pocket of his black jacket and brought out a snappy black wallet. From the wallet he produced a card and handed it to me.
I took it. I looked at it. It said:
INSPECTOR JOHN ROBINSON
DEPARTMENT OF POLICE
BEVERLY HILLS
CALIFORNIA
7
The appalling thing was that I dropped the card. The butterflies had started flapping in my stomach again and the card just slipped out of my hand. As I bent to pick it up, I could hear the soggy thumping of Tray still somersaulting around and around behind me.
The Inspector said, ‘I wonder if Miss Rood could spare me a moment.’
I got back into an erect position and put the card in my pocket because there’s nothing that shows up a shaky hand more than holding a small object.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We’re going to a funeral and we’re late and Mother’s still changing and …’
‘So you’re Miss Rood’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I imagine it’s Miss Delanay’s funeral you’re going to?’
‘Yes.’
‘So am I.’
Without being invited, the Inspector moved past me into the hall, looking around in an alarmingly professional manner. Tray saw him and stopped somersaulting and barked. Gino, all co-operative white-toothed grin, was coming towards us.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What can we do for you?’
The Inspector produced another card. Gino looked at it, still grinning amiably. Gino could grin amiably at almost anything.
‘A cop, eh?’
The Inspector said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you a part of this
‘I can spell it,’ said Delight, ‘but it’s a cinch I can’t visualize a lissome Norma Delanay.’
‘Now, dear!’ murmured Mother reprovingly and dictated flowingly on. She had the whole article finished and had started on another one for Screen Secrets when the time came to go up and change.
I was the first down in my funeral suit. There was no one in the hall except Tray. When he saw me, he tried to stand on his head and failed, flopping over on to his back in a sort of unintentional somersault which then, his creaky brain being what it was, turned into a genuine somersault and then another and then another until he was lumbering dementedly around the hall. The one thing I wanted to see least in the world at that moment was Tray somersaulting. I yelled at him. It didn’t do any good. I was still yelling and he was still somersaulting when Uncle Hans came wandering down the stairs.
‘Ach, Nickie, training Tray, I see.’
Uncle Hans was wearing a black cutaway with a high starched collar which looked incredibly non-Southern California, as if he were about to attend the funeral of a Belgian alderman in 1902 Ostend.
‘Uncle Hans,’ I said, ‘don’t you know how to stop him?’
But Uncle Hans’ mind was obviously still on his chess problem. His board, which he’d brought in from the garden, was on a little table by one of the goldfish pools. He went over to it, neatly side-stepping Tray, and sat down. At that moment Gino came hurrying down the stairs in a dark grey suit, whistling cheerfully. Gino was much better than I with Tray, who adored him almost as much as he adored Pam and Mother. Just as I was going to plead with him to do something about the somersaults, the front door buzzer rang.
Gino slapped me on the back. ‘Hi, Nickie, kid, go and answer it. You know how Anny hates overworking the help.’
I went to the door and opened it. A tall grey-haired man with very blue eyes was standing there. He was wearing a black suit and a black tie. An undertaker? I wondered. Then he did a lot of jovial crinkling with his eyes, which wasn’t an undertaker-type expression.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but is this where Miss Anny Rood is living?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
The merry crinkles grew to revolting proportions then. They were right out of Daddy Long Legs . The man felt in the pocket of his black jacket and brought out a snappy black wallet. From the wallet he produced a card and handed it to me.
I took it. I looked at it. It said:
INSPECTOR JOHN ROBINSON
DEPARTMENT OF POLICE
BEVERLY HILLS
CALIFORNIA
7
The appalling thing was that I dropped the card. The butterflies had started flapping in my stomach again and the card just slipped out of my hand. As I bent to pick it up, I could hear the soggy thumping of Tray still somersaulting around and around behind me.
The Inspector said, ‘I wonder if Miss Rood could spare me a moment.’
I got back into an erect position and put the card in my pocket because there’s nothing that shows up a shaky hand more than holding a small object.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We’re going to a funeral and we’re late and Mother’s still changing and …’
‘So you’re Miss Rood’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I imagine it’s Miss Delanay’s funeral you’re going to?’
‘Yes.’
‘So am I.’
Without being invited, the Inspector moved past me into the hall, looking around in an alarmingly professional manner. Tray saw him and stopped somersaulting and barked. Gino, all co-operative white-toothed grin, was coming towards us.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What can we do for you?’
The Inspector produced another card. Gino looked at it, still grinning amiably. Gino could grin amiably at almost anything.
‘A cop, eh?’
The Inspector said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you a part of this
Similar Books
