Free It's Murder at St. Basket's by James Lincoln Collier Page A

before I got there, and after four by the time I found Six Poultry Street. Of course I had to ask for directions.
    It was an old brick building, about five stories, with a creaky elevator. There wasn’t any directory downstairs, but I asked the elevator man for Mr. Plainfield, and he took me up to the fourth floor. I didn’t know what Mr. Plainfield did—he was a lawyer or stockbroker or something —but whatever it was, he was pretty important. First I had to give my name to some lady at a desk, and then she had to go through some doors, and finally when she came back, I had to be led through a whole big room full of underlings before I actually got to Mr. Plainfìeld’s office. He was sitting behind a big wooden desk, and in back of him you could just see a corner of St. Paul’s Cathedral out the window.
    â€œWell, Christopher,” he said, “To what do I owe this honor?” He put his feet up on a chair that was near his desk, but I noticed that he didn’t ask me to sit down. Mr. Plainfìeld is not really a bad guy. Actually I think he likes me, even if I am a bloody Yank. When I was down at their house, he always struck up a conversation with me about my interests and so forth, and didn’t make me go sightseeing, but took us to a car race.
    â€œWell, Sir,” I said, “I guess this is going to be pretty unbelievable to you, but it’s true.” And I told him the whole thing—about Jaggers slamming Choudhry with the hockey stick; and how they were trying to cover it up and keep us from telling anybody; and how David was beginning to get pretty sick. He just sat there sort of nodding and not saying anything until I got to the end. Then he took his legs off the chair, and sort of pushed it toward me with one foot. “Here, have a seat, old fellow,” he said.
    I pulled the seat around in front of the desk and sat down. “I know it sounds hard to believe, Sir.”
    He put his arms behind his head and leaned back. “You might rather say so, Christopher. You mean to tell me that Leslie is actually being held prisoner?”
    â€œWell, we tried to run out together and Miss Grime shouted for him and made him come back. But she didn’t see me.” I realized I’d forgotten to say Sir.
    â€œBut of course, Christopher, the school can’t have the boys wandering about London like orphans, you know.”
    â€œI know, Sir, but the thing is, what they’re really worried about is anybody finding out that Choudhry is hurt.”
    â€œSurely they have a doctor on tap?”
    â€œDr. Corps-Deadly, but—”
    â€œI expect if there’s any problem he’ll surely be called in.”
    I was getting pretty embarrassed at having to argue with Mr. Plainfield, and I warned myself to be polite and not mouth off. I knew if I just gave up and left I wouldn’t be able to even speak to Leslie and the rest when I got back. “Sir, I’m sorry I have to keep arguing, but I swear there’s really something funny going on. I know that probably sounds crazy.”
    â€œIt does a little, Quincy. This is England, you know. We don’t lead quite so dramatic lives here as you do in the States.”
    There was that stuff again. I tried not to let it get me mad. “Please, Sir, couldn’t you just call the police and ask them to investigate?”
    He leaned back. “Christopher, one simply can’t have the police around every time a schoolboy gets a bruising. In England, we expect the schools to exert a bit of discipline. From what I understand about America, discipline seems to have broken down. We hear these frightful stories about gangs of boys knifing their masters and that sort of thing. Try to understand, Christopher, here we don’t mind if a master gives a boy a bit of a warm bottom.”
    I wished Leslie had been there to stop Mr. Plainfield from blaming it all on my being American. “David