Read The Corpse in the Cellar for Free Online

shadows stretching away into blackness, the terrors of childhood seemed to come back with a rush. The darkness gathered itself into the monstrous shapes of nightmares and advanced towards us menacingly.
    In broad sunlight the tale of murder and butchery this cellar had witnessed was a harmless folktale. But now, in the darkness, in the presence of death, the imagination played tricks, and shadows seemed to hide the pulsating menace of ghostly revenge. Quite suddenly Boris had ceased to be a funny name in an old tale, and had become, in my imagination, powerful phantom hands reaching out of the grave.
    I shivered and tried to shake off the tricks my mind was playing on me.
    Then I looked again at Constable Dixon, whose mouth was opening and closing as he gasped for air—like a man drowning in the deep end of the swimming pool hoping that someone would notice before he had to embarrass himself by crying out for help.
    â€˜I suggest, old chap,’ said Warnie in a fatherly manner, ‘that you make a quick search of this cellar before your superiors turn up and ask you where the weapon is.’
    â€˜Search?’ asked the constable. ‘Ah, yes. A search. Thank you, sir. Very good idea, sir.’
    He unhitched an electric torch from his belt and turned on its powerful beam. He swept this around the small room. We saw a plain concrete floor, brick walls, the closed and locked vault door, a couple of broken office chairs—and nothing else. There was no knife, and there appeared to be nowhere a knife could be hidden.
    â€˜Well . . . ’ began the policeman cautiously, ‘this is very strange. I don’t understand . . . ’ Then he reached a decision. ‘We all have to go back upstairs,’ he said firmly. ‘You gentlemen first, and I’ll follow right behind you. Then I’m locking that door at the top of the stairs and calling Inspector Hyde. He’ll know what to do.’
    Back in the office Constable Dixon made his phone call. When he got to the part explaining that Franklin Grimm was dead, the office girl, sitting at the next desk, howled and burst into tears. When Dixon hung up the phone, he rather awkwardly tried to comfort the sobbing girl, reaching out a tentative hand to pat her shoulder and muttering, ‘There, there.’
    â€˜Can I get you a glass of water . . . or something,’ mumbled Warnie, feeling as uncomfortable as the rest of us in the face of the girl’s distress.
    She sniffed, dabbed at her eyes and nose with a pathetically small piece of lace handkerchief, and then whispered, ‘No . . . no, thank you. I’ll be all right in a moment.’
    Within three minutes of the phone call Inspector Hyde was striding through the front door of the bank. He was a bustling, efficient, restless little man. Beside him was a taller, solidly built, stocky man, later introduced to us as Sergeant Donaldson.
    â€˜Where’s the body, Dixon?’ the inspector demanded, without a glance at us.
    Constable Dixon unlocked the cellar door and led his senior officers down the stairs. We heard them moving about and speaking quietly, and when they returned ten minutes later the inspector was saying, ‘Well, where is the weapon, Dixon? Answer me that?’
    The constable had the good sense to remain silent. The inspector waved a hand at us, asking Dixon, ‘Are these the witnesses you mentioned?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Gentlemen, I must ask you to wait here a little longer while we take additional statements. And I’d ask you not to leave Market Plumpton without my permission.’ Jack, Warnie and I glanced at each other. Our prospects of a walking holiday were sinking fast.
    â€˜Now, young lady,’ said the inspector, turning his attention to the tear-stained office girl. ‘The bank is closed for the remainder of the day. You are to lock the front door.’
    She blinked the tears from her eyes and said, ‘But it’s