The Tiger In the Smoke by Margery Allingham Read Free Book Online Page A

bad luck,’ she said. ‘When Mrs Featherstone telephoned this afternoon and told me and I looked it up, I was awfully sick about it. It was jolly clever of him, whoever he is, and very, very naughty.’
    â€˜It’s so like the boy as I remember him. All that hairy martial rubbish on his face, dear silly fellow.’ The Canon was holding the page very close to his eyes, trying to find on its shiny surface lines which had never been there. ‘There’s the name too, you see, the name underneath.’
    â€˜Yes, well, that’s all part of the act.’ She was genuinely worried and her sewing lay quiet in her lap. ‘I was going to tell you just when Meg came in. I telephoned the paper and Sean was in conference but I got hold of Pip, who was fascinated, of course. When he had finished explaining that one can’t libel a dead man he put me on to the photographer and I talked to him.’
    â€˜Oh, he was standing there, was he?’ The Canon was enormously interested.
    â€˜No, he was in his own office. You see, the paper buys these news snapshots from a photograph agency. The photographer simply saw Bertie and May Oldsworth on the course and went over to snap them. There were one or two other people standing near who were also in the picture, and as he did not recognize them he asked them their names, as he always does. He remembered Elginbrodde because he asked to have it spelt.’
    â€˜The man gave his name as Martin Elginbrodde?’ The old man continued to peer at the small figure on the extreme edge of a group of racegoers, tucked down in one corner of a very full page. ‘“The Hon. Bertie Oldsworth”,’ he read aloud, ‘“who hunts with the Westmeath, in the paddock with his wife, who is a daughter of Lady Larradine. Also in the picture are Mr and Mrs Peter Hill and Major Martin Elginbrodde.” Upon my soul, Amanda, I can’t believe this man would have given Martin’s name to the Press.’
    â€˜But of course he would if he was impersonating him, Uncle. He must have been following the photographer around, waiting for a chance to slip into a picture.’
    â€˜Why should he be so cruel? What did he hope to gain?’
    Amanda had no solution to offer and did not attempt to invent one. In her experience, no one could beat Uncle Hubert on his own ground when it came to conjecture. Instead, she stuck to practical matters. The ability of the soberest folk to believe all they read in print was well known to her, and her worry was a real one.
    â€˜People we know have been ringing up ever since, asking if Meg has seen it,’ she said slowly. ‘There’ll be a lot more this evening. People always read the
Tatler
at tea on Wednesdays. And of course they’re going to go on telephoning from now till next year as the late ones spot it in the dentist’s waiting-room or the hairdresser’s. Meg’s going to hate that. Just now she’s expecting a call from Geoff. I hope I did the right thing. I put Sam on to it.’
    â€˜Sam ?’ The Canon’s face brightened. ‘Just the man. He knows all about newspapers.’ A smile of affection had passed over his face as it always did when he spoke of Samuel Drummock, who was his tenant on the top floor. That elderly and distinguished sporting journalist and his wife had lived there many years, and the relationship between the two men was something of a miracle in itself. It was a cordiality based, apparently, on complete non-comprehension cemented by a deep mutual respect for the utterly unknown. No two men saw less eye to eye and the result was unexpected harmony, as if a dog and a fish had mysteriously become friends and were proud each of the other’s remarkable dissimilarity to himself.
    Amanda sighed. ‘So that’s all right. He’s sitting on the top stairs with the phone and a mug of beer. Meg has left her door open and the moment it really is