Sky High by Michael Gilbert Read Free Book Online Page B

bedroom, a spare bedroom hardly furnished, a third room, not furnished at all, a bathroom and a linen cupboard – were all empty and in order.
    Tim looked speculatively at the narrow stairs which ran up, almost ladderlike in their pitch, to the attic storey.
    ‘What’s up them?’
    ‘Nothing to speak of,’ said MacMorris. ‘A box room on one side – it’s got a window – I believe you can get out on to the roof from it.’
    ‘Can you, though?’ said Tim. ‘Sounds promising.’
    He went up the stairs, which hardly creaked under his solid weight, and pushed the door of the box room ajar with the knob of his stick.
    ‘Is there a light?’
    ‘The switch is just inside the door.’
    The box room had nothing more sinister in it than three suit-cases and a tailor’s dummy.
    Tim looked inquiringly at MacMorris, who blushed and said, ‘Not mine. It must have belonged to the lady who had the house before me. I’ve never had the nerve to throw it away.’
    ‘It is rather luscious,’ agreed Tim. ‘This window doesn’t look as if it’s been opened for a long time.’
    It was jammed with disuse and covered with cobwebs. Exerting all his strength Tim raised the sash an inch and a fat spider ran out and looked at him.
    ‘All old inhabitants here,’ said Tim. ‘What about the other room?’
    He opened the door. There was no light switch. Tim stood absorbing the peculiar mixtures of sound and smell. In the darkness water hissed and gurgled into a dimly seen tank. All around was the flat, choking smell of dust and rust and a sharper smell, which was something like metal polish, but was more probably the verdigris on brass joints.
    ‘Nothing much to attract a burglar here,’ said Tim. ‘Unless he’s come to steal the ball-cock.’
    He shut the door softly and they walked downstairs to the hall.
    ‘I guess it was a cat,’ said Tim. He went back into the sitting-room, picked up his drink and finished it. Holding the empty glass in his hand he wandered, as casually as he could manage, towards the sideboard and set it down on top of it. What he wanted was a quick look at the photograph that hung there.
    He couldn’t make much of it. The room lighting was against him. It was a younger MacMorris. The picture might have been taken ten or fifteen years ago. He was wearing the ordinary service dress of a British officer. The cypher on the buttons was indistinct and there were no identifying badges, but a single ribbon was visible and it looked suspiciously like the ribbon of the Military Cross. The only other detail that appeared was that the photographer was a person called Ardee, who worked at 233, Charing Cross Road.
    ‘I must be off,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll try to see Gattie on Saturday. I shouldn’t worry too much, if I were you. Most people who send letters like that are cowardly little squirts, who wither up and die of panic if they are forced out into the open.’
    ‘I hope you’re right.’
     
    The last glimpse Tim had, as he stood on the step, was MacMorris’ face, white but curiously composed.
    Outside in the road he stood for a moment letting his eyes get used to the darkness. It was an automatic gesture.
    Two houses further down the road there was an upstairs window lit up.
    Tim loafed along, under the trees, until he was nearly opposite to it. He had his hands in his raincoat pocket and was whistling soundlessly to himself.
    A few minutes passed, then a shadow started moving behind the lighted window; a gentle rhythmic gesture. Someone was brushing their hair. He watched, entranced.
    A minute later the shadow shifted again and the General appeared. He was in pyjamas and, staring squarely out of the window, he took the first of the dozen deep breaths which were part of his ritual before bed.
    Tim turned about and walked fast for the main road; so fast that he nearly bumped into someone who was standing under the tree.
    ‘Sorry,’ said Tim. And then, ‘Oh, it’s you is it, Queen?’
    ‘That’s right,