Rex Stout Read Online Free PDF Page A

maintained great control:
    “Mrs. Tice. I’m sorry. We know you lost two sons in the World War, and we know about the one you have left, and we’re sorry. I personally am also sorry that you think it necessary to dye your hair, since nothing is lovelier or more honorable than the white hair of a grief such as yours. No greater service could be rendered—”
    The dark-haired woman shook herself loose and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Shut up!” Then all at once she stoodup straight and was silent. A shiver ran over her, then another one, and she turned to go. Harriet Green got up from her chair to follow her. At the door leading to the hall they had to squeeze past Mrs. Burton and the newcomer who had rung the bell.
    Before any comments could become vocal Mrs. Burton was back in the room. Beside her was a young man, tall, red-faced and awkward, but with a good pair of eyes. He stood with his hat in his hand, his jaw set not to grin.
    Mrs. Orcutt, the plump woman who was behind the president, arose from her chair and called to him, “Well, Val! You’re late enough. I said ten-thirty.” She informed the Acker Street Mothers’ Club, “Val always comes to take his mother home.” They knew that.
    Val Orcutt nodded. “I know, I couldn’t help it.” He added as if an apology were needed, “I didn’t want to come in. Mrs. Burton made me.”
    Mrs. Burton, after finishing a yawn, explained, “I thought he might give us the latest news of the riots.”
    Most of them were up from their chairs. A chorus invited the young man, “Yes, do!”
    “There’s no riots.” Val looked annoyed. “There’s been a few fights around. The cops won’t let you stand still anywhere. Nothing much.”
    Viola Delling got her smile on him. “But isn’t it true that Washington, our capital city, is overrun with Communists?”
    “I don’t know. They didn’t run over me.”
    The leader was for pressing on with it, but she knew when an audience was through. Some of the members were cross, and all of them were sleepy and ready to go home. So Viola Delling kept her leadership by heading the file to the bedroom where they had left their wraps.
    On the sidewalk, strolling homeward with her arm through that of her son, Mrs. Orcutt asked, “Why were you late, Val?”
    Val Orcutt coughed. Though he was twenty-six, and quite healthy and alive, and really not a fool, it was true that he had never, in any important respect, told his mother a lie in all his life. “Oh—why—nothing interesting. Well, interesting maybe. Listen here, mawm. You know I always know what I’m doing. Now just don’t ask any questions.”

6
    This library, though it happened to be in Pittsburgh, might have been almost anywhere—that is, in any large American city. It definitely lacked the touch of genuine culture which, in the Grinnell library in Washington, had been supplied by the daughter of old George Milton as a successful covering—like a layer of cream on Grade A milk—for the vulgar source of its existence. This library, though anything but niggardly, was raw and unassimilated. First the interior decorator, not too well chosen, had done his worst, and then the owner had failed to restrain his independence. Green tapestry cushions, a gift from someone, were scattered on a red leather couch. An immense chromium humidor was against one side of the fireplace from an eighteenth century French château. Tooling on the backbones of the books made it appear likely that literary classics were indeed worth their weight in gold. On the massive table of a pinkish wood from the Brazilian forests, among a miscellany of papers and accessories, stood four telephones of different colors. The white one was a private line to Washington, the blue one, private to the executive offices of the Federal Steel Corporation, the brown one, private to the Penn Trust Company. The black one was just a telephone.
    The forceful-looking, firm-jawed, middle-aged man who was in a chair