She said against his shoulder,
“Are you, Bill?”
And Bill said,
“We are.”
THE END
About The Author
PATRICIA WENTWORTH was born Dora Amy Elles in India in 1877 (not 1878 as has sometimes been stated). She was first educated privately in India, and later at Blackheath School for Girls. Her first husband was George Dillon, with whom she had her only child, a daughter. She also had two stepsons from her first marriage, one of whom died in the Somme during World War I.
Her first novel was published in 1910, but it wasn’t until the 1920’s that she embarked on her long career as a writer of mysteries. Her most famous creation was Miss Maud Silver, who appeared in 32 novels, though there were a further 33 full-length mysteries not featuring Miss Silver—the entire run of these is now reissued by Dean Street Press.
Patricia Wentworth died in 1961. She is recognized today as one of the pre-eminent exponents of the classic British golden age mystery novel.
By Patricia Wentworth
and available from Dean Street Press
The Benbow Smith Mysteries
Fool Errant
Danger Calling
Walk with Care
Down Under
The Frank Garrett Mysteries
Dead or Alive
Rolling Stone
The Ernest Lamb Mysteries
The Blind Side
Pursuit of a Parcel
Standalones
The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith
The Red Lacquer Case
The Annam Jewel
The Black Cabinet
The Dower House Mystery
The Amazing Chance
Hue and Cry
Anna Belinda
Will-O’-the-Wisp
Beggar’s Choice
The Coldstone
Kingdom Lost
Nothing Venture
Red Shadow
Outrageous Fortune
Touch and Go
Fear by Night
Red Stefan
Hole and Corner
Mr. Zero
Run!
Weekend with Death
Silence in Court
Patricia Wentworth
Rolling Stone
Not a breath. Nothing. Just a dead man lying there on the tumbled bed…
PETER TALBOT, on assignment for his uncle, Frank Garrett of the Foreign Office, takes the place of Spike Reilly, member of a gang of art thieves that have recently added murder to their repertoire. Another burglary, and ‘Spike’ is the receiver of stolen goods on the terrace of the Cresswells’ impressive country place. The girl he loves, Terry Clive, is involved, not to mention others also staying at the house. Peter and Terry will find that pitting their wits against a merciless killer is the most lethal of pastimes for two young lovers.
Rolling Stone was originally published in 1940, and is a treat for every mystery novel connoisseur. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
“When I pick up a book by Patricia Wentworth I think, now to enjoy myself—and I always do.” Mary Dell, Daily Mirror
Rolling Stone—Chapter One
The rain fell in a fine, steady drizzle. The young man in the armchair looked up from the letter he was writing and glanced with dislike at a prospect where nothing pleased and man appeared viler than usual. It had been raining all day. Everything was very wet. And instead of being the cleaner for this continuous shower-bath, everything, steep tilted roofs, narrow street, small shops, and a wavering, havering, haphazard straggle of men women children and dogs, appeared to be even dirtier than usual.
The room was a bare one, the arm chair dowdy, sagging, but not uncomfortable. The man who occupied it had one leg crossed above the other at a fantastic angle. He brought his eyes back from the window to a writing-block precariously perched against the tilted knee and went on writing. A loosely built young man of indeterminate features, in repose expressionless. But just now when he had looked at the rain they had changed. Something quick, vivid and angry had looked out. Then he was back at his writing, pen running fast, left hand steadying the block.
“I think I’ve found the man. Wrong expression—as you were—I am on his track. Dictionary for sleuths, use of—don’t the department issue it? If not, why not? All right, all right, I’m coming to the point. You know I didn’t ask to be dragged into sleuthing, so you’ll just have to take me as you find me. It will, I feel, do you—and the department—a lot of good. Query—is the Foreign Office Secret Service a department? Probably not. That’s the sort of moss a rolling stone like me doesn’t gather. Yes, I’m really coming to it—the point, cher maître, the point.”
Here the young man grinned suddenly, showing good teeth. He was ready to bet that no one had ever called Colonel Garrett cher maître before, and he had a clear and pleasant picture of what Garrett’s reactions would be. Then he went on writing.
“He calls himself Pierre Riel. I am told he is Spike Reilly. I think he may be the goods. Someone told a girl, who told a man, who told a girl, who told another man, who told me that Mr. Spike had once talked in his cups. Moral of this—all criminals should join their local Band of Hope. I go now to take a room in the same pub as Spike. Viewed from the outside it presents every appearance of being about as low in the social scale as you can get. If I fall a victim to dirt, drains or bugs, I presume that a grateful government will pay for my obsequies.
Yours unofficially,
J.P.T.
P.S. I shall post this on my way. Another thrilling installment tomorrow.
P.P.P.S., or what comes next. It’s been raining ever since I got here.
N.B. That is all, cher maître.”
The grin showed again for a fleeting moment. Then, with the letter enveloped and stamped, suit-case in hand and raincoat on back, Mr. Peter Talbot clattered down a steep and rickety stair and sallied reluctantly forth into the rain.
He posted the letter, and pursued a damp and devious course through a number of mean and narrow streets. The odd thing was that his spirits kept on rising. And, paradoxically, this was a depressing circumstance. He even groaned over it slightly himself, because, on his own private barometer, that sudden lift was a certain indication of cyclones ahead, and at this stage of the proceedings while the blood mounted to Peter’s head, he could still be aware that his feet were cold.
He was whistling between his teeth when he came to the Hotel Dupin and pushed through into its narrow, dingy hall.
A room? But certainly m’sieu could have a room. If m’sieu would register. And the suit-case of m’sieu would be taken up, bien sûr.
Peter Talbot stood with the pen in his hand and looked at the register. Five—no, six names up, illegibly scrawled, the name of Pierre Riel. Something sang in his ears. He bent down and signed the good old-fashioned name of John Smith.
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
Copyright © 1936 Patricia Wentworth
Introduction copyright © 2016 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
The right of Patricia Wentworth to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her estate in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1936 by Hodder & Stoughton
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 911413 06 6
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
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