The Wrong Way Down by Elizabeth Daly Read Free Book Online

had plaster walls of a sickly blue. There was no elevator.
    The cubbyhole of an office on the left of the front door was empty, and contained no switchboard; but a list of names hanging just within the half-glass door told Gamadge that Miss Vance’s flat was 5A.
    With a groan, he began to climb the nearest stair. Under his arm he carried what looked like a roll of newspaper; it was in fact the evening paper, loosely wrapped about the rolled aquatint of Lady Audley.
    In this generous old house there seemed to be only two apartments to a landing, with a door at either end of the wide hallways, and a door in the outer wall between that probably led to a fire exit. Gamadge, climbing on, reflected that when the place was built, elevators were only just coming in; people expected stairs. They also expected breathing space, elbow room, open fires, and plenty of people to carry coal scuttles and logs of wood. Balancing in his mind the pros and cons of the good old days, he reached the top story.
    5A was just beyond the head of the stairway, with the fire door opposite the stair head. He traversed creaking floor boards and pushed the bell.
    The door opened on a long, dark, narrow passage, beyond which there was a lighted room. Half hidden by the door, a young woman stood looking up at him; for the space of a few seconds they eyed each other silently. She saw a personable man with a stoop, carrying his evening paper in a rather slovenly roll under his arm; he saw a girl with a white skin, round hazel eyes, a mouth subtly curved. Her face was a rounded oval, framed in red hair that she wore to her shoulders. She looked faintly amused—more like a sprite, Gamadge thought, than a spirit.
    She was wearing a long, brightly flowered green-and-yellow dress of some airy material, with floating sleeves. There were green sandals on her feet. She came out from behind the door and smiled. “Mr. Gamadge?”
    â€œMiss Vance?”
    â€œYes, I’m Iris Vance. Will you leave your things on that chair, please? I’m sorry to say that my maid doesn’t sleep in.”
    Gamadge laid his coat and hat on a chair. He retained the roll of newspapers, but Miss Vance had gone on to the lighted doorway beyond and did not seem to notice that he was bringing his bundle with him. He followed her into a large, bright, shabby room, with high studio windows, flowered rugs, wicker furniture, and vividly colored unframed pictures on the walls. Nothing, Gamadge thought, could be more unlike the popular idea of a witch’s consulting room. Nothing could have surprised him much more than to see, when he looked towards the log fire, that four other persons were grouped about it. They were all looking at him.
    â€œThese clients had appointments for tonight too,” said Miss Vance lightly, “and I didn’t like to put them off—or to put you off. Do you really prefer a private sitting? A circle is always more effective.”
    â€œI don’t in the least object to a circle,” said Gamadge, “if you don’t.”
    â€œThen may I introduce you?”
    Gamadge stood looking urbanely at the other clients. They struck him as a very queer assortment, but perhaps in the circumstances a queer assortment was just what might be expected. Only…He had a sensitive perception to atmospheres, and he thought the group had at least one thing in common: a joke. The joke was on him. No—they had something else in common: a tenseness.
    â€œMrs. Spiker, Mr. Gamadge,” said Miss Vance, standing beside him. Mrs. Spiker, who sat on the left of the fireplace with a half-filled glass in her hand, gave him a short nod. She was a large but shapely woman of perhaps forty, with lavishly applied coloring and bright blond hair. She wore big bright jewelry, a fashionable black dress, and a fantastic little spangled hat. Her shoes were hardly more than a crisscross of thin straps and a pair of very high heels.
    â€œMiss