The Amazing Martin Brett: Classic Crime Stories by Ernest Dudley

Author:Ernest Dudley [Dudley, Ernest]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General, Police Procedural, Traditional British, detective, sleuth, British, Mystery, crime
ISBN: 9781434443687
Google: sd7Gobr0IP8C
Amazon: B00E9FX2SE
Barnesnoble: B00E9FX2SE
Goodreads: 18291729
Publisher: Wildside Press
Published: 2013-07-30T04:00:00+00:00

THE CASE OF THE GIRL IN THE CALL BOX

It was latish, Mr. Brett’s office was heavy with the grey-blue haze from the endless succession of cigarettes he’d been smoking, and I was just about to suggest to him that I open the window and let in a gulp of fresh air when the phone on his desk jangled.

“Leave it,” Mr. Brett growled as I moved forward to grab the receiver.

I looked at him and shrugged. “Supposing it’s someone threatened with having their throat cut?” I murmured brightly as the burr-burr continued.

“Anyone who chooses this time of night for it deserves to get their throat cut,” he snapped irritably. “Besides, I’ve had enough of this racket for one day.”

That suited me, too; I was fed up with work and wanted to get home, but after all, business was business, and even if the caller was ringing well after office hours, I didn’t like leaving whoever it was unanswered. Still, if Mr. Brett wasn’t worrying, why should I work myself up into a nervous breakdown over it?

The phone went on ringing while we pretended not to hear it, and went on clearing up the job we had on hand. It was, in fact, only the routine business concerning a case Mr. Brett had recently taken care of for an insurance company, which ordinarily we’d have carried over to the following day. Only the detailed report being already overdue for delivery to the firm in question, I’d managed to persuade Mr. Brett it really should be finished and done with even if it meant an hour or two late at the office.

The phone continued to jangle. Whoever it was thought they needed Mr. Brett’s help seemed to be in a pretty persistent frame of mind about it. Mr. Brett scowled at the instrument and finally gave me the nod. As I reached for the darned thing he told me:

“Tell ’em I’ve taken a trip to Tanganyika.”

“Mr. Martin Brett’s office,” I said, trying to convey by my tone that it was through some supreme miracle the phone was being answered. A girl’s voice came over the wire, and she sounded in a panic all right.

“I prayed someone might be there,” she said, all choked and breathless. “II know it’s late, but if Mr. Brett—”

“I’m afraid Mr. Brett—“ I began with the automatically weary note well laid on. But she cut in.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s gone—but if you could please tell me where I could find him—” Oh, yes, she was persistent, but there was such entreaty behind her words, I somehow felt it wasn’t a pet Peke she’d lost in the park, or her paste-earring she’d dropped on a bus.

“If you could give me some idea,” I said glibly, “perhaps I could help you?”

Out of the corner of my eye I caught Mr. Brett’s yawn.

“You’re very kind,” the girl said, and it struck me it was a nice voice, young but with a certain timbre to it that aroused my sympathy. “But I don’t think anyone but Mr.

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