Death from a Top Hat Read Free Page A

her side. Her eyes, imbedded in a blunt, yet somehow handsome, face were black holes, in each of which a tiny spark of light burned fiercely. She had an immense amount of jet-black hair which possessed an astonishing look of vitality and almost seemed to be growing before my eyes, in slow burnished movement. She wore a black evening wrap which she clutched around her awkwardly, as if she were cold.
    I knew that she must be the owner of that oddly haunted voice, which, coming through my door, had talked of death.
    Tarot shattered the Colonel’s rush of incipient oratory with simple directness. Without my noticing it, he had resumed his kneeling position at the keyhole, and I now saw that he held in his hands a key ring on which were a number of queerly shaped, angular bits of metal. I knew, intuitively, that they were picklocks.
    “Turn off the spiel, Watrous,” he cut in, “and go see if that kitchenette door is locked.”
    The Colonel stuttered in mid-sentence and then quickly did as he was told, going toward another door some twenty feet down the hall. Tarot caught my look of surprise as I saw the implements in his hand.
    “You think,” he said, “that Sabbat is out. I don’t.”
    “Nor do I!” As Madame Rappourt spoke I was looking full at her. Her lips did not move.
    “That milk bottle,”—Tarot pointed at a pint of coffee cream standing near the door—” has presumably been there since early this morning. It is now six-thirty P.M. He hasn’t been out today, and besides…” He sat back on his heels and announced, with measured intonation, “This keyhole has been stuffed up from the inside!”
    I watched the vague ghost of a smile materialize around Madame Rappourt’s mouth.
    Watrous exclaimed loudly, “What!” and began pounding noisily on the kitchen door.
    “Here, take this.” Tarot drew one of the picklocks from the ring and flung it toward Watrous. It rattled along the floor. “See if that keyhole’s stuffed too.” Tarot started probing again at the lock, one of the mortise-knob type with the large keyhole such as is ordinarily found on connecting doors.
    Involuntarily I sniffed, and was again conscious of a vague laboratory odor. “I’d better call the police,” I said, turning.
    Tarot whirled on me.
    “You’ll do nothing of the sort—yet!” he said threateningly. “Watrous!”
    “This lock’s stuffed up too!” Watrous shouted, his voice pitched high. His velvety bumbling gone, he almost squeaked, “I think I may be able to push it out, though.” He fumbled at the lock.
    “Try it.” Tarot scowled and then added quickly, “Hell, no! Don’t be a fool. If he’s stuffed the keyhole, he’s probably thrown the bolts he has on these doors. Picking the locks won’t do us a damn bit of good. We’ll have to break in.”
    Watrous came running back to where we stood. His face had taken on a purplish hue. He quavered breathlessly, “Perhaps Mr. Harte here has something we can smash a panel with.” He looked at me.
    I was still glaring angrily at the officious Tarot. I turned without answering, went into my apartment and got the heaviest stick of firewood I had. Returning, I ignored Tarot’s outstretched hand and shoved it at Watrous. Then I walked back in to the phone and dialed Operator. “To hell with Tarot,” I was thinking, “he can’t push me around.” I told the operator to get me Police Headquarters and to snap into it.
    Outside I could hear the battering of wood upon wood as I explained to an official, somewhat bored voice at headquarters that someone at 742 East 40th Street had possibly committed suicide by gas. I went back to the corridor and found that Watrous had succeeded in splintering one panel of the door. Another powerful swinging blow cracked it open, and a heavy cloying odor came out.
    “Can you reach the bolt?” Tarot demanded.
    Watrous crooked an arm through the opening, and we heard the sound of sliding metal. His hand was busy an instant longer, and