Danger in the Dark Read Online Free PDF Page A

surrounded them. “Did you see anybody anywhere?”
    “No. Nobody,” cried Rowley thinly. “Turn that thing on again, Dennis. It—it’s bad enough in here without—Turn it on, I say. Look, you can put it under something. Hide it a little. But we can’t stay here in the dark with—with—And we can’t move it—decide what to do—”
    He was moving, taking a cautious step or two along the concrete floor. It was pitch dark and terribly still. So still they could hear each other’s breathing and those cautious, sliding steps. He was trying to reach the flashlight in Dennis’ hand. Dennis said:
    “It’s all right. I’ll fix it so we can see. I’ll—fix it—”
    Curious how voices rebounded in the darkness, against those eight walls. It sounded as if Dennis were speaking from somewhere near the door, quite the opposite direction from which he stood. Rowley was moving—no, Dennis was moving.
    “Dennis,” said Rowley’s voice sharply out of the blackness, “what are you doing?”
    “Nothing.” This time there was no rebound of his voice, and almost instantly the light was turned on again, only now it was under something, so only a thin ray showed.
    “I put my hat over it,” said Dennis. He didn’t question Rowley further, but stood there looking thoughtfully downward.
    “I’m going to the house,” said Daphne. “I’m going to call the police.”
    It was as if she had not spoken.
    For Rowley and Dennis continued to stare at that long hump under the coat, both of them lost in thought. The thin light brightly illumined a patch of damp cement floor and a fold of Dennis’ coat which did not quite cover an outstretched hand, so the tips of the fingers showed—thick and powerful-looking even then, with broad, handsomely manicured nails. Again Daphne felt a sick wave of incredulity. And again she remembered that hand on her own for a hot, still moment at dinner—touching her fingers under the lace cloth, reminding her that in only a few hours she would be his wife. Herself only half hearing the things Ben said, because she was looking and trying not to look at Dennis beyond that expanse of lace and silver and Amelia’s best Coalport; and in spite of herself she had caught his eyes and had known somehow that he knew. Instantly and sharply she had pulled her hand away, and Ben had turned and given her a long, watchful look. Ben always saw everything; and he was always wary, always guarded. How, then, had he been murdered?
    “He’s so damn big,” said Rowley again out of the gloom above that small patch of light. He spoke with a touch of peevish resentment, as if blaming Ben.
    Dennis was a tall black shadow beside her. Except for the patch of light on the floor, the springhouse was in almost complete darkness; she could see the blacker shadows of the two men—the dim white patches of their shirt fronts and the paler ovals of their faces. It added to the nightmarish aspect of things, yet at the same time gave it a kind of truth and poignancy, as if it permitted the fact of murder to stand there, too, beside them in the shadow.
    She pulled her coat more tightly about her. Through her thin slippers she could feel the damp chill of the floor. It was so horribly cold and still—with the snow blowing against the door behind Rowley so that it trembled and sighed as if it wished to open itself. Or as if something outside in that snow-muffled blackness were trying to push itself against the door.
    “Yes, he’s big,” said Dennis. “He—Odd I never thought of how difficult it would be to—to get away with a body. I mean, it’s sort of imperishable, isn’t it? Of course, there’s the river.” He spoke in a low voice, tentatively.
    Rowley’s voice was hushed and tentative, too.
    “I thought of that, too. It’s frozen. But we could—break some ice. It would soon freeze over again.”
    “And be covered by the snow. It’s lucky it’s snowing. Otherwise there ‘d not be a chance. Our footprints would