Read Online Death as a Last Resort by Gwendolyn Southin - Free Book Online

tell you,” she answered angrily. “ Rien.”
    â€œDo you have any idea who the thieves were? It’s obvious that they knew exactly what was in those cupboards and in that safe.”
    â€œBut nobody know about Maurice’s objets ! The doors are always closed. See, like this!” And she demonstrated how the double set of doors closed and locked. “And Maurice say it is our secret.”
    â€œDid you ever wear any of that jewellery?” Nat asked.
    â€œOnly once. Maurice let me wear the bracelet with the blue beads to a big party. But it is too heavy and Maurice worry all the time that I lose it.”
    â€œDid your maid hear anything?” Maggie asked.
    â€œMy maid? Oh, you mean Theresa, my cleaning woman. She doesn’t come in until nine in the morning.”
    â€œYou’d better show us the rest of the house,” Nat said, walking toward the door. But it was just as Jacquelyn had said—nothing else had been disturbed.
    â€¢ • •
    â€œTHE THIEVES KNEW EXACTLY what they wanted,” Nat said on their way back to the office. “And that was the Egyptian antiquities.”
    â€œYes,” Maggie answered. “But the widow’s hands are still loaded with rings and they must be worth a mint!”
    â€¢ • •
    THE EXOTIC EASTERN EMPORIUM was a bit of a shock to Maggie’s rather conservative taste. As she stepped into the old building, she found herself overwhelmed by the heavy smell of incense, dust and old carpets. She wended her way carefully between tall Chinese vases, tables laden with Indian brassware, smiling Buddhas, scarabs of all sizes and mixed authenticity, decorative inlaid mahogany chests and black lacquered tables. Masses of carpets of varying sizes were piled on the floor or hanging on the walls. At the back of the store, a thin, henna-dyed woman was busy wrapping one of the Indian brass vases in a sheet of newspaper before slipping it into a paper bag.
    â€œThere you are then, luv,” she said to her customer. “Don’t use brass polish on it. Just give it a quick rub up with a duster.” As she handed the man his change, her bright button eyes took in Maggie.
    â€œSo what can I do for you, dear?” Her London accent sounded as if she had only just got off the boat.
    â€œI’m Maggie Spencer. I called yesterday?”
    â€œOh, that detective agency lady. I’m Rosie Smith. Just wait a sec while I get my youngest out here. “Noah!” she yelled. “Come out and mind the shop.”
    A hulking thirty-year-old appeared from somewhere, and a few moments later Maggie found herself in a back room, seated at a wooden table with a stewed cup of tea and a digestive biscuit in front of her.
    â€œYou this detective bloke’s secretary, then?” a man’s enormous voice demanded.
    Startled, Maggie turned to see a huge, moustached man glaring down at her. “Partner,” she answered, taking a sip of the bitter brew.
    â€œThis my tea, Rosie?” he asked, dropping four sugar lumps into a cup without waiting for an answer.
    â€œThis is my Henry,” Rosie said, sitting down opposite Maggie. “Now what do you want to know?”
    It took a few seconds for Maggie to pull herself together, as Henry was still standing over her, slurping his tea and chomping on biscuits. “Did you know Maurice Dubois well?”
    â€œNot really, I . . .”
    â€œDidn’t know the bloke at all,” Henry interrupted his wife.
    â€œWe met him up at that fishing camp,” Rosie carried on. “Thought it might be a nice place to retire to, but it’s too far for our lads to come and visit.”
    â€œThe only good thing about it,” Henry cut in again, “is that it would’a been too far for them to drop their offspring onto us. We done our bit.”
    â€œI understand your two sons were at the resort with you.”
    â€œWho told you that?” Rosie