Postmark Murder by Mignon G. Eberhart Read Free Book Online

Jonny’s hand. Their footsteps along the hall and down the stairs seemed very loud in that strangely silent house. Surely someone would hear. Surely someone would come to inquire. Surely some lodger returning from work would open the door as they descended. No one did.
    There must be a telephone somewhere; the woman who had fled into the night had telephoned to her. But Laura had to get out of the house, she had to get Jonny out of the house; she wouldn’t stop to hunt for the telephone. She opened the door.
    The street was still, dark and deserted. There were a few pedestrians at sparse intervals here and there, passing under the street lamps. The doctor had still not arrived; no car stood at the curb or approached the house. A taxi crossed at the intersection, going into a side street. There were a few lights in nearby houses. What should she do?
    Suddenly she remembered the business street which they had left in order to turn into Koska Street. There had been the rosy neon radiance of a drug store at the corner. Wherever there was a drug store there would be telephone booths. The thing to do was telephone to Matt. He would know what to do. She led Jonny down the steps and along the street.
    She forced herself to walk quietly, not to hurry, but some odd, old instinct nudged at her so she looked back swiftly at the silent brown house. Its white steps loomed up clearly in the dusk. The closeness of the yellow brick, three-flat building beside it cut off the light from the room where a man lay murdered. No one opened the door; no one started after them through the dusk.
    No one stealthily followed them.
    But no one had been in the house; no one except a dead man. There was no one to watch their leaving.
    They passed a pedestrian, a woman with a market basket, who gave them a fleeting glance and went on. As they neared the brighter area of the business avenue, there were other pedestrians—none of whom gave them more than a glance. Nevertheless when they reached the cross street, it was with a sense of escape.
    The lights here were bright. They paused to wait for the traffic signal and then crossed to the drug store, whose bright lights and neon signs seemed to beckon. The warm interior was laden with the mingled scents of coffee and hamburgers and powders and perfumes and cigarette smoke. A telephone booth stood against the back wall.
    Laura went back to it. “I’m going to phone, Jonny. Phone— Stay here, dear.” Jonny nodded, her eyes serious and blue, understanding as Laura opened the door to the little booth. Sign language, Matt had called it. Laura entered the booth and fumbled for a dime, then closed the door so Jonny could not hear. The light above flashed on. Then, her hand shaking, she dialed Matt’s office number.
    The telephone buzzed and buzzed. And all at once Doris Stanley seemed to stand beside her in the small telephone booth. The image of her lovely little face came so clearly to Laura’s mind, that she almost turned to her before she realized that it was not Doris, it was Doris’ perfume; there was a faint odor of carnations in the telephone booth, a delicate trace of the perfume which Doris habitually used. Laura thought in some remote level of her mind, someone wearing Doris’ perfume has been here in the booth. Nobody answered the telephone in Matt’s office.
    It was late; she had not thought of that; his secretary had gone. She put down the receiver, and her dime fell with a disconsolate little clink into the receptacle. Matt should be at home by now. She knew his hotel apartment number, and dialed that, but again the phone buzzed and buzzed and did not answer. Probably it was exactly the time when he was fighting homeward-bound crowds and had not yet reached his apartment. Phone to Charlie, she thought, phone to Doris. And then she thought, why, the police of course!
    When it was murder it had to be reported to the police.
    If she reported it now and here, what would they do? Answers to that