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174 pages

English

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Mary Roberts Rinehart earned the nickname "The American Agatha Christie" by producing a vast body of tightly plotted mystery and detective fiction that influenced many subsequent writers in the genre. In The Man in Lower Ten, Rinehart's detective delves into a man's mysterious death on a passenger train.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775419594
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.

Extrait

THE MAN IN LOWER TEN
* * *
MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

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The Man in Lower Ten First published in 1910 ISBN 978-1-775419-59-4 © 2010 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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Chapter I - I Go to Pittsburg Chapter II - A Torn Telegram Chapter III - Across the Aisle Chapter IV - Numbers Seven and Nine Chapter V - The Woman in the Next Car Chapter VI - The Girl in Blue Chapter VII - A Fine Gold Chain Chapter VIII - The Second Section Chapter IX - The Halcyon Breakfast Chapter X - Miss West's Request Chapter XI - The Name was Sullivan Chapter XII - The Gold Bag Chapter XIII - Faded Roses Chapter XIV - The Trap-Door Chapter XV - The Cinematograph Chapter XVI - The Shadow of a Girl Chapter XVII - At the Farm-House Again Chapter XVIII - A New World Chapter XIX - At the Table Next Chapter XX - The Notes and a Bargain Chapter XXI - Mc Knight's Theory Chapter XXII - At the Boarding-House Chapter XXIII - A Night at the Laurels Chapter XXIV - His Wife's Father Chapter XXV - At the Station Chapter XXVI - On to Richmond Chapter XXVII - The Sea, the Sand, the Stars Chapter XXVIII - Alison's Story Chapter XXIX - In the Dining-Room Chapter XXX - Finer Details Chapter XXXI - And Only One Arm
Chapter I - I Go to Pittsburg
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McKnight is gradually taking over the criminal end of the business. Inever liked it, and since the strange case of the man in lower ten, Ihave been a bit squeamish. Given a case like that, where you canbuild up a network of clues that absolutely incriminate three entirelydifferent people, only one of whom can be guilty, and your faith incircumstantial evidence dies of overcrowding. I never see a shivering,white-faced wretch in the prisoners' dock that I do not hark back withshuddering horror to the strange events on the Pullman car Ontario,between Washington and Pittsburg, on the night of September ninth, last.
McKnight could tell the story a great deal better than I, althoughhe can not spell three consecutive words correctly. But, while he hasimagination and humor, he is lazy.
"It didn't happen to me, anyhow," he protested, when I put it up tohim. "And nobody cares for second-hand thrills. Besides, you want theunvarnished and ungarnished truth, and I'm no hand for that. I'm alawyer."
So am I, although there have been times when my assumption in thatparticular has been disputed. I am unmarried, and just old enough todance with the grown-up little sisters of the girls I used to know. Iam fond of outdoors, prefer horses to the aforesaid grown-up littlesisters, am without sentiment (am crossed out and was substituted.-Ed.)and completely ruled and frequently routed by my housekeeper, an elderlywidow.
In fact, of all the men of my acquaintance, I was probably the mostprosaic, the least adventurous, the one man in a hundred who would belikely to go without a deviation from the normal through the orderlyprocession of the seasons, summer suits to winter flannels, golf tobridge.
So it was a queer freak of the demons of chance to perch on myunsusceptible thirty-year-old chest, tie me up with a crime, ticketme with a love affair, and start me on that sensational and not alwaysrespectable journey that ended so surprisingly less than three weekslater in the firm's private office. It had been the most remarkableperiod of my life. I would neither give it up nor live it again underany inducement, and yet all that I lost was some twenty yards off mydrive!
It was really McKnight's turn to make the next journey. I had atournament at Chevy Chase for Saturday, and a short yacht cruise plannedfor Sunday, and when a man has been grinding at statute law for a week,he needs relaxation. But McKnight begged off. It was not the first timehe had shirked that summer in order to run down to Richmond, and I wassurly about it. But this time he had a new excuse. "I wouldn't be ableto look after the business if I did go," he said. He has a sort ofwide-eyed frankness that makes one ashamed to doubt him. "I'm always carsick crossing the mountains. It's a fact, Lollie. See-sawing over thepeaks does it. Why, crossing the Alleghany Mountains has the Gulf Streamto Bermuda beaten to a frazzle."
So I gave him up finally and went home to pack. He came later in theevening with his machine, the Cannonball, to take me to the station, andhe brought the forged notes in the Bronson case.
"Guard them with your life," he warned me. "They are more preciousthan honor. Sew them in your chest protector, or wherever people keepvaluables. I never keep any. I'll not be happy until I see GentlemanAndy doing the lockstep."
He sat down on my clean collars, found my cigarettes and struck a matchon the mahogany bed post with one movement.
"Where's the Pirate?" he demanded. The Pirate is my housekeeper, Mrs.Klopton, a very worthy woman, so labeled—and libeled—because of aferocious pair of eyes and what McKnight called a bucaneering nose. Iquietly closed the door into the hall.
"Keep your voice down, Richey," I said. "She is looking for the eveningpaper to see if it is going to rain. She has my raincoat and an umbrellawaiting in the hall."
The collars being damaged beyond repair, he left them and went to thewindow. He stood there for some time, staring at the blackness thatrepresented the wall of the house next door.
"It's raining now," he said over his shoulder, and closed the windowand the shutters. Something in his voice made me glance up, but he waswatching me, his hands idly in his pockets.
"Who lives next door?" he inquired in a perfunctory tone, after a pause.I was packing my razor.
"House is empty," I returned absently. "If the landlord would put it insome sort of shape—"
"Did you put those notes in your pocket?" he broke in.
"Yes." I was impatient. "Along with my certificates of registration,baptism and vaccination. Whoever wants them will have to steal my coatto get them."
"Well, I would move them, if I were you. Somebody in the next house wasconfoundedly anxious to see where you put them. Somebody right at thatwindow opposite."
I scoffed at the idea, but nevertheless I moved the papers, puttingthem in my traveling-bag, well down at the bottom. McKnight watched meuneasily.
"I have a hunch that you are going to have trouble," he said, as Ilocked the alligator bag. "Darned if I like starting anything importanton Friday."
"You have a congenital dislike to start anything on any old day," Iretorted, still sore from my lost Saturday. "And if you knew the ownerof that house as I do you would know that if there was any one at thatwindow he is paying rent for the privilege."
Mrs. Klopton rapped at the door and spoke discreetly from the hall.
"Did Mr. McKnight bring the evening paper?" she inquired.
"Sorry, but I didn't, Mrs. Klopton," McKnight called. "The Cubs won,three to nothing." He listened, grinning, as she moved away with littleirritated rustles of her black silk gown.
I finished my packing, changed my collar and was ready to go. Then verycautiously we put out the light and opened the shutters. The windowacross was merely a deeper black in the darkness. It was closed anddirty. And yet, probably owing to Richey's suggestion, I had an uneasysensation of eyes staring across at me. The next moment we were at thedoor, poised for flight.
"We'll have to run for it," I said in a whisper. "She's down there witha package of some sort, sandwiches probably. And she's threatened mewith overshoes for a month. Ready now!"
I had a kaleidoscopic view of Mrs. Klopton in the lower hall, holdingout an armful of such traveling impedimenta as she deemed essential,while beside her, Euphemia, the colored housemaid, grinned over awhite-wrapped box.
"Awfully sorry-no time-back Sunday," I panted over my shoulder. Then thedoor closed and the car was moving away.
McKnight bent forward and stared at the facade of the empty house nextdoor as we passed. It was black, staring, mysterious, as empty buildingsare apt to be.
"I'd like to hold a post-mortem on that corpse of a house," he saidthoughtfully. "By George, I've a notion to get out and take a look."
"Somebody after the brass pipes," I scoffed. "House has been empty for ayear."
With one hand on the steering wheel McKnight held out the other for mycigarette case. "Perhaps," he said; "but I don't see what she would wantwith brass pipe."
"A woman!" I laughed outright. "You have been looking too hard at thepicture in the back of your watch, that's all. There's an experimentlike that: if you stare long enough—"
But McKnight was growing sulky: he sat looking rigidly ahead, and hedid not speak again until he brought the Cannonball to a stop at thestation. Even then it was only a perfunctory remark. He went through thegate with me, and with five minutes to spare, we lounged and smokedin the train shed. My mind had slid away from my surroundings and hadwandered to a polo pony that I couldn't afford and intended to buyanyhow. Then McKnight shook off his taciturnity.
"For heaven's sake, don't look so martyred," he burst out; "I knowyou've done all the traveling this summer. I know you're missing a gameto-morrow. But don't be a patient mother; confound it, I have to go toRichmond on Sunday. I—I want to see a girl."
"Oh, don't mind me," I observed politely. "Personally, I wouldn't changeplaces with you. What's her name—North? South?"
"West," he snapped. "Don't try to be funny. And all I have to say,Blakeley, is that if you ever fall in love I hope you make an egregiousass of yourself."