Three Blind Mice Read Online Free PDF Page A

unless more people came and made the place amusing.
    Some snow slid off the roof with a soft whooshing sound. Mrs. Boyle jumped. “No,” she said out loud. “I shan’t stay here long.”
    Somebody laughed—a faint, high chuckle. She turned her head sharply. Young Wren was standing in the doorway looking at her with that curious expression of his.
    “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose you will.”
    Major Metcalf was helping Giles to shovel away snow from the back door. He was a good worker, and Giles was quite vociferous in his expressions of gratitude.
    “Good exercise,” said Major Metcalf. “Must get exercise every day. Got to keep fit, you know.”
    So the major was an exercise fiend. Giles had feared as much. It went with his demand for breakfast at half past seven.
    As though reading Giles’s thoughts, the major said, “Very good of your missus to cook me an early breakfast. Nice to get a new-laid egg, too.”
    Giles had risen himself before seven, owing to the exigencies of hotelkeeping. He and Molly had had boiled eggs and tea and had set to on the sitting rooms. Everything was spick-and-span. Giles could not help thinking that if he had been a guest in his own establishment, nothing would have dragged him out of bed on a morning such as this until the last possible moment.
    The major, however, had been up and breakfasted, and roamed about the house, apparently full of energy seeking an outlet.
    Well, thought Giles, there ’ s plenty of snow to shovel.
    He threw a sideways glance at his companion. Not an easy man to place, really. Hard-bitten, well over middle age, something queerly watchful about the eyes. A man who was giving nothing away. Giles wondered why he had come to Monkswell Manor. Demobilized, probably, and no job to go to.
    Mr. Paravicini came down late. He had coffee and a piece of toast—a frugal Continental breakfast.
    He somewhat disconcerted Molly when she brought it to him by rising to his feet, bowing in an exaggerated manner, and exclaiming, “My charming hostess? I am right, am I not?”
    Molly admitted rather shortly that he was right. She was in no mood for compliments at this hour.
    “And why,” she said, as she piled crockery recklessly in the sink, “everybody has to have their breakfast at a different time—It’s a bit hard.”
    She slung the plates into the rack and hurried upstairs to deal with the beds. She could expect no assistance from Giles this morning. He had to clear a way to the boiler house and to the henhouse.
    Molly did the beds at top speed and admittedly in the most slovenly manner, smoothing sheets and pulling them up as fast as she could.
    She was at work on the baths when the telephone rang.
    Molly first cursed at being interrupted, then felt a slight feeling of relief that the telephone at least was still in action, as she ran down to answer it.
    She arrived in the library a little breathless and lifted the receiver.
    “Yes?”
    A hearty voice with a slight but pleasant country burr asked, “Is that Monkswell Manor?”
    “Monkswell Manor Guest House.”
    “Can I speak to Commander David, please?”
    “I’m afraid he can’t come to the telephone just now,” said Molly. “This is Mrs. Davis. Who is speaking, please?”
    “Superintendent Hogben, Berkshire Police.”
    Molly gave a slight gasp. She said, “Oh, yes—er—yes?”
    “Mrs. Davis, rather an urgent matter has arisen. I don’t wish to say very much over the telephone, but I have sent Detective Sergeant Trotter out to you, and he should be there any minute now.”
    “But he won’t get here. We’re snowed up—completely snowed up. The roads are impassable.”
    There was no break in the confidence of the voice at the other end.
    “Trotter will get to you, all right,” it said. “And please impress upon your husband, Mrs. Davis, to listen very carefully to what Trotter has to tell you, and to follow his instructions implicitly. That’s all.”
    “But, Superintendent Hogben,