Dead or Alive by Patricia Wentworth Page A

there’s about half a packet of Robin’s cards there.”
    â€œGet them, will you? I’d like to have a look a them.”
    She brought him the narrow yellow box, still loosely folded in its white wrapping-paper. The lid came off and the cards ran out upon the wide arm of the chair. A single glance was enough. He said sharply,
    â€œI thought not. That card never came out of this box—at least not this year, Meg.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    He held up the card which she had given him.
    â€œLook! This isn’t a new card out of a box—it’s a card that’s been knocking about in somebody’s wallet. Look at the colour beside one of these. And look at the corners—worn—you see?”
    Meg saw. It was impossible to help seeing what was so evident once it had been pointed out. But it didn’t seem to her to make any difference, except that this worn card was more of a witness to Robin’s presence than a brand new one would have been. It had been with him through these months of absence. He had touched it and handled it. She knew just where it had lain in his wallet. And with that she had a sudden stab of terror, because Robin’s wallet had come empty out of the river a year ago.
    The telephone bell rang, and went on ringing. Even after she had put the receiver to her ear, it went on upon a ghostly thrumming note. She shook the instrument and said, “Hullo!” She shook it, and the note went on buzzing in her ear. Then all of a sudden it stopped, and a man was speaking.
    â€œIs that Mrs O’Hara?”
    Bill heard her say “Yes,” and then “Oh yes, I am.” And after that, “What is it? … Oh yes, I could.… Yes, I think I’d rather.… Yes, twelve o’clock would be all right for me.” She rang off and turned round to Bill.
    â€œThat was the bank manager—Robin’s bank. He wants to see me. He won’t say why.” She spoke in a slow, troubled voice.
    Bill laughed a little.
    â€œI should say at a guess you’re overdrawn.”
    She shook her head.
    â€œI haven’t got anything to overdraw. It’s not my bank—it’s Robin’s. I’ve never had an account there.”
    â€œThen it can’t be anything to bother you.”
    She said, “I don’t know,” letting the words fall slowly. And then, “Will you come with me, Bill? I don’t want to go alone. You see, the only think I can think of—the only reason he might want to see me—is something to do with that packet I told you about. I was to open it in the manager’s presence if Robin was dead. It might be something to do with that, and it if is, I would like you to be there.”
    Bill shook his head.
    â€œIt won’t be that, Meg—he’d want legal proof before he’d let you open it. But of course I’ll come.”
    He made her have a cup of coffee and something to eat on the way. His relief at seeing how much better she looked after the food and the hot drink was off-set by exasperation and distress. If she wasn’t starving herself, a cup of coffee and a bun wouldn’t bring her colour back like that. He cursed the conventions with all his heart. They permitted him to take Meg out and feed her, but forbade him to finance her so that she could feed herself at home. At least that seemed to be Meg’s point of view.
    They were shown into the manager’s private room. He rose to greet them, shook hands, and asked them to be seated, with an air of brisk efficiency. Meg’s introduction of Bill as an old friend who was helping her with her business affairs was received with a hard look which only just fell short of being a stare. Not, Bill thought, a genial person, in fact a good deal the reverse, but efficient, undoubtedly efficient. A little man with black hair and a cocksure carriage of the head. He leaned forward in his chair, facing them across the