She Died a Lady by John Dickson Carr Read Free Book Online Page A

get back until half-past eleven or going on for twelve. But there must have been two cars at least out there. Why didn’t you come in a car?’
    ‘Because,’ I said, ‘there wasn’t any petrol for the cars.’
    Molly looked bewildered. The memory of going out to that garage, and finding what awaited me there, had no soothing effect on the temper.
    ‘My dear Molly, somebody had turned the tap of the petrol-tanks and let it all run out. Both Alec’s car and mine. Even apart from the question of how scarce the stuff is, I can’t see the particular fun of a practical joke like that. Don’t ask me why anybody did it! Or why the telephone-wires were cut. But it was done. And I was stranded. What’s more, I left the house carrying a little souvenir-key that Alec sets great store by for some reason, and had to give it to Tom to take back to him. I left him very ill, but I had to get help somehow. Barring radio or carrier-pigeons …’
    ‘It was a silly thing to do,’ Molly admitted. ‘And at a time like that . You’ve no idea who did it?’
    ‘The diabolical Johnson could have done it. Anybody could have done it.’
    ‘Johnson?’
    ‘A gardener Alec sacked. But where was the sense?’
    ‘They haven’t found the – they haven’t found Rita and Mr Sullivan?’
    ‘No. Everything’s out of joint. Including you, now I come to think of it. Why aren’t you in Barnstaple this morning? How’s the typewriting bureau getting on?’
    Molly pressed her lips together. She brushed her fingertips against her temple, seeming for the first time uncertain. Her ankles were set exactly together, as precise as a ledger in her workroom.
    ‘The typewriting bureau,’ she informed me, ‘will just have to take care of itself for a day or two. I’m feeling a bit under the weather myself. Not ill. Just –’ She dropped her hand. ‘Dr Luke, I’m worried. I didn’t really like Rita Wainright, you know.’
    ‘Not you too?’
    ‘Please wait. I’m honestly trying to be fair. And I want to submit something to your judgement rather than argue a case.’ Molly hesitated. ‘Do you think you could come down to our house for a few minutes? Now? I’ve got something there I think you ought to see.’
    I looked back towards our own house. Tom had finished surgery at eleven, and was on his morning round. It seemed probable that I could sneak out and sneak back again without being caught. When Molly and I emerged into the front garden, the High Street lay serene. The High Street – by courtesy – is in fact the main road, a good surface of asphalt, which runs for some distance on a very slight rise until it disappears round the turning at what used to be Miller’s Forge. Lined with small houses and shops, it dozed in the sunshine to a subdued murmur of voices coming from the open doors of the ‘Coach and Horses’ over the way. Mr Frost the postman was on his round. Mrs Pinafore, Licensed to Sell Tobacco and Sweets, was sweeping her doorstep.
    But it did not remain peaceful. Molly turned to stare.
    ‘My word!’ she said.
    From far up the street, at the Miller’s Forge end, issued the steady pop-pop-pop of a motor vehicle in motion. Squarely in the middle of the road, proceeding with steadiness and intensity, came a wheel-chair.
    Seated majestically in the wheel-chair, hands gripping the handle of the rod which communicated with a small front wheel and served as steering-gear, was a very broad and stout man in a white linen suit. His bald head glistened in the sun. The spectacles were pulled down on his broad nose. A shawl was draped, invalid-fashion, round his shoulders. Even at a distance you could discern on his face an expression of almost inhuman malignancy. He bent forward tensely, with absorbed concentration, while the motor accelerated to a louder pop-pop-pop .
    Round the corner of Miller’s Forge, running hard and breathless in pursuit, came Paul Ferrars the painter.
    After him galloped my son Tom.
    After them both came a