Free Kiss Kiss by Roald Dahl Page B

of the house. But still no one came.
      
So she took out her own key and opened the door herself.
      
The first thing she saw as she entered was a great pile of
mail lying on the floor where it had fallen after being slipped
through the letter box. The place was dark and cold. A dust

sheet was still draped over the grandfather clock. In spite of
the cold, the atmosphere was peculiarly oppressive, and there
was a faint and curious odour in the air that she had never
smelled before.
      
She walked quickly across the hall and disappeared for a
moment around the corner to the left, at the back. There was
something deliberate and purposeful about this action; she had
the air of a woman who is off to investigate a rumour or to
confirm a suspicion. And when she returned a few seconds
later, there was a little glimmer of satisfaction on her face.
      
She paused in the centre of the hall, as though wondering
what to do next. Then, suddenly, she turned and went across
into her husband’s study. On the desk she found his address
book, and after hunting through it for a while she picked up
the phone and dialled a number.
      
“Hello,” she said. “Listen—this is Nine East Sixty-second
Street. . . . Yes, that’s right. Could you send someone round
as soon as possible, do you think? Yes, it seems to be stuck
between the second and third floors. At least, that’s where the
indicator’s pointing. . . . Right away? Oh, that’s very kind of
you. You see, my legs aren’t any too good for walking up a
lot of stairs. Thank you so much. Good-bye.”
      
She replaced the receiver and sat there at her husband’s
desk, patiently waiting for the man who would be coming
soon to repair the lift.
Parson’s Pleasure
    Mr Boggis was driving the car slowly, leaning back comfortably
in the seat with one elbow resting on the sill of the open
window. How beautiful the countryside, he thought; how
pleasant to see a sign or two of summer once again. The primroses
especially. And the hawthorn. The hawthorn was exploding
white and pink and red along the hedges and the
primroses were growing underneath in little clumps, and it
was beautiful.
      
He took one hand off the wheel and lit himself a cigarette.
The best thing now, he told himself, would be to make for the
top of Brill Hill. He could see it about half a mile ahead. And
that must be the village of Brill, that cluster of cottages among
the trees right on the very summit. Excellent. Not many of his
Sunday sections had a nice elevation like that to work from.
      
He drove up the hill and stopped the car just short of the
summit on the outskirts of the village. Then he got out and
looked around. Down below, the countryside was spread out
before him like a huge green carpet. He could see for miles.
It was perfect. He took a pad and pencil from his pocket,
leaned against the back of the car, and allowed his practised
eye to travel slowly over the landscape.
      
He could see one medium farmhouse over on the right,
back in the fields, with a track leading to it from the road.
There was another larger one beyond it. There was a house

surrounded by tall elms that looked as though it might be a
Queen Anne, and there were two likely farms away over on
the left. Five places in all. That was about the lot in this
direction.
      
Mr Boggis drew a rough sketch on his pad showing the
position of each so that he’d be able to find them easily when
he was down below, then he got back into the car and drove
up through the village to the other side of the hill. From there
he spotted six more possibles—five farms and one big white
Georgian house. He studied the Georgian house through his
binoculars. It had a clean prosperous look, and the garden was
well ordered. That was a pity. He ruled it out immediately.
There was no point in calling on the prosperous.
      
In this square then, in this section, there were ten