Calamity Town Read Free

Hunter’s death and he called the house “Calamity House” in his yarn. Frank fired him. Frank’s friendly with the Wrights.’
    â€˜Of all the nonsense!’ chuckled Mr Queen.
    â€˜Just the same, nobody’d buy,’ muttered J.C. ‘John offered to rent. Nobody’d rent. Too unlucky, people said. Still want to rent, Mr Smith?’
    â€˜Yes, indeed,’ said Mr Queen cheerfully. So J.C. started his car again. ‘Family seems ill-fated,’ observed Ellery. ‘One daughter running off and another’s life blasted by a love affair. Is the youngest daughter normal?’
    â€˜Patricia?’ J.C. beamed. ‘Prettiest, smartest filly in town next to my Carmel! Pat’s going steady with Carter Bradford. Cart’s our new County Prosecutor…Here we are!’
    The real estate man steered his coupé into the driveway of a Colonial-style house sunk into the hillside far off the road. It was the largest house, and the trees on its lawns were the tallest trees, that Ellery had seen on the Hill. There was a small white frame house close by the large one, its windows shuttered.
    Mr Queen kept looking at the blind and empty little house he intended to rent all the way up to the wide Wright porch. Then J.C. rang the bell and old Ludie in one of her famous starched aprons opened the front door and asked them what in tarnation.

3
    â€˜Famed Author to Live in Wrightsville’
    â€˜I’ll tell Mr John you’re callin,’ sniffed Ludie, and she stalked out, her apron standing to each side of her like a Dutch cap.
    â€˜Guess Ludie knows we’re here to rent Calamity House,’ grinned Mr Pettigrew.
    â€˜Why should that make her look at me as if I were a Nazi Gauleiter? ’ asked Mr Queen.
    â€˜I expect Ludie doesn’t think it proper for folks like the John F. Wrights to be renting out houses. Sometimes I don’t know who’s got more pride in the family name, Ludie or Hermy!’
    Mr Queen took inventory. Lived in. There were a few aged mahogany pieces of distinction, and a beautiful fireplace of Italian marble. And at least two of the oil paintings had merit. J.C. noticed his interest. ‘Hermione picked out all the pictures herself. Knows a lot about art, Hermy does—Here she is now. And John.’
    Ellery rose. He had expected to meet a robust, severe-faced female; instead, he saw Hermy. Hermy always fooled strangers that way; she’s so tiny and motherly and sweet-looking. John Fowler Wright was a delicate little man with a brown countryclub face. Ellery liked him at sight. He was carrying a stamp album with practised care. ‘John, this is Mr Ellery Smith. He’s looking to rent a furnished house,’ said J.C. nervously. ‘Mr Wright, Mrs Wright, Mr Smith. A-hrmm!’
    John F. said in his reedy voice that he was mighty proud to meet Mr Smith, and Hermy held out her hand at arm’s length with a sweet ‘How do you do, Mr Smith,’ but Mr ‘Smith’ saw the iced gleam in Hermy’s pretty blue eyes and decided that in this instance, too, the female was deadlier than the male. So he was most gallant with her. Hermy unbent a little at that and poked her slender lady’s fingers in her sleek gray hair, the way she always did when she was pleased, or fussed, or both.
    â€˜Of course,’ said J.C. respectfully, ‘I thought right off of that beautiful little six-roomer you built next door, John—’
    â€˜I don’t at all like the idea,’ said Hermione in her coolest voice, ‘of renting, John. I can’t imagine, Mr Pettigrew—’
    â€˜Maybe if you knew who Mr Smith is ,’ said J.C. quickly.
    Hermy looked startled. John F. hitched forward in his wing chair near the fireplace. ‘Well?’ demanded Hermy. ‘Who is he?’
    â€˜Mr Smith,’ said J.C., throwing it away, ‘is Ellery Smith, the famous author.’
    â€˜Famous author!