Free Pursuit of a Parcel by Patricia Wentworth Page B

the window, and not very much else, because the room was getting dark. There was plenty of daylight outside, and would be for an hour or two yet, but it was a cloudy afternoon and, looking in from outside, the room seemed dark. What he did see was that she was tall, that she had fair hair hanging down on her neck, that she was wearing a green dress, and that she had something in her hand as she went out of the room. He could not tell what the something was, because her body screened it from him. He saw her put up her left hand to open the door—and why would she do that unless she had something in the other hand?
    She went out, shutting the door behind her, and he turned his attention to Mr. Holt. The suit-case was now, most fortunately, in his line of vision. Emanuel must have moved it, for up to now it had been quite out of sight. It stood sideways on to the window, and the lid was up. He could see the newspaper packing, and the square hole in the middle where the parcel had been. He had seen all that he wanted to see of Emanuel Holt.

VI
    As soon as Delia had left the room Jimmy Nash, who had been looking in at the study window, came out from among the lilacs and made his way to a spot convenient for the observation of the front door. He had got to find out for certain whether the parcel was going to leave the house or remain there. If he had not had that glimpse of the assembled Wayshot ladies, he would have been apt to conclude that the parcel which he had virtually seen in the possession of a fair-haired woman without a hat had arrived at its—temporary—destination. He did not intend it to remain there, but he had every reason to suppose that Mr. Holt did. But recollection of the Wayshot ladies shook his confidence. He could not imagine them all to be resident at Fourways, but at least half a dozen of them had no hats. Girls didn’t wear hats nowadays, not even in weather when you’d think they’d be glad to have something on their heads. It was a cursed nuisance, but he must keep his eyes skinned and make sure that the fair-haired woman didn’t slip out and leave him guessing.
    He had no difficulty in finding a vantage point. An old-fashioned shrubbery encircled the gravel sweep in front of the house. He got behind a lignum vitæ and wondered how long he would have to wait. If they stayed till after dark, he was done, but what with the black-out and the air raids, people who didn’t have to be out mostly got home by daylight, so he hoped for the best.
    He had a long time to wait. The shrubbery was extraordinarily draughty. He had a constitutional dislike of spiders, and after he had brushed one off his coat sleeve imagination presented a horrid picture of every spider he had ever seen or read about lurking ready to crawl up a trouser leg, or down his neck, or to come swiftly spinning on an unseen aerial to brush against his eyes, his forehead, his lips. Green spiders that you saw running in the grass—apple green, with a body like a bag. White spiders, like a drop of milk come alive with legs to it. Yellow spiders—where had he seen a yellow spider? He didn’t know. But there was a black one he’d seen a picture of and always wished he hadn’t—big as the palm of your hand, and black hairs on it. He blinked rapidly. A little chilly sweat came out on his temples. Crime also has its martyrs.
    He could almost find it in his heart to regret the long abandoned path of virtue. He had left it some fifteen years ago by way of one of those runs of bad luck which beset the impecunious when they plunge on the turf. He had taken money out of the till and gone shabbily to prison. Emerging, he looked about for a livelihood, starved, stole, and went to prison again. Next time he came out he found employment with a master who paid little and promised much. Sometimes the promises materialized, and sometimes they didn’t. There were risks to be taken, and—once in a