Death of a Beauty Queen Read Online Free

of his attitude, the marked impassivity of pose and features alike, suggested some coiled spring the merest touch might release into fierce vehemence of action. He was dressed in well-worn clothes that were even a little shabby, but with a shabbiness that seemed of indifference rather than of poverty, and he had on a broad-brimmed hat of black felt – his one little affectation in dress, for no one, summer or winter, wet or fine, had ever seen him wearing any other kind. He said now, speaking very quietly, but still with that manner of force in reserve that seemed natural to the man:
    â€˜It is neither honour nor pleasure to be here, either for me or for–’ and a slow, condemnatory movement of his hand indicated all the audience.
    â€˜Oh, come, Mr Irwin,’ protested Sargent uncomfortably.
    â€˜I know you and your friends call me a killjoy,’ Irwin went on. ‘It is not true. For one thing, no one can kill true joy, and, besides, joy is always good. But where’s the joy or the good, or the fun either, of watching a lot of empty-headed girls preen themselves one after the other like a lot of peacocks on a terrace in a park?’
    â€˜Oh, well, now then, Mr Irwin,’ protested Sargent feebly. ‘Besides, as far as that goes, aren’t peacocks good to look at?’
    â€˜Yes, and good for nothing else,’ retorted Irwin, in the same level, controlled tones in which nevertheless one could feel his passion beating against the bars of his self-restraint like an angered tiger at the bars of its cage. ‘Foolish girls showing themselves off like toasted cheese in a trap for silly mice,’ he pronounced.
    Mr Sargent turned so as to bestow an unseen wink on the vacancy behind him. He thought:
    â€˜I know what’s biting the old man, and making him talk like the day of judgment.’
    Aloud, he said:
    â€˜Oh, that’s a bit hard on ’em – on us all. What’s the good of being pretty if no one ever sees you? It’s a talent and gift like any other, and it oughtn’t to be hid.’
    â€˜Hid?’ repeated Irwin, with a terrific emphasis, as he flashed his eyes at the stage where a girl had just entered in what she fondly believed to be a real mannequin glide; and he was going on to say something more when Sargent interposed quickly:
    â€˜I see your boy Leslie is behind to-night.’
    The old man always held himself so stiff, so rigid and upright, he could not well grow more so. But all the same there was an almost visible increase of tension in his voice and attitude as he said slowly:
    â€˜I thought you always told us you never allowed anyone behind who was not there on business? Is Leslie there on business?’
    Sargent shrugged his shoulders.
    â€˜That’s all right in the ordinary way,’ he declared. ‘Speaking generally, we never do. It’s the sack for any of the staff who lets in anybody not on business. But a night like this is different. There’s dozens of competitors, and they’ve all brought their fathers and their mothers and their uncles and their aunts, and they’re all rushing in and out because they’ve forgotten their nail-polish or they’ve just thought of some new gadget for their frocks or their hair or their noses, and then there’s telegrams and bouquets and chocolates being fetched along without stopping – why, it’s all more like the first day of the winter sales in the West End than a well-managed, self-respecting cinema. How can we sort out the chap who’s bringing a competitor the lipstick her life depends on – and she’ll throw a fit of hysterics if she doesn’t get it good and quick – from the chap who only wants to kiss one of ’em good luck?’
    Mr Irwin looked grimmer than ever.
    â€˜Promiscuous kissing,’ he commented. ‘That, at least, I think could be controlled. And you tell me Leslie is taking part in all this?’
    In