Wicked Uncle by Patricia Wentworth

offensive fellow—perhaps you’d like to crush him yourself.”
    Lamb grunted.
    “What’s it all about?”
    “Case of shoplifting. Maudie says the girl was framed. Says she saw a woman put a hand into her pocket, afterwards skipping to an assistant to lay information, and then vanishing from the scene to catch a train. Shall I put you through?”
    Lamb’s grunt must have conveyed assent. It was followed by a click and the impact on his ear of a voice which he thoroughly disliked. A shrewd and experienced observer of human nature, he deduced the man who has made a bloomer and is trying to bluster his way out. He stemmed the current by announcing himself.
    “Chief Detective Inspector Lamb speaking.” Every syllable slowly and ponderously fraught with authority.
    The manager had to begin all over again, and didn’t like it. He began to wish that he had apologized to Dorinda Brown and left Scotland Yard alone.
    The Chief Inspector stopped him before he had got very far.
    “I have nothing to do with what happened in your shop. If you wish to charge anyone, it is a matter for the local station. In so far as your inquiries relate to Miss Maud Silver, I am prepared to deal with them. I know her very well and can assure you that she is an entirely credible witness. She has been of great use to the police on many occasions, and if I may say so, you would be well advised to be guided by her opinion. If she says this girl is innocent, you’d better believe her—she knows what she’s talking about. One moment—I will speak to her, just to make sure of her identity.”
    In the manager’s office Miss Silver took up the receiver with a preliminary cough.
    “Chief Inspector Lamb? How very pleasant to hear your voice! You are well, I hope?… And Mrs. Lamb?… And the daughters?”
    When the compliments were over Lamb was pleased to relax into a chuckle.
    “What have you been up to?”
    “My dear Chief Inspector!”
    The chuckle became a laugh.
    “Had to come to the police to get you out of it—eh? Now, you know, that’s very pleasant for us—isn’t it?”
    “I am always quite certain that I can rely upon you,” said Miss Silver gravely. She handed the receiver back to the manager, whose bald head had now assumed the colour of a beetroot, and stepped back.
    Made aware of the change, Lamb said briskly and ungrammatically,
    “There’s only one Miss Silver, and that’s her all right.”
    Chapter VIII
    Justin Leigh was a little puzzled by his Dorinda. She had remembered to wear clothes which he had once commended. She appeared to be in perfect health, and she seemed to be extremely pleased to see him. But all the same, there was something. Her attention wavered, and he missed the zest which should have accompanied the selection of a furbelow at somebody else’s expense. Mrs. Oakley’s ideas on the subject of what should be paid for an evening frock seemed to be thoroughly sound.
    Dorinda, who had never scaled such giddy heights, ought to have been leaping from peak to peak with carefree enthusiasm, instead of which she remained aloof. It wasn’t until The Dress had been extracted from some inner shrine and reverentially displayed that she seemed to be taking any interest at all.
    The Dress had a compelling effect. She said “Oh!” and her colour rose. Justin remarked that she had better try it on, and she retired to do so.
    When she came out in it there were of course no doubts. It was It. It had that magic touch so impossible to describe. It moulded, and it flowed. It was dead plain. By some subtle art the unrelieved black made her hair look richer than gold. It brightened her eyes, it brightened her skin.
    Justin said in rather an odd tone,
    “That’s the ticket. Go and take it off, or there won’t be time to have any lunch.”
    When the dress had been packed up and a vast sum paid for it, they took it away with them.
    Justin had found a new place for lunch, their table pleasantly retired in a shallow recess.