Green Ace Read Online Free Page B

Shouldn’t there be some reduction because of the possibility of the place being haunted? There was a very gruesome murder committed here last year, you know.”
    The young woman winced, as if somebody had hit a very sour chord on a piano. Then she said, too quickly, “Oh, was there? I hadn’t heard.”
    “But surely the present owner must have heard? Perhaps that’s why she’s so anxious to sell?”
    “Yes, but—Mrs. Fogel’s only owned the place a short time, and—”
    “Fiddlesticks. That “For Sale’ sign on the lawn has been weathering there too long for the house to have changed owners very recently. And someone is living here right now, even though the door isn’t opened except by appointment.”
    “But Mrs. Fogel—”
    “Suppose we stop playing games, and call her by her real name. Mrs. Fogel wouldn’t have any reason for hiding out, but Natalie Rowan might. Ask Mrs. Rowan to step in please!”
    It was a direct hit, on target. The young eyes were wide as saucers. “But Mrs. Rowan isn’t—I mean Mrs. Fogel isn’t seeing anyone, I mean—”
    “You little fool, you don’t know what you mean!” interrupted a hoarse feminine voice from the hallway. The woman who abruptly pushed through the draperies was somewhere in her early forties, though her eyes were older. She was handsome still, yet there was something about her that suggested a comely turtle, a turtle vulnerable and trying hard to pretend it hadn’t been pried out of its shell. She said, “Iris, well excuse you!”
    Iris hesitated, shrugged her firm young shoulders, and then walked out of the room in a reasonably good imitation of Miss Tallulah Bankhead making an exit from a stage overcrowded with bit players.
    Natalie Rowan said firmly, “I really have no statement whatever for the press.” She pointedly did not sit down.
    Miss Withers found that in spite of herself she liked the woman. She was always drawn to lame dogs and beggars, and here was a soul in desperate trouble but keeping a stiff upper lip. Besides, it was a little flattering to be taken for a member of the Fourth Estate. “Goodness, I’m not a reporter,” confessed the dowdy middle-aged schoolma’am. “Though I’m being mistaken for one so often these days I’m beginning to think I should take out a card in the Newspaper Guild. Mrs. Rowan—”
    “And if you don’t mind, I prefer to use the name of my first husband at this time. To avoid as much unpleasant notoriety as possible. You cannot imagine how heartless the photographers and so on can be!”
    For all her assurance, the woman was tense and afraid; pulled up taut as an E-string. But Miss Withers was already over her quota on mercy that day. “Never mind your first husband,” she probed briskly. “Your present husband has barely seven more days to live.”
    Another hit, below the belt. Twisting her rings, Natalie whispered, “And—and just what is that to you?”
    “I’m glad you asked me that question,” said the schoolteacher with a wry smile. “Because I’ve been asking it of myself for some time, without finding an answer. However, there’s always this. Shouldn’t any good citizen be interested in preventing a possible miscarriage of justice, especially when the regularly constituted authorities are simply sitting around like bumps on a log?”
    It was all a little over Natalie’s head. “You’re not from the police, then?”
    “Far from them indeed at the moment,” said Miss Withers with a disarming frankness. “Though I am perfectly willing to admit that I may have been of some slight assistance to Inspector Piper once or twice in the past.” The schoolteacher introduced herself, and gave a rather sketchy explanation of how she had come to be interested in the affair. She even went so far as to mention the will.
    “Andy did that ?” cried the woman blankly. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t he leave it to—not that I need the money at all, only—”
    “Only your pride has