CHAPTER SEVENA Crime Book
At five o’clock sharp Gamadge was in the vestibule of the Austen house, looking at a short, shrivelled maid in a plain apron; she had deep-sunk dark eyes, dyed black hair, and a mouth so puckered by wrinkles that it resembled the drawn-up opening of a reticule.
Gamadge handed her his card, which she received on her tray. He said: “They expect me, I believe.”
“Yes, sir.” Norah had a smile for any friend of the Austens’, a smile which turned up the tight corners of the mouth and did not affect her eyes. She closed the door behind him while he took off his hat and coat.
“Any news of Mrs. Austen?” he asked.
“No, sir.” Norah accepted the hat and coat from him.
“Too bad.”
Norah was bursting with it: “Too bad! It is, and I say good riddance to her.”
“You didn’t c
