Shadow Waltz Read Online Free

Marjorie’s voice trailed off.
    â€œSullivan. ’Cause I don’t go messin’ about in other people’s business.”
    â€œOther people’s business?” Creighton quizzed. “How could you be certain that this young woman wasn’t being robbed or assaulted ?”
    â€œâ€™Cause,” Mrs. Sullivan leaned in close and lowered her voice, “between you, me, and the Lord Almighty, Ronnie’s a bit of a ‘fast one.’ Has people coming here at all hours. Some even stay the night, if you catch me meanin’. If she were screamin’, it was likely ’cause one boyfriend found out about another and gave her a proper thrashing for it. Can’t say I’d blame ’im either.”
    â€œHow long has Ronnie lived here?”
    â€œAbout four months now,” Mrs. Sullivan narrowed her eyes, the pleasure of a day’s gossip giving way to suspicion. “And now that I’ve answered your questions, supposin’ you tell me who you are and why you’re so interested in Ronnie.”
    Creighton tipped his hat and bowed slightly. “My pleasure. My name is Creighton Ashcroft and this is my fiancée, Marjorie McClelland. We’re private detectives. Perhaps you read about us in the papers?”
    â€œI don’t have time to read the papers—not since Mr. Sullivan passed on anyways. I earn me livin’ at the lunchroom in the plant across town and when I’m not there, I’m busy keeping this place spic-and-span.” She thrust a thumb toward the tidy white cottage behind her. “I may be poor, but that don’t mean I’ve got to live in filth.”
    Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes turned toward Marjorie and a grin spread across her face. “Your name’s McClelland, is it? Then you’ll be knowin’ how proud we micks are. If you don’t mind me askin’, what pa rt of Ireland is your family from?”
    â€œCounty Antrim, I think,” Marjorie replied.
    â€œAh, should have known it by looking at ya. Why, your eyes are as green as old Erin herself, don’t you know.” The old woman s miled appraisingly and then slid her eyes toward Creighton. “Marrying an Englishman, eh? Well, I suppose that’s what the world’s comin’ to isn’t it? People marryin’ whoever they please, with no regard for God or family. And runnin’ ’round as private detectives, no less. Not that I’ve known any private detectives in my time, m ind you. Though I’ve seen ’em in the cinema, and I do like that William Powell. He’s not like me Mr. Sullivan, God rest his soul—no dirt under his fingernails, if you please—but I do love his mustache and his cheek. No, I can’t say that I’d much mind having his slippers under me bed!” She chuckled loudly and then grew serious. “Ronnie isn’t in any trouble is she? She’s no better than she ought to be, mind you, but I’d hate to see her in a bad spot.”
    â€œWe don’t know,” Creighton answered honestly. “We were asked to track a missing person and were led to this address.”
    â€œHmmm,” the woman mused. “I’m supposin’ this person who’s missin’ is a gentleman?”
    Creighton smiled at the old woman’s perception. “Yes, he is. His name is Michael Barnwell. Mid-twenties, tall, dark, and has a mustache.”
    â€œSounds like the fella who’s been hangin’ about here as of late.”
    â€œI thought there were a lot of ‘fellas’ hanging about here,” Creighton challenged.
    â€œAnd so there have been, but this one you’re describin’ was different, that’s why I remembered him. Wore a suit, he did, and always carryin’ a case—not like the riffraff that’s usually paradin’ around this place.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you saw him?” Marjorie asked.
    â€œThe night before