Glass Houses Read Online Free PDF

it.
    It was the middle of the night—no, the early hours of the morning in New York. In Hampstead, the clock on the mantel— a little painted, porcelain affair flanked on each of its fussy sides by a shepherd and shepherdess—struck its tinkling chimes eight times. Beyond white-lace curtains at the rounded bay window over Back Lane, pale morning sunlight shone on hanging baskets of leggy fuschias suspended from the crossbar on a black lamppost, but inside the little house Olivia still needed the lamp that stood atop the creaky rolltop desk. Voices reached the second-floor sitting room at Number 2A—voices, and the occasional sound of a car’s tires squidging down the steep and winding cobbled road toward Heath Street.
    That photograph man could arrive at any time, but she didn’t intend to be there.
    She must phone an airline, and pack, and drive to Heathrow. Her camera bag was always packed and ready. Where was a decent suitcase? The green tartan grip her brother, Theo, had given her when she’d graduated from art school was the newest.
    The grip was in the attic.
    But the phone books were on the hall stand downstairs.
    Perhaps she ought to find the suitcase, then—No, first the flight, then the case.
    Theo was such a dear to let her use Number 2A while he was out of the country. He was always out of the country, and he could sell the house for a lot, she supposed. She suspected he only kept the place because he worried about his “nutter” sister and wanted to help her. Theo was a bit of a snob. Oh, not really, not more than the merest bit, but he did have strong opinions about some things and expected his sister to “marry well,” even though he saw no reason to hurry into that state himself. For Olivia to “marry well,” he baldly stated that a good address was important. Number 2A Back Lane, Hampstead, was quite a good address.
    The narrow staircase was gloomy, a function of the only windows in the hall below being the stained-glass fanlight over the front door and a matching panel in the center of the door itself. Olivia had taught herself to avoid turning on the vestibule light whenever possible. As generous as Theo might be, he’d had the switches converted to the type of punch-and-run efforts Olivia had detested in France. One punched the button at the top or bottom of the stairs, depending on where one started, and ran as fast as one dared. One was inevitably left in darkness before reaching one’s goal. But all this did save electricity.
    Theo was in international banking.
    Brollies stood, higgledy-piggledy, beneath coats hanging from brass hooks on the mahogany hall stand. A heap of tatty phone books kept company with the pointed ends of the umbrellas where they rested on a green-tinged brass tray at the base of the stand.
    Oh, really, everything was taking twice as long as it should. She was tired, that was the reason. After all, a night without sleep was a bit much.
    She carried the appropriate book to the bottom of the stairs and sat down to open it in her lap.
    Someone used the knocker on the front door. The noise vibrated in the silent little house.
    Olivia held her breath. Through the blue-and-yellow stained-glass panel she saw a shadow-—a fairly clear outline, actually. Cautiously, she stood up and tiptoed closer.
    The head outside might not be as far from the ground as hers.
    A woman?
    Still clutching the open telephone book, she slunk along the nearest wall and lowered herself to one knee. Sliding the nail on her right forefinger under one co rn er, Olivia eased the flap to the letterbox inward. No more than half an inch. With her cheek resting against the door, she closed her left eye, and squinted with her right. Pin stripes traveled down a double- breasted black suit jacket.
    She clutched the region of her heart and leaned carefully away.
    A grunt accompanied the gradual sinking of the jacket, of the person inside the jacket. A tie—green with gold ducks in flight—came into view,