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298 pages

English

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Known for her tightly plotted mysteries, American author Mary Roberts Rinehart hits it out of the park with The Breaking Point. A gem from the golden era of detective fiction, the novel follows seemingly timid protagonist Elizabeth Wheeler, whose placid existence is thrown into disarray by a murder. Forced into the role of detective, Elizabeth tries to set things right again. Dive into The Breaking Point for an enthralling whodunit.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775451723
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE BREAKING POINT
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MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

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The Breaking Point First published in 1922 ISBN 978-1-775451-72-3 © 2011 The Floating Press While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV XXXV XXXVI XXXVII XXXVIII XXXIX XL XLI XLII XLIII XLIV XLV XLVI XLVII XLVIII
I
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"Heaven and earth," sang the tenor, Mr. Henry Wallace, owner of theWallace garage. His larynx, which gave him somewhat the effect of havingswallowed a crab-apple and got it only part way down, protruded abovehis low collar.
"Heaven and earth," sang the bass, Mr. Edwin Goodno, of the meat marketand the Boy Scouts. "Heaven and earth, are full—" His chin, large andfleshy, buried itself deep; his eyes were glued on the music sheet inhis hand.
"Are full, are full, are full," sang the soprano, Clare Rossiter, of theyellow colonial house on the Ridgely Road. She sang with her eyes turnedup, and as she reached G flat she lifted herself on her toes. "Of themajesty, of Thy glory."
"Ready," barked the choir master. "Full now, and all together."
The choir room in the parish house resounded to the twenty voices of thechoir. The choir master at the piano kept time with his head. Earnestand intent, they filled the building with the Festival Te Deum of DudleyBuck, Opus 63, No. 1.
Elizabeth Wheeler liked choir practice. She liked the way in which,after the different parts had been run through, the voices finallyblended into harmony and beauty. She liked the small sense ofachievement it gave her, and of being a part, on Sundays, of theservice. She liked the feeling, when she put on the black cassock andwhite surplice and the small round velvet cap of having placed in herlocker the things of this world, such as a rose-colored hat and a bluegeorgette frock, and of being stripped, as it were, for aspirations.
At such times she had vague dreams of renunciation. She saw herselfcloistered in some quiet spot, withdrawn from the world; a place wherethere were long vistas of pillars and Gothic arches, after a photographin the living room at home, and a great organ somewhere, playing.
She would go home from church, however, clad in the rose-colored hat andthe blue georgette frock, and eat a healthy Sunday luncheon; and by twoo'clock in the afternoon, when the family slept and Jim had gone to thecountry club, her dreams were quite likely to be entirely different.Generally speaking, they had to do with love. Romantic, unclouded younglove dramatic only because it was love, and very happy.
Sometime, perhaps, some one would come and say he loved her. That wasall. That was at once the beginning and the end. Her dreams led up tothat and stopped. Not by so much as a hand clasp did they pass thatwall.
So she sat in the choir room and awaited her turn.
"Altos a little stronger, please."
"Of the majesty, of the majesty, of the majesty, of Thy gl-o-o-ry," sangElizabeth. And was at once a nun and a principal in a sentimental dreamof two.
What appeared to the eye was a small and rather ethereal figure withsleek brown hair and wistful eyes; nice eyes, of no particular color.Pretty with the beauty of youth, sensitive and thoughtful, infinitelyloyal and capable of suffering and not otherwise extraordinary wasElizabeth Wheeler in her plain wooden chair. A figure suggestive of nodrama and certainly of no tragedy, its attitude expectant and waiting,with that alternate hope and fear which is youth at twenty, when all oflife lies ahead and every to-morrow may hold some great adventure.
Clare Rossiter walked home that night with Elizabeth. She was a tallblonde girl, lithe and graceful, and with a calculated coquetry in herclothes.
"Do you mind going around the block?" she asked. "By Station Street?"There was something furtive and yet candid in her voice, and Elizabethglanced at her.
"All right. But it's out of your way, isn't it?"
"Yes. I—You're so funny, Elizabeth. It's hard to talk to you. But I'vegot to talk to somebody. I go around by Station Street every chance Iget."
"By Station Street? Why?"
"I should think you could guess why."
She saw that Clare desired to be questioned, and at the same timeshe felt a great distaste for the threatened confidence. She loathedarm-in-arm confidences, the indecency of dragging up and exposing, inwhispers, things that should have been buried deep in reticence. Shehesitated, and Clare slipped an arm through hers.
"You don't know, then, do you? Sometimes I think every one must know.And I don't care. I've reached that point."
Her confession, naive and shameless, and yet somehow not without acertain dignity, flowed on. She was mad about Doctor Dick Livingstone.Goodness knew why, for he never looked at her. She might be the dirtunder his feet for all he knew. She trembled when she met him in thestreet, and sometimes he looked past her and never saw her. She didn'tsleep well any more.
Elizabeth listened in great discomfort. She did not see in Clare'shopeless passion the joy of the flagellant, or the self-dramatizationof a neurotic girl. She saw herself unwillingly forced to peer intothe sentimental windows of Clare's soul, and there to see Doctor DickLivingstone, an unconscious occupant. But she had a certain fugitivesense of guilt, also. Formless as her dreams had been, vague and shy,they had nevertheless centered about some one who should be tall, likeDick Livingstone, and alternately grave, which was his professionalmanner, and gay, which was his manner when it turned out to be only acold, and he could take a few minutes to be himself. Generally speaking,they centered about some one who resembled Dick Livingstone, but whodid not, as did Doctor Livingstone, assume at times an air of frightfulmaturity and pretend that in years gone by he had dandled her on hisknee.
"Sometimes I think he positively avoids me," Clare wailed. "There'sthe house, Elizabeth. Do you mind stopping a moment? He must be in hisoffice now. The light's burning."
"I wish you wouldn't, Clare. He'd hate it if he knew."
She moved on and Clare slowly followed her. The Rossiter girl's flowof talk had suddenly stopped. She was thoughtful and impulsivelysuspicious.
"Look here, Elizabeth, I believe you care for him yourself."
"I? What is the matter with you to-night, Clare?"
"I'm just thinking. Your voice was so queer."
They walked on in silence. The flow of Clare's confidences had ceased,and her eyes were calculating and a trifle hard.
"There's a good bit of talk about him," she jerked out finally. "Isuppose you've heard it."
"What sort of talk?"
"Oh, gossip. You'll hear it. Everybody's talking about it. It's doinghim a lot of harm."
"I don't believe it," Elizabeth flared. "This town hasn't anything elseto do, and so it talks. It makes me sick."
She did not attempt to analyze the twisted motives that made Clarebelittle what she professed to love. And she did not ask what the gossipwas. Half way up Palmer Lane she turned in at the cement path betweenborders of early perennials which led to the white Wheeler house. Shewas flushed and angry, hating Clare for her unsolicited confidence andher malice, hating even Haverly, that smiling, tree-shaded suburb which"talked."
She opened the door quietly and went in. Micky, the Irish terrier, layasleep at the foot of the stairs, and her father's voice, reading aloud,came pleasantly from the living room. Suddenly her sense of resentmentdied. With the closing of the front door the peace of the houseenveloped her. What did it matter if, beyond that door, there wereunrequited love and petty gossip, and even tragedy? Not that she put allthat into conscious thought; she had merely a sensation of sanctuaryand peace. Here, within these four walls, were all that one should need,love and security and quiet happiness. Walter Wheeler, pausing to turn apage, heard her singing as she went up the stairs. In the moment of theturning he too had a flash of content. Twenty-five years of married lifeand all well; Nina married, Jim out of college, Elizabeth singing herway up the stairs, and here by the lamp his wife quietly knitting whilehe read to her. He was reading Paradise Lost: "The mind is its ownplace, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven."
He did a certain amount of serious reading every year.
On Sunday mornings, during the service, Elizabeth earnestly tried tobanish all worldly thoughts. In spite of this resolve, however, she wasalways conscious of a certain regret that the choir seats necessitatedturning her profile to the congregation. At the age of twelve she haddecided that her nose was too short, and nothing had happened sinceto change her conviction. She seldom so much as glanced at thecongregation. During her slow progress up and down the main aisle behindthe Courtney boy, who was still a soprano and who carried the great goldcross, she always looked straight ahead. Or rather, although she wasunconscious of this, slightly up. She always looked up when she sang,for she had commenced to take singing lessons when the piano music rackwas high above her head.
So she still lifted her eyes as she went up the aisle, and was extremelyserious over the whole thing. Because it is a solemn matter to take anumber of people who have been up to that moment engrossed in thoughtsof food or golf or servants or business, and in the twinkling of an eye,as the pra