Hue and Cry by Patricia Wentworth Page A

deliberate. He didn’t go and get the car, because he didn’t mean to go and get the car. He didn’t want to take her to Curston. He didn’t want to do anything. He believed Sir George. It had simply never occurred to Mally that Roger would believe Sir George. Roger —he ought to be stamping up and down, using up his very best vocabulary on the entire Peterson household. Alternatively, he ought to be sprinting, simply sprinting, for his car. He wasn’t doing either of these things; he was standing there looking at her with gloomy suspicion.
    The room waved up and down under Mally’s feet for a moment. It felt odd, just like being on a ship; all that glitter and sheen of glass ran, and dazzled, and rocked soundlessly. She turned very white, and took three little, careful steps sideways until she came to the table and could catch hold of it. She held the table-edge with one hand and the other, groping, came down on a tall white translucent lustre. The pendants jangled. Mally’s hand closed hard on one of them, and the sharp edge of it cut her palm. The room stopped waving up and down. She faced Roger Mooring and said in a whisper:
    â€œHow dare you? Oh, how dare you?”
    â€œMally!”
    â€œDon’t speak to me! You believe him—I saw you believing him!”
    â€œMally, why did you do it?”
    At this point it becomes impossible to excuse Mally’s actions. She said “Oh!” with a little furious gasp; a wild and whirling rage descended on her like a cyclone. She pulled off her engagement ring and threw it with a remarkably good aim straight at Roger’s face. It hit him on the left cheek-bone, and the diamond drew blood. He swore, and Mally picked up the tall white lustre that had cut her hand.
    Roger plunged forward with a shout:
    â€œLook out! Look out ! You’ll break something!”
    â€œI’m going to,” said Mally, and flung the lustre with a crash into the midst of the crowded table.
    There was an awful shattering sound, the ring and tinkle of falling glass, and hard upon it the slamming bang of the door.
    Roger Mooring wiped the blood from his cheek and surveyed the ruins of Lady Catherine Cray’s collection.

CHAPTER XIII
    Sir George Peterson turned from the telephone and said briskly:
    â€œShe’s there. He lied about it, of course—but damned badly. She’s certainly there.”
    â€œWhat next? The police?”
    â€œMy good Paul! No, get on to Makins and Poole. Tell ’em it’s a confidential matter. Tell ’em about the diamond, and say we don’t want to prosecute in deference to my sister’s feelings, but we’ve reason to believe she’s gone off with important private papers, and we must have ’em back. Offer a reward that will ginger ’em up without making ’em suspicious. Tell ’em to put a real good man on to the job. And, above all, no publicity.”
    Mally Lee ran all the way down the stairs from Lady Catherine’s flat, and when she came out into the dark, wet street, she ran as far as the corner, where she hailed a bus and got the last inside seat. It was only half a seat really, because a very large lady, with a string bag and a beaded mantle trimmed with aged rabbit fur, billowed voluminously over two-thirds of the bench.
    Mally sat on the edge and got back her breath. She paid her fare to the conductor, took her ticket, and put it inside her purse. It had for company a half-crown, a shilling, three pence and a bent farthing. Mally shut the purse. She had three and nine-pence farthing in the world.
    What can you do with three and ninepence farthing, when the police are after you and you have simply got to get away and hide? How far can you get with three and ninepence farthing?
    Mally bit her lip, because the answer was certainly, “Not nearly far enough.”
    When her pennyworth was up, she got out of the bus, and watched it go rumbling and clattering