Dancers in Mourning Read Online Free Page B

Dancers in Mourning
Book: Dancers in Mourning Read Online Free
Author: Margery Allingham
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William as soon as he was within earshot. ‘Come and help me, darling.’
    Mr Faraday bustled forward, self-conscious and incompetent. He raised his cap to her carefully before taking the chair.
    â€˜And who’s this?’ Chloe Pye managed to pat Uncle William’s arm, hand him the chair and indicate that she was waiting for his companion to be introduced all in one movement.
    Campion came up and was conscious of pale green eyes a trifle too prominent, which looked up into his face and found him disappointing.
    â€˜They’re all in the house,’ she said. ‘Shop, shop, nothing but shop the whole time. Shall I have the chair under the trees, Mr Faraday? Or do you think it would be better by the flower bed? – that one over there with the silly little red thingummies in it.’
    It took some little time to get her settled and themselves out of reach of her tenacious conversational openings, but they broke away eventually and once again headed for the front door.
    â€˜You won’t believe a word they tell you, will you?’ she shouted as they reached the path. ‘They’re all quite mad, my dears. They’re just seeing insults on all sides … tell somebody to bring me some ice water.’
    The front door stood open and from it came the sound of a piano. The unsuspecting Mr Campion had just set foot on the lowest step when there was a roar above him and a gigantic Dane, who had been sleeping on the mat just inside the hall, leapt down, his neck bristling and his eyes uncompromisingly red.
    â€˜Hoover!’ protested Mr Faraday. ‘Down, sir! Down! Somebody call the dog!’
    The thunderous barking shook the house and a woman in a white linen coat appeared in the doorway.
    â€˜Lie down, you little beast,’ she said, hurrying down the steps and cuffing the animal with a broad red hand. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Faraday? He ought to know you. Get back, Hoover. Go in and watch your mistress.’
    The authority in her voice was tremendous, and Campion was not surprised to see the brute cower obediently and slink into the house, his tail drooping.
    The new-comer came down another step towards them and suddenly became a much shorter, stockier person than he had supposed. She was forty-five or so, with red untidy hair, a boiled pink face and light eyelashes. Campion thought he had never seen anyone more self-possessed.
    â€˜
He’s
working in the hall,’ she said, lowering her voice and giving the personal pronoun a peculiar importance. ‘Would you mind going round through the sitting-room windows? He’s been at it since eight o’clock this morning and hasn’t had his massage yet. I’m waiting to get hold of him.’
    â€˜Of course not. We’ll go round at once, Miss Finbrough,’ Uncle William was deferential. ‘This is Mr Campion, by the way.’
    â€˜Mr Campion? Oh, I’m glad you’ve come.’ Her blue eyes grew interested. ‘He’s depending on you. It’s a thorough-going shame. Poor man, he’s got enough worry in the ordinary way with this new show he’s producing without having all this trouble. You run along. He’ll see you soon.’
    She dismissed them with a finality which would have daunted a newspaper man. It had done so, of course, on many occasions.
    â€˜An extraordinary woman,’ confided Uncle William as they went round the side of the house. ‘Devoted to Sutane. Looks after him like a nurse. Come to think of it, that’s just about what she is. Went in the other day and she’d got him on a mattress, stark as a plucked chicken, pummellin’ the life out of him. Henry, the feller we saw last night at the theatre, is terrified of her. Believe they all are. Wonder if we’ll get in here.’
    He paused outside a pair of very high French windows which gave out on to the terrace on which they stood. Here, too, there was music, but softer, the beat less

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