Grey Mask by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page A

looked at Mr. Hale. A large envelope marked Income Tax lay across a pale blue note. Mr. Hale sniffed. A surprisingly vigorous scent of patchouli arose from the suit-case. He suspected the pale blue note—income tax officials do not use patchouli.
    “Go on—sort them,” said Egbert in a tone of languid encouragement.
    “I should have thought you would prefer to sort them yourself.”
    Egbert shook his head.
    “I couldn’t be bothered.”
    “Your private correspondence—” began Mr. Hale. He eyed the pale blue note.
    Egbert yawned.
    “I can’t be bothered. Let him get on with it.”
    After receiving a nod from Mr. Hale, the clerk proceeded to get on with it. The contents of the suit-case appeared to consist chiefly of unpaid bills. There was a sprinkling of other scented notes—pink, mauve, and brown. There were two sock-suspenders, an artificial flower in a condition of extreme old age, a green satin slipper with a gold heel, and several photographs of damsels in brief skirts and a great many pearls.
    “Put the letters on one side, Cassels,” said Mr. Hale. “We’re looking for a letter in the late Mr. Standing’s hand. I don’t know if you remember it.”
    “I think I do, sir. Isn’t this his writing?”
    Mr. Hale took it, looked at Egbert, and inquired,
    “Do you wish me to read this? It seems to be part of a letter from your uncle.”
    “Read away—out loud if you like—I’m sure I don’t mind.”
    Mr. Hale turned the sheet in his hand, frowning.
    “There is nothing about Miss Standing here. I think I will not—er—read it aloud.”
    “Is it the one about blackballing me for that club I told you about?”
    “No,” said Mr. Hale
    Egbert looked slightly puzzled.
    “What is it then?”
    “Mr. Standing appears to have been refusing a request for a loan.”
    “Oh, that one. He’s got a nasty way of putting it—hasn’t he?”
    Mr. Cassels unfolded a piece of paper which had been crumpled into a ball. Still on his knees, he turned and laid it on the edge of the writing-table.
    “Am I to read this, Mr. Standing?”
    “You can read them all—it doesn’t worry me. I can’t be bothered myself.”
    The letter was very badly creased indeed. Mr. Hale uttered an exclamation as his eye lighted upon the address and the date. The paper was stamped with the name of a hotel in Majorca, and the date was only a fortnight old. He read the address aloud and repeated the date; then glancing down the sheet, he spoke to the young clerk still rummaging among bills.
    “That will do, Cassels. This is the letter we were looking for.”
    Mr. Hale turned sharply upon Egbert.
    “This letter was written the day before your uncle was drowned. It is, as far as we know, the last letter he ever wrote. It is impossible to over-rate its importance. How could you fail to realize this?”
    “I don’t take any interest in business,” said Egbert. “I told you I didn’t. I told you my line was Art.”
    Mr. Hale rapped the table.
    “You cannot possibly fail to realize the importance of this letter.”
    Egbert yawned.
    “I don’t know that I read it very carefully. My uncle’s letters don’t interest me, you know.”
    “Mr. Standing, I will ask you to listen attentively whilst I read you this letter.”
    Egbert sprawled in the big armchair with half-shut eyes. It is possible that he listened attentively; but he had all the appearance of being asleep.
    Mr. Hale’s voice was sharp as he read from the crumpled page:—
    My dear Egbert,
    I will neither lend you any money, nor will I give you any money. Your letter serves to remind me, not for the first time, that I had better make my will and have done with the chances to which Margot’s irregular birth exposes the fortune which I have laboured to build up. Even if she were legitimate, I would not expose her to the risks involved in the possession of so much money. I shall make a will as soon as I return to England, and I advise you not to expect too much from me.