Scandal at High Chimneys by John Dickson Carr Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Dickson Carr
door!” she said. “You have barred the front door on the inside.”
“I have. At Mr. Damon’s instructions, we are locked in for the night. Now be off.”
The lamp-flame trembled amid weights of shadow as the green-baize barrier opened and closed. Burbage watched his daughter go. Then, austere and slow-moving and sandy-whiskered, he turned round.
“You must forgive her, sir. You really must try your best to forgive her. She has been under a great strain.”
And he opened the door of Matthew Damon’s study.
V. THE HANGING OF HARRIET PYKE
A USTERE, TOO, WAS MATTHEW Damon. He stood in starchy evening-clothes behind the flat-topped desk, with papers and a decanter of brandy in front of him. His height and bearing remained impressive. But on his sunken face, as the eyes moved round sideways towards Clive, was a look of illness which might even have showed a touch of madness.
“Come in, Mr. Strickland. Be seated.”
“Mr. Damon, may I ask—?”
“No; one moment. Burbage!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You have looked to my instructions, Burbage?”
“Yes, sir. All of them.”
“Thank you,” said Matthew Damon, and dismissed Burbage with a gesture. He waited until the heavy door had closed, and footsteps moved away. “One moment, I say, before you sit down. This afternoon, you may recall, I sent a telegram from Reading.”
“Yes?”
“I telegraphed to a Private Inquiry Bureau operated by a former officer in the Detective Branch of the Metropolitan Police. Forgive me for my secrecy about this. I shall visit Mr. Whicher at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Can’t you ask him to come here?”
“I can, but I will not. This matter must be kept strictly secret, except in one event. If anything should happen to me in the meantime—”
Those deep-set eyes had already given Clive a shock. Mr. Damon raised his hand sharply, forestalling comment.
“If anything should happen to me, however,” he went on, “you will visit him in my place and tell him what I propose to tell you. Do you understand?”
“I understand, yes.”
“The address of the office,” and Mr. Damon picked up a paper from the desk, “is given as ‘347 Oxford Street, beside the Pantheon.’ You should find it without trouble.”
“Yes; everybody knows the Pantheon.”
This room, heavily curtained, smelt stuffy and musty. Clive still stood just inside the closed door. In the wall opposite him, between two windows, a fire burned between the bars of an arched grate under a low wooden mantelpiece. Matthew Damon, his back to the rear wall of the study, faced across towards a second closed door—the door to the library—in the front wall.
But he was not looking ahead of him. His eyes, turned sideways towards Clive, were kindled from underneath by the light of a student’s lamp, a lamp with a green-glass shade, shining up from the desk.
“Number 347 Oxford Street!” repeated Mr. Damon, and dropped the paper. “As I have good reason to know, it is just across the road from the Princess’s Theatre. Should it become necessary, will you promise to undertake this?”
“Look here, sir—!”
“Will you promise?”
“Very well; I promise. But whatever it is, whatever has been troubling you for so long a time, it can’t possibly be as bad as you think!”
“Perhaps not,” agreed the other with sardonic courtesy. “Yet I think it bad enough, if I may state an example. You are not married, young man?”
“No; you know I’m not.”
“Would you care to marry the daughter of a vicious murderess?”
“ Who is the daughter of a vicious murderess?”
“Sit down, Mr. Strickland.”
The fire crackled and popped amid shifting gleams. Matthew Damon indicated a padded armchair, covered with shabby red velvet, just in front of his desk. Clive sat down as his host stretched out a hand for the decanter of brandy.
“You are concerned with sensationalism, Mr. Strickland. You may read the law-reports. Are you familiar with the name
“I have. At Mr. Damon’s instructions, we are locked in for the night. Now be off.”
The lamp-flame trembled amid weights of shadow as the green-baize barrier opened and closed. Burbage watched his daughter go. Then, austere and slow-moving and sandy-whiskered, he turned round.
“You must forgive her, sir. You really must try your best to forgive her. She has been under a great strain.”
And he opened the door of Matthew Damon’s study.
V. THE HANGING OF HARRIET PYKE
A USTERE, TOO, WAS MATTHEW Damon. He stood in starchy evening-clothes behind the flat-topped desk, with papers and a decanter of brandy in front of him. His height and bearing remained impressive. But on his sunken face, as the eyes moved round sideways towards Clive, was a look of illness which might even have showed a touch of madness.
“Come in, Mr. Strickland. Be seated.”
“Mr. Damon, may I ask—?”
“No; one moment. Burbage!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You have looked to my instructions, Burbage?”
“Yes, sir. All of them.”
“Thank you,” said Matthew Damon, and dismissed Burbage with a gesture. He waited until the heavy door had closed, and footsteps moved away. “One moment, I say, before you sit down. This afternoon, you may recall, I sent a telegram from Reading.”
“Yes?”
“I telegraphed to a Private Inquiry Bureau operated by a former officer in the Detective Branch of the Metropolitan Police. Forgive me for my secrecy about this. I shall visit Mr. Whicher at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Can’t you ask him to come here?”
“I can, but I will not. This matter must be kept strictly secret, except in one event. If anything should happen to me in the meantime—”
Those deep-set eyes had already given Clive a shock. Mr. Damon raised his hand sharply, forestalling comment.
“If anything should happen to me, however,” he went on, “you will visit him in my place and tell him what I propose to tell you. Do you understand?”
“I understand, yes.”
“The address of the office,” and Mr. Damon picked up a paper from the desk, “is given as ‘347 Oxford Street, beside the Pantheon.’ You should find it without trouble.”
“Yes; everybody knows the Pantheon.”
This room, heavily curtained, smelt stuffy and musty. Clive still stood just inside the closed door. In the wall opposite him, between two windows, a fire burned between the bars of an arched grate under a low wooden mantelpiece. Matthew Damon, his back to the rear wall of the study, faced across towards a second closed door—the door to the library—in the front wall.
But he was not looking ahead of him. His eyes, turned sideways towards Clive, were kindled from underneath by the light of a student’s lamp, a lamp with a green-glass shade, shining up from the desk.
“Number 347 Oxford Street!” repeated Mr. Damon, and dropped the paper. “As I have good reason to know, it is just across the road from the Princess’s Theatre. Should it become necessary, will you promise to undertake this?”
“Look here, sir—!”
“Will you promise?”
“Very well; I promise. But whatever it is, whatever has been troubling you for so long a time, it can’t possibly be as bad as you think!”
“Perhaps not,” agreed the other with sardonic courtesy. “Yet I think it bad enough, if I may state an example. You are not married, young man?”
“No; you know I’m not.”
“Would you care to marry the daughter of a vicious murderess?”
“ Who is the daughter of a vicious murderess?”
“Sit down, Mr. Strickland.”
The fire crackled and popped amid shifting gleams. Matthew Damon indicated a padded armchair, covered with shabby red velvet, just in front of his desk. Clive sat down as his host stretched out a hand for the decanter of brandy.
“You are concerned with sensationalism, Mr. Strickland. You may read the law-reports. Are you familiar with the name