Tish Marches On by Mary Roberts Rinehart Read Free Book Online

said. “He followed me. He even tried to follow me there .”
    She then asked for a cup of tea, and over it she explained. She said he was not positive of her identity or he would have called the police. But he had had the plain indecency to stand outside the washroom door until the Museum closed, and she herself was locked in for the night.
    All in all we were most uneasy, and it was at this time that we all cut our hair and had it dyed black. I must say that it changed us, so that we all felt safer; but it gave Tish a sinister expression quite unlike her usual kindly self. Indeed Charlie Sands, coming in that night, pretended not to know any of us.
    “Sorry, ladies,” he said. “Must have got the wrong floor.” He then inspected us more closely and exclaimed, “Holy mackerel! What have you done?”
    “We are disguised,” said Tish.
    “Disguised? You are ruined!” he insisted.
    When he heard Tish’s story he understood, however, and merely asked us to turn out the lights so he could not see us. But it was when he was departing that he made the statement that caused us so much trouble later.
    “You may be safe from Mr. Smith,” he said, “but my advice is to keep away from the police. They would arrest you on sight, and while I know little or nothing of English prisons, I gather that they sadly lack the club spirit to be found in ours at home.”
    I could see that Tish was annoyed.
    “Why on earth would they arrest us?” she inquired stiffly.
    “Because there’s a story along Fleet Street today that a band of American crooks has an eye on the Kohinoor and other crown jewels. And if ever I saw a murderous lot of cutthroats I am looking at them now.”
    He left on that, and Tish was very quiet during the remainder of the evening.
    Who would have thought that it was to be our last peaceful time for days to come? We had never even heard of Inspector Jewkes. The group of young American men in the flat overhead were merely visitors like ourselves, although sending down for beer at all hours of the day and night. None of us had ever been inside of Madame Tussaud’s. And the name Bettina Pell meant nothing to us.

II
    I T IS CURIOUS, I think, that we were to meet the Pell girl that very night, and under most unusual circumstances.
    Although it was still several days until the Coronation, the celebration had already commenced. Service in our building was practically suspended, the head porter was almost never around, nobody seemed to go to bed, and a Scotch bagpiper that evening chose the pavement beneath our window to make the most dismal sounds.
    As a result we did not hear the noises outside our door until very late. Then Tish aroused Aggie and myself, and we investigated. The building had an automatic elevator, or lift, and it was apparently stuck below our floor. Not only this, but a girl inside it was alternately hammering and shouting.
    Clad in our dressing gowns, we at once went out. The lift was dark, but we could see her there, evidently in a terrible temper.
    “What is the trouble?” Tish inquired.
    The girl stopped hammering and looked up.
    “Nothing,” she said, “nothing at all. I’m here because I like it. I like shouting and yelling and breaking my finger nails on these bars. It’s just my way of amusing myself.”
    Well, we saw at once that she was an American, and that something must be done.
    “Have you pressed the button?” Tish inquired.
    “Listen,” said the girl, “I’ve pressed everything but flowers for the last hour. And that damned hall porter is out on the street making whoopee somewhere. Get me out of here, can’t you?”
    It was obviously impossible to leave her there, and at last, the top of the cage being open, we tied some sheets together and with considerable effort drew her to our landing. She was still indignant, however, maintaining that she had been deliberately shut in, and that if somebody named Jim Carlisle thought he was being funny he could think again.
    We