Beggar’s Choice by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

Z.10 by the first post. It was typed, and there was no address at the top of the paper, only Box Z.10, and underneath that: “Your letter received. Ring up Victoria 00087 and ask for Mr. Smith between eleven and eleven-fifteen.” There was no signature.
    I thought that was an odd way of doing business, and I began to feel sure that there was something fishy about the whole thing—no address, no signature, only Mr. Smith and a telephone number. I pretty soon found out that the number belonged to a shop. The name was Levens, and it was a stationer’s. Lots of shops of that sort have a telephone that their customers can use, and I thought that Mr. Z.10 Smith was going to stroll in at eleven o’clock and take my call. It would be the easiest thing in the world—he’d go in and say he was expecting to be rung up, and it would be no odds to anybody so long as he was willing to pay for his use of the telephone; and if any one came along and asked questions, I was ready to bet that nobody in the shop would know anything about him. What I thought the fishiest part was having his letters sent to one place, and getting himself rung up at another. Falcon Road is N. W., and Victoria 00087 is S. W. I thought it was damned fishy.
    I waited till five minutes past eleven, and then I rang up. A woman answered me at first. She had one of those die-away voices that you can’t really hear. I kept on saying “Mr. Smith—I want to speak to Mr. Smith”; and she kept blowing into the telephone and making sounds like a swooning mosquito. And then, just as I was wondering whether the whole thing was a plant, she faded out altogether, and I heard a door shut. Then somebody else said “Hullo!” and I said “Hullo!” And then he—I thought it was a man—said, “Mr. Smith speaking. Who are you?” And I said, “Carthew Fairfax.” The voice had called itself Mr. Smith, but I couldn’t have been sure that it was a man who was speaking.
    As soon as I had said my name he said,
    â€œI’m here in answer to your letter.”
    I said, “Yes?”
    â€œAm I to understant you wish to proceed?”
    â€œI would like to have particulars—I said so in my letter.”
    â€œYes—certainly—but this is a confidential matter.”
    â€œYou’re either prepared to tell me what you want, or else I don’t see how I can be of any use to you.”
    â€œYes,” said Mr. Smith—“exactly. But the matter is confidential, and my client would wish to be assured of your discretion.”
    â€œYour client?”
    â€œI am acting for a client.”
    I wondered if he was. I said,
    â€œI don’t see how you can be assured of my discretion. In fact, I’m not prepared to give any assurances. I want to know what it’s all about.”
    â€œYes, yes,” said Mr. Smith—“ exactly . Will you be outside the corner house of Churt Row and Olding Crescent to-night at ten o’clock?”
    I wondered whether I would. I waited for a moment, and Mr. Smith said,
    â€œWill you be there?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    He didn’t let his voice get eager, but I could tell he was keeping himself in. He said,
    â€œYou don’t know whether you want the money?”
    I didn’t want him to think I was suspicious, so I rose to the bait. I said I’d come. He sounded quite chirpy after that, and began to boss me.
    â€œMind you’re not late. And please remember to bring the advertisement with you, together with the letter you received this morning. These will be your credentials, and it will be useless to present yourself without them. Good-morning.” He rang off.
    I walked home in two minds whether I would go or not. If it hadn’t been for Fay, I don’t think I’d have touched it. No—I don’t know whether that’s true—the mere fact of the thing being so fishy intrigued