The Green Plaid Pants by Scherf Margaret

Author:Scherf, Margaret [Scherf, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Publisher: Rue Morgue
Published: 1951-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

Link had one fanatical idea in his generally easy nature—he insisted on catching an early train on Monday morning. He wouldn’t take the car, he said—there was not room for everyone and anyway the train was quicker.

It was still dark when he rapped on their door and called to Emily and Henry, “Breakfast in ten minutes!”

Henry opened a dismal eye, saw that the rain was coming down in sheets on the terrace. Emily muttered something about the things your friends did to you and pulled on her slippers.

When they climbed into Beaman’s taxi at a quarter to seven they were a sorry-looking lot, except for Link and Miss Ada, who insisted on being cheerful.

There was no real station at Waterfall—no newsstand with chocolate bars and advice on taking off fat, no bulletins on Congress worrying about the world or Wall Street worrying about Congress. Beaman sped away, leaving them to huddle under a dripping shed with a corrugated-iron roof. Olivia sneezed and Link gave her his raincoat. She was looking quite gray and miserable this morning, Henry thought.

Fortunately they didn’t have long to wait. The train crawled in like a wet snake, and Miss Ada brushed off the conductor who tried to help her up the steps.

Emily’s veil hung in shreds and you could have played solitaire on her lower lip. “The country,” she muttered; “you can have it.”

For the first half-hour there was no conversation. Each of them withdrew into his own corner, half-asleep, while the rain made channels through the dust on the train windows and the conductor plodded up and down the aisles.

At Peekskill, Emily suddenly sat forward, clutching Henry’s knee. “I know where they are!” she cried.

“My nerves,” Henry pleaded.

“The diamonds are in Charlie’s pants!”

“Now it’s diamonds. What happened to the opium?”

Mr. Peel woke up and so did Link. “How could one hide anything in those pants?” Peel asked.

“In the buttons,” Emily said. “A diamond in every button. Henry, I think you should get off at 125th Street and call Roscoe or he might use the pants for a paint rag.”

Henry thought Roscoe would be unlikely to open the secretary. Roscoe moved slowly on Monday morning.

The remainder of the journey was lively with speculation. They cursed the slowness of the train, argued back and forth about calling Roscoe and about what they would do with the diamonds when they had them. Emily was all for selling them and dividing the proceeds evenly. Henry said the police would have to take them. Emily said the police could have their fair cut and no more. Finally the train crept into Grand Central and the six of them hurried up the ramp, through the lower level, and out to the taxi stand. Emily snatched a cab from a Westchester broker with a sweet smile and a shove, and they tore uptown to the studio.

Henry was the first to enter. He found Roscoe getting out his brushes. “Morning, Roscoe,” he said, and pulled open the drawer of the secretary. There was nothing in the drawer.

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