Mr Wrong Read Online Free PDF Page B

blurred through her tears that the smile, or attempt at one, seemed to have vanished.
    She did not know how long it was before the implications, both practical and sinister, crept into her mind. But they did, and she realized that they had, because she began to shiver violently
– in spite of feeling quite warm – and fright was prickling her spine up to the back of her neck.
    Mystery Murders. If Mr Turner was not the murderer of Mary, then only one other person could be responsible. The horrible man. The way he had talked of almost nothing but awful murders . . . She
must go to the police immediately. She could describe him down to the last detail: his clothes, his voice, his tinted spectacles, his frightful smell . . . He had been furious with her when she had
put him down at the service station . . . but, one minute, before that, before
then
, when she had let him out on the shoulder where the lorry was, he had taken ages to come back into the car
– had walked right round it, and then, when he got in, and she had questioned him about the girl, and described her, he had become all sweaty, and taken ages to reply to anything she said. He
must have
recognized
the car! She was beginning to feel confused: there was too much to think about at once. This was where being clever would be such a help, she thought.
    She began to try to think quietly, logically: absolutely nothing but lurid fragments came to mind: ‘a modicum, and sometimes, let’s face it, a very great deal of fear’; the girl’s face as
she stood under the light on the island. Meg looked back at the paper, but there was really no doubt at all. The girl in the paper
was
the same girl. So – at last she had begun to sort
things out – the girl
was
a ghost: the car, therefore, must be haunted. He certainly knew, or realized, something about all this: his final words – ‘I’m far from sure
that
I
trust
you
’ – that was because she had said that she didn’t trust him. So – perhaps he thought she
knew
what had happened. Perhaps he had thought
she was trying to trap him, or something like that. If he
really
thought that, and he was actually guilty, he surely wouldn’t leave it at that, would he? He’d be afraid of her
going to the police, of what, in fact, she was shortly going to do. He couldn’t
know
that she hadn’t seen the girl before, in the newspaper. But if he couldn’t know, how
could the police?
    At this point, the door-bell rang sharply, and Meg jumped. Before she could do more than leap to her feet, Mr Whitehorn’s faded, kindly voice called down. ‘I’m back, my dear
girl. Any customers while I’ve been away?’
    ‘No.’ Meg ran up the stairs with relief that it was he. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
    ‘Splendid notion.’ He was taking off his teddy-bear overcoat and rubbing his dry, white hands before the fan heater.
    Later, when they were both nursing steaming mugs, she asked: ‘Mr Whitehorn, do you remember a mystery murder case on the M1 last spring? Well, two murders, really? The man was found in the
boot of the car, and the girl –’
    ‘In a ditch somewhere? Yes, indeed. All over the papers. The real trouble is, that although I adore reading detective stories,
real
detective stories, I mean, I always find
real-life crime just dull. Nasty, and dull.’
    ‘I expect you’re right.’
    ‘They caught the chap though, didn’t they? I expect he’s sitting in some tremendously kind prison for about eighteen months. Be out next year, I shouldn’t wonder. The law
seems to regard property as far more important than murder, in my opinion.’
    ‘Who did they catch?’
    ‘The murderer, dear, the murderer. Can’t remember his name. Something like Arkwright or James. Something like that. But there’s no doubt at all that they caught him. The trial
was all over the papers, as well. How have you been getting on with your marathon?’
    Meg found herself blushing: she explained that she had been rather idle