Read Online Murder Begets Murder by Roderic Jeffries - Free Book Online Page B

that was true.
    ‘I want a full report on the present state of the investigations on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. Is that quite clear?’
    ‘Indeed, señor.’
    Salas hardly bothered to say goodbye before ringing off.
    Alvarez replaced the receiver, sighed, ran the palm of his hand over his forehead at the point where the hair was receding far too quickly for his peace of mind, and sighed again. He reached down to the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk and brought out a glass and a half-full bottle of brandy.
    He poured himself out a large drink and lit a cigarette. Sudden and unexpected death always raised questions, but usually these were quickly answered: the English, though, forever ungraciously awkward, seemed unable to die straightforwardly. It seemed as if Señorita Stevenage had died from some form of natural food poisoning. But wouldn’t she have felt the symptoms become worse and worse, and even if she had initially ignored them have made every effort to summon help instead of remaining in the kitchen? True Ca’n Ibore was partially isolated and without a telephone, but still it was difficult to believe she could not have dragged herself to the next house . . . If she had been poisoned, surely the motive must concern her lover? Francisca had heard her tell a man that she loved him and ‘he wasn’t going to mess around with other women or she’d make trouble for him: Señora Browning had visited the house unexpectedly and had been met by a woman whose eyes betrayed the fact that she had just been making love. (It made a man uneasy to learn how far a woman’s eyes betrayed her to another woman.) After the death of Señor Heron, whom she had been betraying so callously, had she expected her lover to love her openly, perhaps marry her? And had he decided that his only way of escape was to murder her, either because he didn’t love her that much, or he was married and unable or unwilling to obtain a divorce. . . ?
    Alvarez entered the block of flats and climbed the stairs and by the time he reached the third floor he was sweating profusely. He ate, smoked, and drank far too much: one day he would go on a diet, give up smoking, and limit himself to one drink a day.
    Waynton opened the door of Flat 10. Alvarez saw a face which suggested its owner had been around, had taken and given a few hard knocks, and had learned to face the world with a wry sense of humour.
    They went into the sitting-room which was also the dining-room, and sat.
    ‘Señor,’ said Alvarez, in his slow, tired-sounding voice, ‘you will know that Señorita Stevenage died and that her death was unfortunately not discovered until yesterday morning. I am now having to make certain enquiries. I understand you knew the señorita well?’
    ‘Without wishing to quibble, it depends what you mean by “well”. I saw her quite often, but only casually and it was merely a case of having a drink together or even just a chat.’
    ‘Will you tell me if you liked her?’
    Waynton looked curiously at the detective. ‘I suppose I didn’t really think of her in those terms. She was just an acquaintance.’
    ‘Then I wonder why, if you were not so very friendly with her, you saw her so frequently?’
    ‘Isn’t all this very immaterial?’
    ‘It may be of importance, señor.’
    ‘Why? Because there’s something odd about her death?’
    ‘I cannot answer you because I do not yet know.’
    ‘But you suspect or you wouldn’t be asking these questions?’
    Alvarez made no comment.
    ‘You asked me why I saw Betty as often as I did — it’s because she only had to see me in the far distance to rush over and nobble me.’
    ‘Nobble you?’
    Waynton allowed his irritation to surface. ‘I was introduced to her at a party and I said all the conventional, meaningless things one does and very quickly decided that we hadn’t much in common. Usually if one feels like that the other person does as well, so when you meet you just smile and pass