Miss Silver Deals With Death by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online

rude—”
    Meade said, “Oh, no, of course not,” and turned thankfully towards the lift. It was coming down. The cables swayed and creaked. The lift stopped at the ground level. The door opened and Carola Roland stepped out, looking as if she had just come off a mannequin parade—very high-heeled shoes, very shiny and new; very sheer silk stockings; the shortest of smart black suits; the smallest of ridiculous tilted hats; and the largest and most opulent of silver foxes. A gardenia in the buttonhole—the white flower of a blameless life, no doubt,—and above it lips of sealing-wax red, a perfectly tinted skin, enormous blue eyes, and hair of the beauty-parlour’s gold. She gave Meade a ravishing smile and said in a voice which very successfully imitated the Mayfair model,
    “Oh, Miss Underwood, isn’t this marvellous news about Giles? Mrs. Underwood was full of it last night. But she said he’s lost his memory—that isn’t true, is it?”
    The clothes on Meade’s arm weighed suddenly heavy. She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her eyes or out of her voice as she said,
    “Do you know him?”
    Miss Roland smiled. The smile displayed a glimpse of pearly teeth. She said mellifluously,
    “Oh, yes. But do tell me if it’s true about his memory. How too dreadful! Has he really lost it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Altogether? Do you mean he can’t remember anything?”
    “He remembers about his work. He can’t remember people.”
    The scarlet lips smiled again.
    “That sounds very—odd. Well, if you’re seeing him just ask him if he remembers me. Will you?”
    Still with that amused smile, Carola Roland passed on, was silhouetted for a moment against the open doorway, and then disappeared down the steps.
    Meade got into the lift.
    CHAPTER 7
    At half-past eleven Mrs. Underwood went down in the lift. She walked to the corner of the road and took a penny bus, after which she went into a call-box and shut the door.
    The bell interrupted Miss Silver in the midst of an earnest calculation as to whether her coupons would provide sufficient wool to make her niece Ethel a new blue jumper, and at the same time enable her to knit a couple of pairs of socks for Lisle Jerningham’s baby. She turned with reluctance to the telephone and heard her own name in a high, affected voice.
    “Miss Silver?”
    “It is Miss Silver speaking. Good-morning, Mrs. Underwood.”
    A breath was sharply drawn.
    “Oh! How did you know who it was?”
    Miss Silver coughed.
    “It is my business to remember voices. Is anything the matter?”
    The voice wavered.
    “Why, no—not exactly. I’m speaking from a call-box. Perhaps I shouldn’t have troubled you.”
    A woman does not leave her own flat with its convenient telephone and ring up from a call-box unless she has some reason for wishing to make quite sure of not being overhead. Miss Silver said crisply,
    “It is no trouble. Perhaps you will tell me why you called me up.”
    There was a gulp, and then,
    “I’m frightened.”
    “Please tell me why. Has anything fresh occurred?”
    “Yes, it has—in a way—”
    “Yes?”
    “Well, I went upstairs for some bridge last night—the people on the next floor—I often go there. Sometimes her sister comes in to make a fourth—she lives quite near and Mr. Willard sees her home. And the Spooners from the top floor used to come down, but they’ve gone away—he’s been called up and she’s joined the A.T.S.—so once or twice it’s been Mr. Drake from the flat opposite, but he’s very stand-offish and it wasn’t a great success, so last night they had the girl from the other top-floor flat. Her name is Carola Roland—at least I don’t suppose it is for a moment, but that’s what she calls herself. And oh, Miss Silver, I had such a dreadful shock!”
    Miss Silver said, “Yes?” in her most encouraging manner.
    Mrs. Underwood took up the word and echoed it.
    “Yes, I did. I felt better after talking to you, you know. And then Meade came