Unnatural Causes Read Online Free PDF Page A

bed hadn’t been slept in and his clothes and typewriter were still there. Mr. Plant didn’t like to make too much fuss at first. He thought that Mr. Seton might have stayed out for some purpose connected with his work—but he got worried when a second night went by and still no message. So he thought he’d better telephone the house. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t contact Mr. Seton’s half-brother because he recently moved to a new flat and we don’t know the address. There aren’t any other relations. You see, I wasn’t sure whether Mr. Seton would want me to take any action. I suggested to Mr. Plant that we should wait a little longer and we agreed to phone each other the minute there was any news, and then just before lunchtime, the post arrived and I got the manuscript.”
    “We have it here,” proclaimed Miss Calthrop. “And the envelope.” She produced them from her capacious handbag with a flourish and handed them to Dalgliesh. The envelope was the ordinary commercial, buff-coloured, four-by-nine-inch size and was addressed, in typing, to Maurice Seton, Esq., Seton House,Monksmere, Suffolk. Inside were three quarto sheets of inexpert typescript, double spaced.
    Miss Kedge said dully: “He always addressed the manuscript to himself. But that isn’t his work, Mr. Dalgliesh. He didn’t write it and he didn’t type it.”
    “How can you be sure?” It was hardly a necessary question. There are few things more difficult to disguise than typing and the girl had surely copied enough Maurice Seton manuscripts to recognise his style.
    But before she had a chance to reply, Miss Calthrop said: “I think it would be best if I just read part of it.” They waited while she took from her handbag a pair of immense jewelled spectacles, settled them on her nose and arranged herself more comfortably in the chair. Maurice Seton, thought Dalgliesh, was about to have his first public reading. He would have been gratified by the listeners’ rapt attention and possibly, too, by Miss Calthrop’s histrionics.
    Celia, faced with the work of a fellow craftsman and sure of the audience, was prepared to give of her best. She read: “Carruthers pushed aside the bead curtain and entered the nightclub. For a moment he stood motionless in the doorway, his tall figure elegant as always in the well-cut dinner jacket, his cool, ironic eyes surveying with a kind of disdain the close-packed tables, the squalid pseudo-Spanish decor, the shabby clientèle. So this was the headquarters of perhaps the most dangerous gang in Europe! Behind this sordid but commonplace nightclub, outwardly no different from a hundred others in Soho, was a mastermind who could control some of the most powerful criminal gangs in the West. It seemed unlikely. But then, this whole fantastic adventure was unlikely. He sat down at the table nearest the door to watch and wait. When the waiter came he ordered fried scampi, green salad and a bottle ofChianti. The man, a grubby little Cypriot, took his order without a word. Did they know he was here? Carruthers wondered. And, if they did, how long would it be before they showed themselves?
    “There was a small stage at the end of the club furnished only with a cane screen and a single red chair. Suddenly the lights were dimmed and the pianist began to play a slow, sensuous tune. From behind the screen came a girl. She was blond and beautiful, not young but mature and full bosomed, with a grace and arrogance which Carruthers thought might indicate White Russian blood. She moved forward sensuously to the single chair and with great deliberation began to unzip her evening dress. It fell about her knees to the ground. Underneath she wore nothing but a black brassière and G-string. Sitting now with her back to the audience she twisted her hands to unhook the brassière. Immediately from the crowded tables there came a hoarse murmuring. ‘Rosie! Rosie! Come on, Rosie! Give! Give!’”
    Miss Calthrop stopped