Dead or Alive (34 page)

“You are to come over here. I have work for you. Double pay and bonuses. Cross Thursday. Go Preedo Library Archmount Street. S.W. noon Friday. Say you expect call. Await instructions.”

There was no signature.

Peter sat and looked at the words. This was Tuesday. If one crossed on Thursday as the note suggested, one would naturally make a point of being on hand to take that call in Preedo's Library, wherever that might be. And someone could be told off to find out who was at the other end of the line. A word to Garrett would fix that all right. These thoughts moved on the surface. They fell into place and made a neat picture. But underneath something disturbed and disturbing took shape and came blundering into view.

Peter got to his feet, got to the door, got to the head of the stairs, and stood there listening.… Nothing. Nobody. He went back to his own room, half drew out his pocket-book, and slid it back again.

Crazy—that's what it was.

Well, with a strong enough motive you took a crazy risk.

In this case just how strong was the motive?

And the answer to that was, ask Garrett.

For his own part, he had an idea that Garrett was fussed—and Garrett didn't fuss easily.

He thought about Garrett's last letter: “The thing is a snowball. I don't know where it's going to roll or what it's going to pick up on the way. It started with picture-lifting, fairly plastered itself with blackmail from the insurance companies, and has now added a murder. No knowing where it'll stop—” Well, he had been roped in because he had stumbled on something odd, and because he wasn't a regular agent. The novelist is a privileged Nosey Parker. It is his job to watch people and listen to them. It flatters some, and flutters some but no one suspects him of being in with Scotland Yard or the Foreign Office.

Peter contemplated the impossible—the plan which had come surging up in the middle of his neat picture—and found angles from which the impossible began to look possible. Of course if the doctor were to come butting in, the whole thing blew up. But there didn't seem to be any sign of the doctor. The Dupins didn't hurry, hadn't hurried, wouldn't hurry. There would be time enough and to spare.

No harm in having a look at the passports anyhow. He went through into the next room. Took out Reilly's pocketbook, extracted Reilly's passport. Took out his own pocketbook, extracted his own passport.

Well, here they were, side by side.

James Peter Reilly.

Accompanied by his wife? (Apparently and most fortunately not. Children ditto.)

National status—British subject by birth.

He turned the page.

Place and date of birth—Glasgow, 1907. (Glasgow Irish, was he?)

Domicile—Glasgow.

Colour of eyes—grey.

Colour of hair—brown.

Special peculiarities—scar on back of right hand.

Peter laughed suddenly.

“And that settles it,” he said, “because—” He lifted his own right hand and made a fine wide gesture. The impossible, thus warmly invited, advanced and made itself at home. Peter's hand with the long white scar across the knuckles came down on his own passport.

John Peter Carmichael Talbot. (Also, thank heaven, without a wife or any other encumbrances.)

National status—British subject by birth.

And over page:

Place and date of birth—Harrogate, 1910.

Domicile—Europe, but the passport said London.

Colour of eyes—grey.

Colour of hair—brown.

Special peculiarities—scar on back of right hand.

“And a very nice usual place to have a scar. Mine was old Ellen Updale's cat—the time Peggy and I did her up in red white and blue streamers on Armistice Night. I wonder what his was. One of life's unsolved mysteries. Not my fault if the doings at Preedo's Library are another of them. Well now, what about the photographs? They're the real snag.”

He stared at the two passport photographs. Spike Reilly had a good bit more hair on him than Peter Talbot. The photograph showed no parting, and a sort of all-over, brushed-back appearance.

Peter went into his own room, tousled his hair, damped it, and slicked it back. The effect was quite revolting, but a good deal more like the photograph of Mr. Reilly. Spike Reilly was clean shaven, and so was Peter Talbot. He went over to the glass and experimented. He could get that sulky twist of the mouth and the frown between the eyes well enough. With chewing-gum to bulge the cheeks, he ought to be able to scrape past anyone who hadn't an unnaturally suspicious mind. The trouble was that Suspicion was that sort of bloke's first, last, and middle name.

All the same he could do it. He felt the sort of certainty with which a leap is measured and accomplished before the muscles tense and the body rises. He could get away with Spike Reilly's passport.

But what about Spike Reilly getting away with his? The Dupins had seen them both. Well, it had been very, very dark in the office—rain outside and thrift within—one didn't waste good electricity at four o'clock in the afternoon. The Dupins had seen precious little of Peter Talbot—a hat, a raincoat and a muffler. As for Spike Reilly, no one is surprised if a dead man looks a bit different from his photograph when alive.

Of course he mustn't let the Dupins see him again—not to say see him. He must leave at once while the light was bad—pay something, not too much, and get out. A corpse in the next room would be a good enough excuse. Yes, that was it. He'd march down with his suit-case, call for a drink—he could do with one—say he hadn't bargained for corpses, and clear out. They couldn't stop him.

“Anyhow, here goes!”

He had plumped for the crazy adventure, and the next thing to do was to set about it with the same careful attention to detail as if this were chapter one of a thriller, and he villain or hero with a crime to conceal. Not murder, thank heaven. But he would certainly be in a nasty mess with the local police if he was found out trying to pass off the man on the bed as the corpse of John Peter Carmichael Talbot.

None of his own clothes were marked. He didn't suppose Spike Reilly went round labelled, but he would have to make sure.

He made sure.

The next thing was to change pocket-books. He emptied both and made a thoughtful redistribution of the contents. There must be plenty to identify the dead man. Half a dozen cards inscribed Mr. Peter Talbot made a good start. Then the notes—Spike Reilly could keep his own money to bury him. And he had better have a letter or two as well as the cards. An invitation from Marion von Stein—“Oh, Peter, I think your poems are great. No, really I mean it. Do come and read me some more …” And Aunt Fanny's last weekly budget—“And, my dear boy, I do wish you would give up this roving life and settle down. And I haven't even a proper photograph. You have always been so obstinate about being taken. I am sure that snapshot on my mantelpiece isn't a bit like you. I was showing it to Terry yesterday, and she said it might be anyone, and Miss Hollinger said so too. But of course Terry hasn't ever seen you, as I've only just got to know her. And I don't think Miss Hollinger had ever met you either, but she says she did once, when you brought me home after that matinee I enjoyed so much. We met her at the gate, and it was nearly dark. So she couldn't really give an opinion about the photograph, because she didn't really see you. And I told her it wasn't a bit like you, and it isn't. And now I must tell you about Terry. I have made a new friend—you will laugh, but I feel she really is a friend—a most charming girl called Terry Clive, I believe it is short for Theresa. I missed the step coming down off a number nineteen bus, and she very kindly picked me up and brought me home. I should so much like you to meet her.…”

Peter showed all his teeth in a grin. Miss Fanny Talbot's nets were so perseveringly and so artlessly spread. Her letter went in on top of Marion von Stein's, and the pocket-book into the pocket of Spike Reilly's coat. Peter added his own cigarette-case with the initials J.P.T. and took in reluctant exchange a much more ornate affair without initials at all.

“Well, that's that!” he said.

There was a sound of footsteps on the stair. He went through into his own room and shut the door.

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About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1936 by Patricia Wentworth

Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3344-2

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

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