Death Knocks Three Times Read Free

head under the water and then go for a nice walk. If he didn’t drown he’d choke. Simple as pie. He looked at the great hooks that held the lid in place. They seemed firm enough, but you could never be sure.
    Outside the rain roared and the wind shouted. There would be no going on tonight. Even this solid old barracks seemed to rock on its foundations.
    Bligh came back with a fine, embroidered towel, and a piece of kitchen soap, but no suggestion of hot water. The mirror was hung too high for a man of his stature and the glass was silvered. However, he didn’t suppose the Colonel would notice if he came down naked.
    “This is a funny break,” he reflected, presently following Bligh downstairs. “What’s in it for Walter?”

2
    S EEN at close quarters. Colonel Sherren proved to be a huge old man dressed in a very old-fashioned dinner suit and a fantastic black tie. Crook’s characteristic reflection was, “Well, if he got a snap invitation to a fancy-dress ball he wouldn’t have to change a thing.”
    The room in which the two men sat was enormous, cold as a coffin and, like the rest of the house, lighted by lamps. Crook told himself if anything happened to these two I suppose they could fossilize here before anyone discovered ‘em.
    He wondered, not too optimistically, if the old fellow had ever heard of beer. More likely to be offered a glass of vintage port, and he’d be expected to roll it about, nod his head and practically gargle with it. He wondered if Providence would strike him dead if he said he was a teetotaller.
    “One thing, you’ve got plenty of room here,” he remarked, controlling an impulse to shout. “Many evacuees during the war?”
    “They came,” said the Colonel grimly, “but when they saw we hadn’t all these new-fangled modern conveniences they went away again. Quite right, too. I don’t keep this house to shelter a lot of hothouse brats or aged lunatics.”
    Dinner was as bad as Crook had anticipated. During the interminable evening the old man unbent a little. He said he couldn’t think how it was Crook had found the place at all. Crook said perhaps it was Providence.
    “What’s that mean?” snapped the Colonel.
    “One of these days I might be some use to you.”
    “Good of you to suggest it. What d’ye do?”
    Crook told him.
    “Lawyer, eh? Nothing in that line wanted here. Got all my affairs fixed up.”
    “Can’t be sure,” insisted Crook. “F’rinstance, how can you be certain you ain’t breaking the law?”
    “Which one?”
    “That’s just it. There are about ten thousand. No chap can hope to keep ‘em all.”
    “And what can you do? Persuade the police I haven’t broken it?”
    “Could be,” said Mr. Crook, modestly.
    “Humph!” The old man snorted. “You ought to meet my nephew. He writes books.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Crook, looking intelligent. “What you buy off stalls on railway stations. Me, I don’t use the railways much.”
    “If they try and sell John’s claptrap at railway bookstalls it’s not surprising railway shares are dropping. It’s my belief he bribes the publishers to put ‘em out.”
    “Perhaps his wife,” began Crook, but die old chap snorted.
    “John’s not married. He’s a landlady’s pet. And from the look of
    him you’d think when she polished the furniture she gave him a polish, too. Face like an apple and eyes like currants. Always the little gentleman. Even in the war …” He broke off an instant, considering. Then, “What’s M.I.5?” he shot out.
    “Something hush-hush at the War Office, they tell me.”
    “Trust John to get on to something like that. Probably holds the world’s record for listening at key-holes. Did well, he tells me. John Sherren, the Whitehall Wonder. But wear a uniform? Not him. Damn it, man, I said, can’t you even join the Home Guard? But he might have got his dear little face dirty. Pshaw! My brother’s boy. Posthumous. Brought up by women. Not surprising he writes novels, I