Read Online The Case of the Late Pig by Margery Allingham - Free Book Online
Authors: Margery Allingham
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towards me.
‘Ever see a cat come out of a dawg-kennel?’ he murmured, and added when I stared at him: ‘Gives you a bit of a turn. That’s all.’
We drove on in silence. I began to feel that my friend, Miss Effie Rowlandson, was going to be a responsibility.
It was a strange night with a great moon sailing in an infinite sky. Small odd-shaped banks of cumulus clouds swam over it from time to time, but for the most part it remained bland and bald as the knob on a brass bedstead.
Kepesake, which is a frankly picturesque village by day, was mysterious in the false light. The high trees were deep and shadowy and hid the small houses, while the square tower of the church looked squat and menacing against the transparent sky. It was a secret village through which we sped on what I for one felt was our rather ghastly errand.
When we pulled up outside the cottage which is also the Police Station, there was only a single light in an upstairs room, and I leant over the back of my seat.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather leave it until the morning?’ I ventured.
She answered me through clenched teeth. ‘No, thank you, Mr Campion. I’ve made up my mind to go through with it. I’ve got to know.’
I left them in the car and went down the path to rouse someone. Pussey himself came out almost at once, and was wonderfully obliging considering he had been on the point of going to bed. We conferred in whispers out of deference to the darkness.
‘That’s all right, sir,’ he said in reply to my apologies. ‘Us wants a bit o’ help in this business, and that’s the truth now, so it is. If the lady can tell us anything about the deceased it’s more than the landlord of his flat in London can. We’ll go round the side, sir, if you don’t mind.’
I fetched the others, and together we formed a grim little procession on the gravel path leading round to the yard behind the cottage. Pussey unlocked the gates, and we crossed the tidy little square to the slate-roofed shed which looked like a small village schoolroom, and was not.
I took Effie Rowlandson’s arm. She was shivering and her teeth were chattering, but she was not a figure of negligible courage.
Pussey was tact itself. ‘There’s a light switch just inside the door,’ he said. ‘Now, Miss there ain’t nothin’ to shock you. Just a moment, sir; I’ll go first.’
He unlocked the door, and we stood huddled together on the stone step. Pussey turned over the light switch.
‘Now,’ he said, and a moment later swallowed with a sound in which incredulity was mixed with dismay. The room remained as I had seen it that afternoon, save for one startling innovation. The table in the middle of the floor was dismantled. The cotton sheet lay upon the ground, spread out as though a careless riser had flung it aside.
Pig Peters had gone.
CHAPTER 8
The Wheels Go Round
THERE WAS A long uncomfortable pause. A moment before I had seen Pig’s outline under the cotton clearly in my mind’s eye. Now the image was dispelled so ruthlessly that I felt mentally stranded. The room was very cold and quiet. Lugg stepped ponderously forward.
‘Lost the perishin’ corpse now?’ he demanded, and he spoke so truculently that I knew he was rattled. ‘Lumme, Inspector, I ’ope your ’elmet’s under lock and key.’
Pussey stood looking down at the dismantled table, and his pleasant yokel face was pale.
‘That’s a wonderful funny thing,’ he began, and looked round the ill-lit barren little room as though he expected to find an explanation for the mystery on its blank walls.
It was a moment of alarm, the night so silent, the place so empty and the bedraggled cotton pall on the ground.
Pussey would have spoken again had it not been for Effie Rowlandson’s exhibition. Her nerve deserted her utterly and she drew away from me, her head strained back as she began to scream, her mouth twisted into an O of terror. It was nerve-racking, and I seized her by the shoulders
‘Ever see a cat come out of a dawg-kennel?’ he murmured, and added when I stared at him: ‘Gives you a bit of a turn. That’s all.’
We drove on in silence. I began to feel that my friend, Miss Effie Rowlandson, was going to be a responsibility.
It was a strange night with a great moon sailing in an infinite sky. Small odd-shaped banks of cumulus clouds swam over it from time to time, but for the most part it remained bland and bald as the knob on a brass bedstead.
Kepesake, which is a frankly picturesque village by day, was mysterious in the false light. The high trees were deep and shadowy and hid the small houses, while the square tower of the church looked squat and menacing against the transparent sky. It was a secret village through which we sped on what I for one felt was our rather ghastly errand.
When we pulled up outside the cottage which is also the Police Station, there was only a single light in an upstairs room, and I leant over the back of my seat.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather leave it until the morning?’ I ventured.
She answered me through clenched teeth. ‘No, thank you, Mr Campion. I’ve made up my mind to go through with it. I’ve got to know.’
I left them in the car and went down the path to rouse someone. Pussey himself came out almost at once, and was wonderfully obliging considering he had been on the point of going to bed. We conferred in whispers out of deference to the darkness.
‘That’s all right, sir,’ he said in reply to my apologies. ‘Us wants a bit o’ help in this business, and that’s the truth now, so it is. If the lady can tell us anything about the deceased it’s more than the landlord of his flat in London can. We’ll go round the side, sir, if you don’t mind.’
I fetched the others, and together we formed a grim little procession on the gravel path leading round to the yard behind the cottage. Pussey unlocked the gates, and we crossed the tidy little square to the slate-roofed shed which looked like a small village schoolroom, and was not.
I took Effie Rowlandson’s arm. She was shivering and her teeth were chattering, but she was not a figure of negligible courage.
Pussey was tact itself. ‘There’s a light switch just inside the door,’ he said. ‘Now, Miss there ain’t nothin’ to shock you. Just a moment, sir; I’ll go first.’
He unlocked the door, and we stood huddled together on the stone step. Pussey turned over the light switch.
‘Now,’ he said, and a moment later swallowed with a sound in which incredulity was mixed with dismay. The room remained as I had seen it that afternoon, save for one startling innovation. The table in the middle of the floor was dismantled. The cotton sheet lay upon the ground, spread out as though a careless riser had flung it aside.
Pig Peters had gone.
CHAPTER 8
The Wheels Go Round
THERE WAS A long uncomfortable pause. A moment before I had seen Pig’s outline under the cotton clearly in my mind’s eye. Now the image was dispelled so ruthlessly that I felt mentally stranded. The room was very cold and quiet. Lugg stepped ponderously forward.
‘Lost the perishin’ corpse now?’ he demanded, and he spoke so truculently that I knew he was rattled. ‘Lumme, Inspector, I ’ope your ’elmet’s under lock and key.’
Pussey stood looking down at the dismantled table, and his pleasant yokel face was pale.
‘That’s a wonderful funny thing,’ he began, and looked round the ill-lit barren little room as though he expected to find an explanation for the mystery on its blank walls.
It was a moment of alarm, the night so silent, the place so empty and the bedraggled cotton pall on the ground.
Pussey would have spoken again had it not been for Effie Rowlandson’s exhibition. Her nerve deserted her utterly and she drew away from me, her head strained back as she began to scream, her mouth twisted into an O of terror. It was nerve-racking, and I seized her by the shoulders
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