Rolling Stone Read Online Free PDF

it was going to want some nerve to go up to the fringe and say, “Good morning—I’m expecting a telephone call,” because after all he wasn’t a subscriber, she didn’t know him from Adam, and he really hadn’t any business to be here. Suppose she said so. Suppose she told him to clear out. Suppose she wouldn’t let him take the call when it came through.
    He advanced to the counter and waited apprehensively behind a stout, determined woman who wanted Love-nest for Two and kept on saying so, and a thin little dreep with pale flaxen hair and a lisp who was having an argument about the date on which she had taken out her subscription. The fringe dealt firmly with both of them—“No, Mrs. Waters, we haven’t a copy in, but you’re next on the list.… Oh, no, we wouldn’t do a thing like that—I’m most particular about taking everyone in turn.… Well, Miss Margetson, I’ve got the date written down, and I don’t see how there can possibly be any mistake about it, but if you like to go on to the end of the week, you can—that is, of course, if you intend to renew.… Yes, sir?”
    Peter produced an apologetic smile which was not without charm.
    â€œI don’t think I’ve got any business here,” he said—“in fact I know I haven’t. But a friend of mine sent me a message to say he was going to ring me up here, and—and—”
    â€œThere’ll be a charge of threepence,” said the lady briskly. “It’s not a thing we want to make a practice of, but of course if it’s just once in a way—what name will it be?”
    There was a horrible breath-taking moment while Peter wrestled with the answer. He said “Reilly,” but he wasn’t sure whether he had said the right thing. Was Spike Reilly to have been Spike Reilly over here, or had he an alias handy? Since his passport was made out in his own name, Peter inclined to the belief that no alias had been considered necessary. Which meant that the late Mr. Reilly’s copy-book was not seriously blotted as far as the British police were concerned. A cheering thought.
    The lady wrote the name down, spelling it in the English fashion—Riley. She indicated a group of chairs about a table littered with magazines.
    â€œI will let you know when the call comes through.”
    Peter found a vacant chair between a little old man with a beard, a cough and tinted glasses, and the stout lady who had demanded a Love-nest. He unfolded the paper he had bought at the station and bent his mind to the case of the murdered butler. Quite a simple story, but if anyone had been watching Peter he would have seen a bored, casual look become suddenly intent. So that was it, was it?
    He read three columns with interest, and then tried to sort them out. Mr. Solomon Oppenstein’s house in Park Lane had been entered on the previous Saturday night, and an attempt had been made to steal his famous Gainsborough, The Girl with the Lamb . The picture had been half cut from its frame, and the body of Francis Bird, Mr. Oppenstein’s butler, was lying on the floor a yard or two away. He had been shot through the heart at close range.
    Garrett’s last letter sprang into Peter’s mind. Blackmail had been added to picture-lifting, and murder to blackmail. And this, beyond any doubt, was the murder. Peter stared at a smudgy picture of Francis Bird and wondered if his murderer was at this moment preparing to ring up Preedo’s Library. The police should be able to trace the call. He had warned Garrett, and Garrett would put them on to it. He wished the call would come through. He wished—
    The old gentleman on his right was having a very bad fit of coughing, so bad that the book on his knee slipped down and fell at Peter’s feet. Peter stooped to pick it up, got his hand on it, and felt the blood run tingling to his face. The book was Her Great