The Finishing Stroke Read Online Free PDF

glaciated. And crushed,’ he added, nursing his right hand. Arthur Craig’s grip went with his dimensions, undiscouraged by his sixty-three years. His hair and beard were still thickly blond. The dark eyes in the great head were as lively as his ward’s, but they were illuminated by a patience and generosity, Ellery thought, that John’s – or Henry the Eighth’s, for that matter – lacked.
    â€˜A veritable father-image,’ John said solemnly. ‘That grip has kept me in my place since my knickerbocker days.’
    â€˜With dubious results, I’m afraid,’ Craig said in a comfortable rumble. ‘Mr. Queen, welcome. I don’t know why you should feel honoured and gratified, but the glaciation we can remedy immediately. Felton, take care of Mr. Queen’s bag and car.’ A muscular houseman in a black suit and bowtie slipped down to the car. ‘The toddies are on the hob.’
    And they were served in pewter tankards, too. Nor was Ellery astonished to find himself in a great half-timbered hall of a room, feudal with oak panelling, beamed ceiling, brass-studded settles, a copper-hooded floor-to-ceiling fireplace, with copper and leather and black iron and burning brass everywhere. He went upstairs behind Felton with his friend and an aromatic tankard for company, and he remarked with enthusiasm, ‘Wonderful place for a Christmas holiday, John. I can almost hear Sir Andrew Aguecheek shouting to Sir Toby, “Shall we set about some revels?” ’
    â€˜And old Belch yelling back, “What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus?” ’
    â€˜I’m Gemini myself.’
    â€˜To quote a dreary old bore of a lady you’re going to meet shortly – by their stars ye shall know them. Honestly!’ Sebastian put an arm about Ellery; he seemed boyishly happy. ‘You ferret, you, I’m glad you could get here. This should be one dilly of a party.’
    â€˜No murders, please.’
    â€˜Curses, I’ll have to change the agenda! Here’s your billet, Ellery. Anything you want, ring Felton. When you’ve come unstuck, amble downstairs. There’s a little package I want to present to you.’
    â€˜Now? Aren’t you being premature?’
    â€˜Present, sonny-boy – as in introduce. The package is named Rusty Brown, whom I can’t conceal from you any longer.’
    â€˜Rusty Brown? Sounds like a baseball player.’
    â€˜Heaven forbid. We’re very good friends; you know? So hands off, Ellery. Comprends? ’
    â€˜Do I look like a cad?’
    â€˜Where my emotional responses to Miss Brown are concerned, anything in plus-fours is a cad until proved otherwise.’ John Sebastian stuck his head back in. ‘By the way, don’t go wandering on your way downstairs. This old manse has thirty or more rooms in various wings, half of them never used. I had more hideouts here when I was a kid than the James boys. If you should get lost in one of them we mightn’t find you till Epiphany. Hurry it up, will you?’
    Ellery saw John Sebastian’s point with the greatest of ease. Rusty Brown had what Elinor Glyn called ‘It’, along with generous dashes of chic and spirit. She was a lively package with well- rounded corners, little-girl features, a dimple, flame-coloured hair coiffed in the latest bob, smartly casual clothes and a pair of eye-catching earrings apparently made of welded steel. She looked remarkably like Clara Bow. But her green eyes were direct, and Ellery liked her firm, no-quarter-asked handclasp. She was a talented designer of costume jewellery, textiles, wallpaper and such. No more than twenty-four, her fiancé’s age, she had already set up shop on Madison Avenue, and her ‘Rusty Brown Creations’ were beginning to be mentioned in The New Yorker’ s ‘The Talk of the Town’ and sought out by Park Avenue.
    â€˜So you’re the