Death-Watch by John Dickson Carr Page B

women lawyers seemed impressive was before they had graduated from law school. Brilliant Lucia Handreth might be, capable she certainly looked; but in this particular rough-and-tumble you thought only of a good-looking brunette stung to anger by a feminine gibe. Hadley took an even shorter view of the matter.
    “I don’t propose,” he said, “ to turn this place into a nursery or a playground. You will please go, Miss Carver. If Miss Handreth insists on her legal rights, I suppose she must stay.” His voice became harsh as he saw Boscombe move out softly to take Eleanor’s arm.
    “ You’re not leaving, my friend? Doesn’t this interest you at all?”
    “No,” returned Boscombe, coolly. “I am seeing to Miss Carver’s rights. I will escort her out as another member of the nursery should, and return presently. Nor am I interested in the testimony of—of copper’s narks who listen at skylights. This way, Eleanor. Now, now! Don’t you know who I am? Gently! …”
    When, after they had gone, quiet was restored amid vast chucklings from Dr. Fell, Hastings settled back in his chair.
    “I’ve often wanted,” he said, rather wistfully, “to land that blighter one under the jaw, but it would be too much like infanticide. So he calls me a nark, does he?” demanded Hastings, flaring up again. “I hadn’t any particular grudge against him, and I was going to let him down easily, but if that poisonous little—”
    “What I like about this house,” observed Dr. Fell, in sleepy admiration, “is the spirit of love and trust and wholesome jollity which animates everybody. Ah, the solid joys of English home life! Carry on with your story, my boy.”
    “—and I’ve got a dashed good idea he’s been trying to paw Eleanor …” Hastings went on broodingly. He stopped. After a pause he grinned at Dr. Fell, as most people did in the latter’s comfortable presence. “Right you are, sir.
    “The—the first part of it’s the hardest to explain,” he went on, uneasily. “You see, I’m reading in chambers with old Fuzzy Parker here at Lincoln’s Inn. I’m supposed to be rather good at chin-wagging, and everybody said I should make a first-rate barrister; but it isn’t as easy as that. You have to learn a hell of a lot of bilge, it seems. I’m beginning to think I should have gone into the Church, instead. Anyway, I don’t seem to be making much progress, you see; and after I’ve paid the fees, and Fuzzy’s hundred guineas on top of it, there isn’t much left. I’m telling you this because then was when I met Eleanor, and—you see—well, in short”— his neck squirmed— “sometimes we began seeing each other up on the roof. Of course nobody knew about it …”
    “Rot!” interposed Lucia, with judicial directness. “Nearly everybody in the house must have known it, except maybe Grandma Steffins. Chris Paull and I both knew about it. We knew you were up there reciting poetry …”
    Hastings’ iodine-blotched face turned dull pink.
    “I was not reciting poetry! You little dev—don’t lie about it! O good God! I wish I’d never …”
    “I was merely trying to be charitable, old boy,” she informed him, with a slight sniff. “Very well, if you like. Doing whatever you were doing, then, although I should fancy it was rather an uncomfortable spot.” She folded her arms. Despite her pallor and nerves, a faint smile twitched the full lips. “And you needn’t be nasty about it. Chris Paull wanted to go up and stick his head through the trapdoor, and groan a couple of times, and say, ‘This is Your Conscience. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ But I prevented him.”
    Curiously enough, this did not seem to stir his anger. He stared at her.
    “Look here,” he said, in a low voice, “do you mean it was Paull who’s been up on that roof?”
    Hadley, who had been patiently waiting, leaned forward. There had been an indefinable note like horror in Hastings’ words. It did not sound like the