Read Online The Murder of a Fifth Columnist by Leslie Ford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leslie Ford
Tags: Crime, OCR-Editing
Ads: Link
shaft of cool air coming through the door from the terrace, what he’d said about Sylvia intensifying the dull nauseating anxiety in the pit of my stomach. He didn’t come back for a long time, it seemed to me, and when he came the others were coming back too.
It was only a few minutes later that Ruth Sherwood said to somebody, “I must ask Mr. Marshall. We won’t let him get out of it this time.”
She looked around. “Where has he got to?”
“He slipped out, I imagine,” Bliss Thatcher said. “He had some work to do before morning. He didn’t want to break up the party.”
“Oh, dear,” Lady Alicia said. She looked at the watch on Larry Villiers’ wrist. “It is late. I must be off too. I shall walk home, I think. It’s a beautiful night.”
It was Larry, not Mr. Hofmann, who offered himself as an escort. Señor Delvalle looked at me.
Ruth took my arm. “Stay a few minutes,” she whispered.
She held out her hand, smiling, to her other guests. I shook my head at Delvalle. “I live on the next floor,” I said.
“I had hoped it was many miles away, Mrs. Latham.”
Ruth and I followed them out into the long reception room. Sylvia, just in front of us, stopped in the doorway.
“I love these tables, Mrs. Sherwood,” she said lightly. “Only I don’t see how you ever keep them clean. Look at this one.”
She took her handkerchief and polished it briskly.
“Just a busy little housewife at heart, you see.”
She went on, laughing.
“I wish you’d drop over to my place some time, then, Sylvia,” Pete said. “Is that former den of silver foxes over there yours?”
The butler had brought the wraps downstairs.
Sylvia nodded. “Wholesale, from a grateful husband for squelching a story about his wife,” she remarked easily.
I glanced at the table top. It was bright and clean.
Ruth slipped her arm through mine again. It was cold, and I thought it shook a little against mine as Mr. Thatcher said good night. He held her other hand a little longer than was necessary. It seemed to me that whatever doubt there’d been in his mind was gone now, and that he’d have liked to stay on a while, and that she knew it and was preventing it by keeping me.
Lady Alicia and Larry had gone first, the Whartons and Sylvia and Pete following them after a while. Delvalle and Kurt Hofmann waited for Bliss Thatcher. As they went out and the door closed, Ruth’s hand tightened on my arm.
“Thank God!” she whispered. “I thought they’d never go.”
The relief in her voice was unbelievable. She swayed a little.
“Come and sit down. I’ve got to try to explain to you.”
As she turned toward the library door she stopped abruptly, her hand gripping my arm again, her fingernails sharp as needle points in my flesh.
On the back of the sofa at right angles to the fireplace was a man’s evening overcoat, a black-and-white silk muffler, and a wide-brimmed black velour hat. The hat, as flamboyant as the black ribbon his pince-nez hung on, was as clearly Corliss Marshall’s as if his name had been written on it.
Ruth dropped my arm, took three quick steps to the library and looked in. She turned back toward me, her face blank, her lips parted breathlessly. Then, as she whirled around and looked up the stairs, the most extraordinary change went over her, and with the speed of lightning. It wasn’t anxiety any longer, or fear either—it was a burning furious anger. In an instant she was running up the steps and around the iron rail at the top, like a tigress, not a lovely gracious woman at all. I heard her go swiftly along upstairs and stop, a door open and then close gently, and her steps again.
I stood there motionless. What on earth she could be thinking of I hadn’t the remotest idea. I had no more when she appeared again at the top of the stairs and came quickly down. Her anger was gone. She was still pale, but bewildered again, as she’d been when she hadn’t found him in the library.
“He…
It was only a few minutes later that Ruth Sherwood said to somebody, “I must ask Mr. Marshall. We won’t let him get out of it this time.”
She looked around. “Where has he got to?”
“He slipped out, I imagine,” Bliss Thatcher said. “He had some work to do before morning. He didn’t want to break up the party.”
“Oh, dear,” Lady Alicia said. She looked at the watch on Larry Villiers’ wrist. “It is late. I must be off too. I shall walk home, I think. It’s a beautiful night.”
It was Larry, not Mr. Hofmann, who offered himself as an escort. Señor Delvalle looked at me.
Ruth took my arm. “Stay a few minutes,” she whispered.
She held out her hand, smiling, to her other guests. I shook my head at Delvalle. “I live on the next floor,” I said.
“I had hoped it was many miles away, Mrs. Latham.”
Ruth and I followed them out into the long reception room. Sylvia, just in front of us, stopped in the doorway.
“I love these tables, Mrs. Sherwood,” she said lightly. “Only I don’t see how you ever keep them clean. Look at this one.”
She took her handkerchief and polished it briskly.
“Just a busy little housewife at heart, you see.”
She went on, laughing.
“I wish you’d drop over to my place some time, then, Sylvia,” Pete said. “Is that former den of silver foxes over there yours?”
The butler had brought the wraps downstairs.
Sylvia nodded. “Wholesale, from a grateful husband for squelching a story about his wife,” she remarked easily.
I glanced at the table top. It was bright and clean.
Ruth slipped her arm through mine again. It was cold, and I thought it shook a little against mine as Mr. Thatcher said good night. He held her other hand a little longer than was necessary. It seemed to me that whatever doubt there’d been in his mind was gone now, and that he’d have liked to stay on a while, and that she knew it and was preventing it by keeping me.
Lady Alicia and Larry had gone first, the Whartons and Sylvia and Pete following them after a while. Delvalle and Kurt Hofmann waited for Bliss Thatcher. As they went out and the door closed, Ruth’s hand tightened on my arm.
“Thank God!” she whispered. “I thought they’d never go.”
The relief in her voice was unbelievable. She swayed a little.
“Come and sit down. I’ve got to try to explain to you.”
As she turned toward the library door she stopped abruptly, her hand gripping my arm again, her fingernails sharp as needle points in my flesh.
On the back of the sofa at right angles to the fireplace was a man’s evening overcoat, a black-and-white silk muffler, and a wide-brimmed black velour hat. The hat, as flamboyant as the black ribbon his pince-nez hung on, was as clearly Corliss Marshall’s as if his name had been written on it.
Ruth dropped my arm, took three quick steps to the library and looked in. She turned back toward me, her face blank, her lips parted breathlessly. Then, as she whirled around and looked up the stairs, the most extraordinary change went over her, and with the speed of lightning. It wasn’t anxiety any longer, or fear either—it was a burning furious anger. In an instant she was running up the steps and around the iron rail at the top, like a tigress, not a lovely gracious woman at all. I heard her go swiftly along upstairs and stop, a door open and then close gently, and her steps again.
I stood there motionless. What on earth she could be thinking of I hadn’t the remotest idea. I had no more when she appeared again at the top of the stairs and came quickly down. Her anger was gone. She was still pale, but bewildered again, as she’d been when she hadn’t found him in the library.
“He…
Similar Books
