Eight Murders In the Suburbs by Roy Vickers Read Free Book Online Page B

him.
    He waited a minute or more, listening. He walked down the path to the gate—.
    â€œThe Best of Wilcox!” he muttered. “There’ll be my fingerprints on that glossy jacket.”
    He took off his right glove, found his penknife, opened it, then put the glove on again. With some difficulty he raised the latch of the french windows, slithered round the curtain.
    He had left the light burning. In this mild-mannered suburbanite there was no emotion at sight of the woman he had killed—some seven or eight minutes ago. He was concentrated on reclaiming the book—and it was not beside the body, where he had expected it to be. It was not on the seat of the settee nor on the arms nor on the floor.
    He was beginning to get flustered, but only because he was always a duffer at finding things. He went down on his knees, looked under the settee—if it had fallen, he might have kicked it there himself. He crawled round to the back of the settee. He stood up, exasperated. The book simply must be in the room somewhere! He took a couple of steps backwards, bumped against the open flap of the escritoire. He wheeled as if a hand had touched him—and stared down at the cupids dancing in the moonbeams.
    While he was picking up the book, his eye measured the distance from the back of the settee to the open flap of the escritoire—a good six feet.
    How did the book get there, he wondered. She had it in her hand when she sat down, and he could not remember her leaving the settee. Could someone have entered the room, while he was outside the house? He hurried into the hall, intending to search the house—then abandoned the idea as useless. Anyway, it was much more likely that she had moved while they were talking, without his noticing it. Mustn’t start imagining things and giving way to nerves!
    He put the book in his overcoat pocket and, leaving the light burning, again left the house by the front door, forgetting to refasten the french window. The fog was being thinned out by a rising wind: with the light rain, visibility was still very poor.
    He turned up his collar and adopted a slouch—he would be safe from recognition unless he came face to face with an acquaintance. He reached the gate of Oakleigh more than half an hour before his usual time. He observed that the lights were on in the kitchen but nowhere else. Madge, evidently, was still at the vicarage. He must get in without the cook and housemaid hearing him.
    He used his latchkey silently, hung up his coat and hat and crept into the drawing-room. He switched on the stove and put The Best of Wilcox on an occasional table where Madge would be sure to see it—it would serve as a diversion. Now and again he chuckled to himself, as if he were taking rather sly measures to prevent the club secretary from learning that a friend had broken one of the rules.
    He was still alone at five to six when, straining his cars, he could hear the train coming in, then rumbling away. Dangerously soon, he heard Madge’s latchkey.
    â€œWhy, Arthur! You’ve beaten me! You must have galloped from the station!”
    â€œI caught the earlier train—miserable day and not much doing at the office. I was dozing off when I heard your latchkey.”
    She was facing the occasional table—staring at the moonbeams and cupids. She looked disappointed—held the book as if she resented its presence in the house.
    â€œIt’s not for you!” he laughed. “It’s a Wilcox anthology. Out today! I thought Aunt Agnes might like to have it.”
    â€œOh, Arthur, how kind of you!” Her voice was unsteady. With unwonted impulsiveness, she threw her arms round his neck. He was unaware that this was the first time she had volunteered a caress. “Let me take it to her tomorrow morning—please—I want to tell her how you thought of it for her.”
    Almost reverently, she replaced the book on the little table.
    â€œAs