Artists in crime by Ngaio Marsh

Author:Ngaio Marsh
Language: pt
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Police Procedural, Detective and mystery stories, Mystery & Detective, Fiction - Mystery, Detective, General, Suspense, Talking books, Fiction
ISBN: 9780515075342
Publisher: Jove
Published: 1984-07-15T11:17:40+00:00

"Were you?"

"Yers. In service. Lidy be the name of Wells. Then she died of dibeets and I'adter come down to daily. It's all right in service, you know. Comferble. Meals and that. Warm."

"It's beastly to be cold," said Alleyn.

"That's right," she said dimly.

Alleyn felt unhappily in his pocket and she watched him. Inside the room Miss O'Dawne began to whistle. On the next landing a door banged, and a young man in a tight fitting royal blue suit tripped lightly downstairs, singing professionally. He had a good stare at Alleyn and said: " 'Morning, ma? How's tricks?"

" 'Mornin', Mr. Chumley."

"Look out, now, I don't want to kick the bucket just yet." He vaulted neatly over the wet steps and disappeared in full voice.

" 'E's in the choreus," said the charlady. "They get a lot of money in the choreus."

She had left her dustpan on the landing. Alleyn dropped his gloves, and as he stooped he put two half-crowns under the dustpan. He did it very neatly and quickly but not neatly enough, it seemed.

"Yer dropped some money, sir," said the charlady avidly.

"That's--that's for you," said Alleyn, and to his relief the door opened.

"Take your place in the queue and don't rush the ushers," said Miss O'Dawne. Alleyn walked in.

Miss O'Dawne's bed-sitting-room looked a little as if it had been suddenly slapped up and bounced into a semblance of tidiness. The cupboard doors had an air of pressure from within, the drawers looked as if they had been rammed home under protest, the divan-bed hunched its shoulders under a magenta artificial-silk counterpane. Two jade green cushions cowered against the wall at the head of the bed, the corner of the suit-case peeped out furtively from underneath. Miss O'Dawne herself was surprisingly neat. Her make-up suggested that she was a quick-change artist.

"Sit down," she said, "and make yourself at our place. It's not Buckingham Palace with knobs on, but you can't do much on chorus work and 'Hullo, girls, have you heard the news?' Seen our show?"

"Not yet," said Alleyn.

"I've got three lines in the last act and a kiss from Mr. Henry Molyneux. His breath smells of whisky, carbide and onions, but it's great to be an actress. Well, how's tricks?"

"Not so wonderful," said Alleyn, feeling for the right language.

"Cheer up, you'll soon be dead. I was going to make a cup of coffee. How does that strike you?"

"It sounds delightful," said Alleyn.

"Well, we strive to please. Service with a smile. No charge and all questions answered by return in plain envelopes."

She lit her gas-ring and clapped a saucepan over it.

"By the way you haven't told me who you are?"

"My name's Roderick Alleyn, I'm afraid-- "

"Roderick Alleyn? Sounds pretty good. You're not in the business, are you?"

"No, I'm-- "

"Well, if you'll excuse my freshness you look a bit more Eton and Oxford than most of Sonia's boyfriends. Are you an artist?"

"No. I'm a policeman."

"And then he came to. Is this where the big laugh comes, Roddy?"

"Honestly."

"A policeman? Where's your make-up? Pass along there, please, pass along there.

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