Free Hide My Eyes by Margery Allingham Page A

charming story,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to disclaim it.”
    “Oh, Matt, you haven’t forgotten the Avenue, that dreadful wet night when there were murders going on all round.”
    He stared at her in amazement. “You’re rambling.”
    “I’m not. There was a murder going on in the very next street. Next day the papers were full of it. You
must
remember the moneylender who was taken away in a ’bus?”
    “I do,” Annabelle put in unexpectedly. “There were other people in the ’bus too, which made it idiotic. Didn’t you read about it?”
    “No.” Mr. Phillipson wiped his hands of the whole affair. “I avoid crime except when I have to deal with it. I must go. Goodbye, Miss Tassie. Enjoy your stay in London. Goodbye, Polly my dear. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll telephone you either tonight or tomorrow morning.”
    He went off down the path, waved from the gate, and strode away, a slender upright figure. Polly watched him go with deep affection.
    “Such a sound old boy,” she remarked. “So kind, and he’ll never take thanks. I rely on him. He’s my common sense.”
    The girl glanced at her curiously.
    “I don’t think he paid the taxi-man that time, though, do you? I think he rather wished it
had
been him.”
    “Oh, but he must have.” Polly put an arm round the tweed-clad shoulders as they went into the house. “Who else could it have been? I’ve lived most of my life up north, I haven’t many old friends in London.”
    “Perhaps it was the murderer.” Annabelle was delighted with the mystery and her voice was full of joyous nonsense. “I know, the murderer saw you and thought you might recognise him and stop him, and so he got you out of the way. That means he’s someone you know.”
    “Don’t!” Polly’s reaction was so violent it startled even herself. As the word escaped her she looked astonished. “Oh, how you frightened me,” she said, laughing as she caught sight of herself in the hall glass. “I’ve gone white. What a horrible idea, darling. No, of course it was Matt, bless him. I knew it at the time. Otherwise I wouldn’t have dared to get into the cab, would I?” She paused for a moment, her hand on the stair rail. “No,” she repeated at last. “I know some damn silly boys but no murderers, thank God. Besides,” she added with complete inconsequence, “I had a postcard from Gerry, sent from Yorkshire and dated that very evening. I noticed it particularly at the time. Come along, my poppet, it’s nearly late enough. Let’s make ourselves a cup of tea.”

Chapter 7
    AFTERNOON WITH MUSIC
    THE MAN WHO had introduced himself as Jeremy Chad-Horder, and had disclaimed his wartime rank of Major as out of date, was still chattering amiably.
    “As the nineteen fifty-seven car said, between you and me dearie, the trouble is I can’t tell my boot from my bonnet,” he remarked cheerfully as he and Richard paused outside the huge plate-glass window of the Piccadilly motor salesroom. “I find that’s the most important thing to remember about modern cars. If they appear to be shrinking it’s all right, they’re going away. I perceive it is closing time. Where shall we stagger next to top up the alcoholic content? What about the Midget Club in Minton Mews?”
    “Good idea.” Richard noticed with relief that he had kept all trace of doggedness out of his tone. They were both very sober, he suspected, although they had so far visited the Rivoli, the Small Bar of the Café, Ley’s Oyster House, and an assortment of pubs of varying elegance. At each of these establishments his companion had been recognised and sometimes with enthusiasm, but they had stayed long nowhere. The younger man had been able to hold his own financially and socially, but it had been an effort and so far he had succeeded in discovering little more about the stranger than had been apparent at the barber’s.
    Beyond the fact that he was obviously a charming and convincing liar, very little