Time Off for Murder Read Online Free Page B
Author: Zelda Popkin
toward a fire hydrant. A taxi drew up at a curb and a couple in evening attire came out, entered a house. Two men in tweeds, arguing, with widely gesticulating arms, jostled her. "I'm not alone. This is a thoroughfare. I'm safe as a babe in its mother's arms. What makes me nervous?"
  The residence of Lyman Knight and his daughter Phyllis was on the south side of the Square. Three stories high, of mellow red brick, with beautiful Grecian columns framing its doorway, leaded window panes, and a fence and gate of graceful wrought iron, it was part of that row of magnificent private dwellings which are the pride and joy of modern New York, the tangible reminder of the graciousness of the city's earlier way of life.
  Steep stone steps led to the front door. A grilled gate was shut over the basement entrance. The facade seemed wholly dark. But as Mary looked closely at it, she fancied she saw pin points of light through the shades drawn over the front basement windows and two windows on the second floor.
  She looked quickly up and down the street. Around the rim of the park, the lights in apartment buildings and offices were an exquisite frieze. The man and dog had disappeared; the arguing pair were down near the corner. A tall man, whose contours seemed vaguely familiar, was strolling leisurely at the far end of the block. The man ducked into a basement areaway, half a dozen houses down, and passed from Mary's speculations.
  Mary mounted the steps, ran her hand over the black moulding of the entry, hunting a bell. She struck a match.
  Behind the curtained glass of the front door, something seemed to move - the outline of a head, jumping back, and two white eyeballs, illumined by the match flare. She thought she heard the tick of footsteps, running up the stairs. She flattened her nose against the glass, peered into the darkness. She saw nothing, heard nothing.
  She pressed the bell, listened to its remote, imperious buzz. Then silence. She found the bell again, held her finger against it. Someone was at home. There was no doubt of that. From the top of the steps she could see plainly that there was light behind the basement shades. She tapped her toe impatiently.
  Suddenly, a light clicked on in the hall and the door opened. A towering, square-jawed woman, dressed in long-sleeved, black servants' poplin, peered out. Mary Carner set her foot in the opening, her hand on the knob. "Is Miss Knight in?" she asked pleasantly.
  "No." The single syllable was a bark.
  "I'm so sorry. I had to see her tonight."
  "She isn't home."
  "I realize that now. Can you tell me when she'll be in? You see," she coaxed, "I've been trying for several days to reach her."
  "Call her office. You're a client, ain't you?" The slight inflection of curiosity was encouraging.
  "I'm a friend. A very good friend. Is her father at home? May I see him?"
  The woman looked quickly over her shoulder. "I dunno," she said.
  Mary followed her glance. There was movement in the shadows at the head of the staircase.
  "Please see whether he's in. It's very important. I must speak to him."
  "Wait a minute." The servant lifted Mary Carner's fingers from the door-knob, brushed them with a movement that was like a slap across the knuckles, nudged the detective's knee out of the doorway, closed the door, locked it.
  Through the curtained glass, Mary saw her back mounting the staircase. She leaned against the door, trying to see inside, to hear. Behind her, motors honked, tires slithered, heels clicked on the pavement. Within the old house was the dark silence of a tomb.
  Then she saw the woman coming back down the steps, stopping in the middle of the staircase, waving her arm. It was the sort of admonitory gesture a parent makes to a refractory child. The door was opened - just a crack this time.
  "He's gone to bed. Mister
  The residence of Lyman Knight and his daughter Phyllis was on the south side of the Square. Three stories high, of mellow red brick, with beautiful Grecian columns framing its doorway, leaded window panes, and a fence and gate of graceful wrought iron, it was part of that row of magnificent private dwellings which are the pride and joy of modern New York, the tangible reminder of the graciousness of the city's earlier way of life.
  Steep stone steps led to the front door. A grilled gate was shut over the basement entrance. The facade seemed wholly dark. But as Mary looked closely at it, she fancied she saw pin points of light through the shades drawn over the front basement windows and two windows on the second floor.
  She looked quickly up and down the street. Around the rim of the park, the lights in apartment buildings and offices were an exquisite frieze. The man and dog had disappeared; the arguing pair were down near the corner. A tall man, whose contours seemed vaguely familiar, was strolling leisurely at the far end of the block. The man ducked into a basement areaway, half a dozen houses down, and passed from Mary's speculations.
  Mary mounted the steps, ran her hand over the black moulding of the entry, hunting a bell. She struck a match.
  Behind the curtained glass of the front door, something seemed to move - the outline of a head, jumping back, and two white eyeballs, illumined by the match flare. She thought she heard the tick of footsteps, running up the stairs. She flattened her nose against the glass, peered into the darkness. She saw nothing, heard nothing.
  She pressed the bell, listened to its remote, imperious buzz. Then silence. She found the bell again, held her finger against it. Someone was at home. There was no doubt of that. From the top of the steps she could see plainly that there was light behind the basement shades. She tapped her toe impatiently.
  Suddenly, a light clicked on in the hall and the door opened. A towering, square-jawed woman, dressed in long-sleeved, black servants' poplin, peered out. Mary Carner set her foot in the opening, her hand on the knob. "Is Miss Knight in?" she asked pleasantly.
  "No." The single syllable was a bark.
  "I'm so sorry. I had to see her tonight."
  "She isn't home."
  "I realize that now. Can you tell me when she'll be in? You see," she coaxed, "I've been trying for several days to reach her."
  "Call her office. You're a client, ain't you?" The slight inflection of curiosity was encouraging.
  "I'm a friend. A very good friend. Is her father at home? May I see him?"
  The woman looked quickly over her shoulder. "I dunno," she said.
  Mary followed her glance. There was movement in the shadows at the head of the staircase.
  "Please see whether he's in. It's very important. I must speak to him."
  "Wait a minute." The servant lifted Mary Carner's fingers from the door-knob, brushed them with a movement that was like a slap across the knuckles, nudged the detective's knee out of the doorway, closed the door, locked it.
  Through the curtained glass, Mary saw her back mounting the staircase. She leaned against the door, trying to see inside, to hear. Behind her, motors honked, tires slithered, heels clicked on the pavement. Within the old house was the dark silence of a tomb.
  Then she saw the woman coming back down the steps, stopping in the middle of the staircase, waving her arm. It was the sort of admonitory gesture a parent makes to a refractory child. The door was opened - just a crack this time.
  "He's gone to bed. Mister
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