Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch by Edward D. Hoch Read Free Book Online Page B

argue as to whether the sun was shining.
    “Who else was in the house at the time the cornice fell?” Holmes asked.
    “All of our guests had arrived by that time. Madeline Oaks, the actress, came with her manager, my long-time friend Maxwell Park. Dr. Prouty, our family physician, arrived with his wife Dorothy and her sister Agnes.”
    “Dorothy and Agnes lived near here in their youth,” Elizabeth explained, “and sometimes visited at Stacy Manor.”
    Holmes nodded. “Stacy is your middle name, Sir Patrick.”
    “Quite correct. The house was my mother’s ancestral home, which I inherited upon her death eight years ago.”
    “Let us return to the murder of Oscar Rhinebeck. Were there no clues at the scene?”
    “Only one. My publisher was clutching a playing card in his hand—the ten of spades. It appeared to be a dying message.”
    “How quaint,” Holmes remarked. “Does the ten of spades have any meaning to you or your guests?”
    “None whatsoever.”
    “Perhaps its presence was only a coincidence.”
    Sir Patrick shook his head. “It seems like more than that. There was a bloody trail on the carpet indicating that the dying man dragged himself to the card table and managed to select the ten from a deck of cards.”
    Elizabeth glanced at the room’s big grandfather clock as Holmes asked, “Do the police have no suspects in mind?”
    “Not really,” our host told us. “They mentioned a convict recently escaped from Reading Gaol and believed he could have entered the house undetected, perhaps bent on robbery.”
    “What is this convict’s name?”
    “James Adams, serving a long term for assault and robbery. He escaped about ten days ago and has not been recaptured.”
    Elizabeth was nervously watching the clock.
    “I’m sorry you missed dinner, but our guests will be assembling in the library for brandy at nine. Perhaps you’d want to freshen up and join us.”
    It seemed like a good idea, and Holmes and I allowed the butler to show us to our room.
    When we were alone, and I was unpacking my overnight bag, I asked Holmes, “What do you make of it? Is there a killer under our roof?”
    “It would seem so, Watson. It is obvious that Sir Patrick’s wife is greatly concerned, and she is probably the one who urged him to appeal for help. As for Sir Patrick, I am struck by the fact that his left boot has a thicker sole than the right one. If one leg is longer than the other, it would make walking great distances on a safari painful, if not impossible.”
    “Perhaps he was carried in a sedan chair,” I suggested.
    “We shall see, Watson. I am most interested in meeting our other guests, all of whom chose to remain for their visit even after a murder was committed in the house.”
    We went downstairs promptly at nine o’clock and found the others gathered in the library. The men held brandy snifters, though the women were indulging in something lighter. My attention was immediately focused on the actress, Madeline Oaks, whom I’d seen recently in a London production of Ibsen’s “A Doll’s House.” She was even more striking at close quarters, a rare beauty of the sort to take one’s breath away.
    It was her agent, Maxwell Park, who immediately recognized the name of Sherlock Holmes. He was a slender man, with glasses and mutton chop whiskers, and he shook my friend’s hand vigorously when introduced.
    “The popular press has been filled with your exploits, Mr. Holmes. This is indeed a pleasure!”
    I was interested in meeting Dr. Prouty, a small, quiet country doctor who sipped his brandy with a bit of uncertainty.
    “Do you have a practice in London, Dr. Watson?” he asked.
    “A small one, very limited. I assist my friend Holmes in his work, and I do a bit of writing.”
    His wife Dorothy was a plain-looking woman with large bones and an athletic appearance. She sat on a red plush sofa with her sister, who was introduced as Agnes Baxter. Miss Baxter, more comely in appearance than her