Black-Eyed Stranger by Charlotte Armstrong Read Free Book Online

a social symptom, you see? But, do you know, Mr. Lynch, I’m afraid it doesn’t fascinate me. To me it’s unhappy. It’s just unfortunate. I rather feel,” she cocked her head, “that if the underworld lets me alone, why, I let it alone, you know?” She laughed quite merrily.
    Sam put his hands down and curled them on the edge of his chair.
    â€œThere, now you think I’m a giddy female.” She sighed. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’m just not hopeful. Crime we have always with us, like the poor. At least in my lifetime. It’s only that I know my place, Mr. Lynch. You men may be in a position to do something about it. Men like you and Alan.”
    â€œYou’ve got me wrong, ma’am,” said Sam savagely. He would not be yoked with Alan Dulain. “I’m a reporter. Don’t twist it. A reporter is someone who sees what goes on and simply reports it.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThat’s all.” He was pretty twisted himself, he thought. He gave it up.
    â€œI see,” she frowned. “That’s your definition of a newspaperman?” She considered it. What she considered was an arrangement of words. He felt she could memorize and repeat them. But she was afloat. She would veer and shift with a turn in the phrase. Petal on the surface.
    â€œI guess so,” he said feebly. He gave her up.
    â€œOf course,” said Mrs. Salisbury with tender amusement, “my little Katherine is very much interested in crime, too.”
    Sam had given up. He now could drawl, “Oh, is she? In what way, ma’am?”
    â€œOh, romantically, of course. You see, a woman in love is a chameleon, really. Twenty years ago, Mr. Lynch, I thought the sun rose and set with Salisbury’s Biscuits.”
    He didn’t smile.
    â€œMr. Salisbury is, or was … Salisbury’s Biscuits,” she said gently. “As perhaps you knew?”
    â€œI know. Kind of cookies, aren’t they?” Sam was solemn. “He made a lot of money with them, didn’t he? I’ve seen his warehouse, his great big warehouse full of biscuits, and somebody watching over them, night and day.”
    She opened her eyes very wide. “But, of course, Charles is retired,” she trilled. “He has almost nothing to do with such things as warehouses, any more.”
    â€œOr so he thinks,” muttered Sam.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    He didn’t repeat.
    â€œThe warehouse impressed you, Mr. Lynch?”
    â€œIt made a link,” Sam said gravely, “in a story.”
    â€œWhy, isn’t that interesting!” cried she. “And you write stories, too?”
    Then her daughter, Katherine, came dancing down the stairs.

Chapter 5
    IT was like dancing. She was so young and her feet were so quick and sure and the short mane of her shining hair bounced in the rhythm of her flying descent. She wore a chocolate brown skirt and a sweater the color of pale toast, and the quick, slim, sure, young feet were in flat brown pumps with round toes. She came dancing over the carpet.
    â€œHello. I’m sorry. I was writing a letter, and all over ink. I can’t get it off. How nice of you to come to see me.
    He winced at the impact of her welcome. She put her hand in his and he looked down at the scrubbed fingers, the ink stain that wasn’t quite gone, and something ached in his breast. All of a sudden he was terrified again, and tense, and in a hurry.
    â€œMother, have you met Mr. Sam Lynch?”
    â€œOf, course, dear. He presented himself, and very nicely. We’ve been chatting away like old cronies, really.” Mrs. Salisbury’s pretty little hands were stuffing the yarn into the bag.
    â€œWhat I wanted …” Sam began harshly. “I came …”
    â€œTo see Katherine. Of course,” said her mother serenely. She rose, balancing her trim little body tiptoe, because of her ridiculous heels. “And since I