The Studio Crime Read Online Free

glancing around at his guests, felt that his little party was not going so badly. Their voices rose and fell in a subdued, pleasant hum. No sound of traffic or footsteps penetrated into quiet Madox Court. The studio was a little oasis of warmth and chatter in a world of chill fog and silence.
    Suddenly, from somewhere outside the oasis, breaking with uncanny effect across its gay atmosphere, there came a long muffled sound that broke at the end like a gasping cry. Long after it had died away it seemed still to go on, spreading fainter and wider waves of sound through Newtree’s studio as a stone spreads ripples in a pond.

Chapter II
Upstairs
    In the sudden hush Dr. Simon Mordby’s voice went on with an effect of shouting:
    â€œLord Shottery was much impressed with the scheme.  If I may, Sir Marion, I will send you—”
    He became suddenly aware that Sir Marion was inattentively gazing upwards and that everybody but himself had fallen silent. He left his sentence hanging in mid-air and looked like the others up at the blank white ceiling. John Christmas was the first to recover himself.
    â€œThe pelican crying from the house-tops,” he murmured softly. “Listen for the sparrow answering from the wilderness.”
    Laurence removed his glasses and looked round at the hesitant faces of his guests.
    â€œIt sounded to me,” he said diffidently, “rather like a chair being pushed back. Frew has a parquet floor. I often wish he’d have castors put on his chairs.”
    â€œWhy,” said Sir Marion gently, as if to help Laurence to dispel any disquietude the ladies of the party might be feeling, “I thought it was a loud yawn. The sort of loud yawn a person gives when he’s alone and can take pleasure in yawning.”
    Mrs. Wimpole, wide-eyed and placid, asked of the world in general:
    â€œWhat was that?”
    And Dr. Mordby, puzzled and rather annoyed at this interruption, of her in particular:
    â€œWhat was what?”
    Serafine said nothing. She was looking from under her lashes at Dr. Merewether, whose self-contained personality seemed to have great interest for her. He was the least excited of the party, remarking with polite professional calm:
    â€œI’ll go up and see if everything’s all right, Newtree. I know Frew. He’s a patient of mine.”
    Mordby, seeing him move without haste towards the door, began:
    â€œLet me accompany you...” but Merewether answered tranquilly:
    â€œNo, thanks. It would be too much of an inquisition if two of us went, I think. I shan’t be long.”
    â€œTell him to put rubber castors on his chairs,” said Newtree cheerily. He still felt that it was his duty to dispel the slight chill, the sense of something wrong which that muffled sound had projected into the studio. His guests, however, did not seem to want it dispelled. Their talk was desultory, and they watched the door for Merewether’s return. When he appeared after a moment or two, as composed and leisurely as ever, there was a perceptible disappointment in the faces turned towards him.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œFrew says he heard nothing,” said Merewether in his low, deliberate voice. “He said it was probably the wind in the chimney. And he’s expecting us all to go up in half an hour or so.”
    â€œThe wind!” echoed Dr. Mordby. “My dear sir, there’s no wind to-night!”
    â€œThat,” replied Merewether sedately, “is just what I told him. And he said in that case it was probably a banshee.”
    â€œOh, very likely, very likely!” murmured Mordby absent-mindedly and returned with zest to the conquest of Sir Marion Steen. Otherwise the conversation languished half-heartedly for a moment or two, as if they were all thinking of something else.
    â€œWhat children we all are!” thought Serafine, half amused, half disgusted. “How we love a sensation! How we hate to be cheated of