DEATH BEFORE WICKET - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

Death Before Wicket
‘Yes. I need to talk to a cop; I’ll ring Jack Robinson and
get him to find a useful one for me, and I’ll comb the dens of
iniquity tomorrow. If Chas and his friends haven’t seen Joan,
of course.’
‘Miss Phryne, you don’t think my sister is in any danger, do
you?’ asked Dot. ‘If you did, you’d go and find her right now,
even if you do have to dine with the Vice Chancellor.’
‘Sorry, Dot dear, I really am sorry,’ said Phryne. ‘But you’re
right. I don’t think she’s being held against her will, no. I think
she’s fallen into bad company. That doesn’t make her any less
your sister, nor am I less concerned about her. But I’m not
getting anywhere asking questions from the outside. I need
an insider—perhaps Chas, perhaps someone else. I need the
equivalent of Bert and Cec. This looks like the bell,’ she added,
and pressed it.
A window opened far above and a female voice called, ‘Who’s
there?’
‘Phryne Fisher,’ Phryne yelled back. ‘Looking for—’
‘Don’t say it!’ urged a male voice behind the woman. ‘Cop
this and come in, Phryne. Third floor.’
A key tied to a celluloid baby doll bounced down the flaking
blue paint of the facade. Phryne caught it. The kewpie had been
filled with sand and was quite heavy.
Phryne and Dot mounted the hollowed sandstone steps
through a peeling blue door and climbed stairs. The house smelt
strongly of frying onions and old mattresses. They avoided a
pram on one landing (it contained a collection of newspapers
and bottles) and a dismembered bicycle on the next, finally arriving
out of breath at the third floor attic. The landing was gritty
with fallen plaster and Phryne was out of humour. When the
door opened and she could speak again, she demanded, ‘What’s
going on, Chas? You knew I was coming today.’
‘The landlady’s been around,’ whispered Chas through a face
full of stubble.
‘That’s why you are growing a beard?’ Phryne was amused.