Read Online The Strange Attractor by Desmond Cory - Free Book Online

“Get me the police,” he said crisply. “This is an emergency.” That, at least, was what he meant to say. What he actually said was, “Mmmmmm-mmmm-mmmm.” He’d forgotten about the bloody sticking-plaster. He reached up and ripped it off, over-hurriedly. “Owwwwwwwwww,” he said, in a high shrill excited voice.
    The telephone operator seemed unimpressed. “What service did you require, madam?”
    “I’m not a madam, I’m me, I mean it’s a man. I want the police.”
    “ One moment, madam,” the operator said.
     
     
     
     
     
     

2
     
     
     
     
     
    “Very inclement weather tonight,” Inspector Jackson observed.
    “It is indeed.”
    “For being called out, I mean, on this kind of a caper.”
    Jackson was, like most policemen, a patient man and one, moreover, well accustomed to dealing with amiable (and some not so amiable) lunatics. He had, indeed, only that morning been summoned forth to investigate the case of one Henrietta Byrd, reported missing, possibly kidnapped, from her parents’ home; Henrietta had turned out to be a budgerigar, this somewhat to Jackson’s chagrin. The facts of the Henrietta Byrd affair, however, he had elucidated pretty quickly – as soon, indeed, as the bereaved owner had shown him Henrietta’s cage, forlornly empty; while the facts that this Dobie character was recounting seemed to make very little sense at all. “What it all boils down to, sir, is that you feel you’ve reason to suspect a crime to have been committed, but you’re far from being sure as to its actual nature . Does that sum it up fairly?”
    “Except that she’s gone. Jane has. Mrs Corder.”
    “Ah, but gone where , if you see what I mean? I take it there’s a Mr Corder about?”
    “Oh yes.”
    “So where’s he?”
    “I’ve no idea,” Dobie said. “He may be still at his office. Corder Acoustics. In Cardiff.”
    Jackson looked at his wrist-watch. “A bit late for that, isn’t it?”
    “He does work late most days.”
    “But he lives here, I suppose?… Well, I expect we can trace him without too much trouble. But maybe we shouldn’t notify him until things are a little clearer. Let’s see now. Last seen wearing. The lady had on a raincoat, I think you said?”
    “Navy blue raincoat, yes. The sort with the hood thing you can pull up over your head. I couldn’t see much else but she was wearing dark slacks, I think they were navy blue as well. And shoes, of course. Black shoes.”
    “Not boots?”
    “No, definitely not boots. Shoes. With flat heels.”
    Sober, Jackson had already decided. And even coherent. Up to a point. Going by what Dobie said , there had to be at the very least a strong presumption of foul play, but the presumption didn’t seem to be strong enough to justify the pressing of all the alarm bells. Jackson flipped his notebook shut. “I’ll ask you to excuse me for just a moment, sir…”
    Detective-Sergeant Box was in the kitchen, gazing gloomily at the floor. Red and ochre tiles, not very revealing. There were marks on it all right, but then there are marks on most kitchen floors. “Find anything?”
    “Bit of blood,” Box said, with no very marked relish. “Over by the sink.”
    “Says he cut himself trying to get loose.”
    “Yes, there’s blood on the knife blade too. No more’n a drop. Wasn’t a stabbing, whatever else may have happened.”
    “Puzzle, isn’t it,” Jackson said. It wasn’t a question. He picked up one of the frayed strips of silk that Box had collected and carefully placed on the kitchen table, surveyed it, put it down again. “Check the car?”
    “Yes. In the garage. Motor’s warm. The Fiesta, that’s Mr Dobie’s. Checked that, too.”
    “Warm?”
    “No. Cooled off. Been out in the rain.”
    Jackson fingered his lip thoughtfully. When all was said and done… two cars here and only one person. “We’ll have that knife anyway. And the whisky decanter. When the hell’s that Evans going to get here?”
    “Probably