An Apostle of Gloom Read Online Free Page A

Someone spoke in a muffled voice but the handle did not turn. The front door opened and footsteps scraped on the narrow gravel path.
    Roger muttered a sharp imprecation, stepped towards the door and opened it. Abbott was standing at the foot of the stairs and he regarded Roger without expression.
    â€œWell?” snapped Roger.
    â€œI want you to believe that I’m really sorry about this,” Abbott said. His lips moved automatically and he looked incapable of feeling. He glanced towards the open door, and Roger, following his gaze, saw a woman approaching with Sergeant Martin. He recognised the newcomer as a tall, round-faced, jovial policewoman, one of the few female detectives at the Yard. Her purpose was only too apparent. He turned back to Abbott and spoke in a low-pitched, angry voice.
    â€œI won’t forget this afternoon’s work, Abbott.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Abbott repeated monotonously. “Will you explain to your wife?”
    Roger said: “Yes,” sharply, and turned on his heel. He caught Janet’s eye as he returned to the room; she gave him the impression that she had heard Abbott’s remarks and was half-prepared for what was coming.
    â€œThey want to search you,” Roger said. “They’ve a woman outside, so they’re not breaking any regulations.” His voice was harsh with repressed anger, for this was the final insult, the crowning indignity. He really felt like going on the rampage, only restraining himself because he knew that it would make matters worse.
    The woman officer stood on the threshold, smiling as if it were the best joke in the world – she was the only member of the police who seemed unaffected by the situation. Roger stared when she winked at him before going upstairs with Janet to the main bedroom. Abbott entered the lounge and stared at Roger.
    â€œAll right,” Roger said, “get on with it,” and allowed himself to be searched, standing rigid, neither helping nor impeding Tiny Martin, whose every movement seemed to be reluctant. The contents of his pockets were set out in neat array on a corner of the tea-table, next to the muffins which were now cold and unappetising, with congealed margarine smeared on them. The fire had nearly gone out and Mark, suddenly waking out of a reverie, began to stoke it, putting on a few knobs of coal and two logs and then blowing gently with the bellows.
    Tiny Martin finished and Roger looked at Abbott. “Well, are you satisfied?” he demanded. The fire was blazing and warming his back – he had not realised, before, how cold he felt.
    â€œThere’s nothing here,” Abbott said, and then took some brown paper and oddments of string from his pocket. “What was in this, West?”
    Roger stared. “I don’t know.”
    â€œIt is addressed to you and it’s registered,” Abbott said. “What was in it?”
    Roger stretched out a hand and took the paper. It was familiar but nothing clicked in his mind at first. It was of good quality, with a typewritten address on a plain label. The postmark was blurred but, after some seconds of close scrutiny, he saw that it was franked December, although he could not distinguish the date. His face cleared and he handed it back, knowing both what had been in it when it had reached him and why Abbott had found it upstairs.
    â€œIt contained a Christmas present from my father,” he said, “two first editions of Scott.”
    â€œChristmas!” Abbott was stung to the ejaculation.
    â€œIt was tucked away in my drawer for some months,” continued Roger, warming to the task, “but I took it out to-day and wrapped a birthday present for my wife in it. So it has quite pleasant associations, hasn’t it? I carried it all the way from here to the Yard, it was folded up in my raincoat pocket when you saw me this morning and when I went to Estelle’s in Oxford Street and bought a