Death Knocks Three Times by Anthony Gilbert

Author:Anthony Gilbert [Gilbert, Anthony]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2015-10-17T16:00:00+00:00

12

ROGER MARLOWE strode through the hall defiantly humming a contemporary catchy tune.

“You can have her, I don’t want her,” he sang under his breath. The lift was just going up and he went up in it. He wanted to be alone to think for a minute. He hadn’t anticipated that the old woman would be an easy pigeon to pluck, but he hadn’t believed she would go to the police until he heard her speak to her nephew, Marlowe might bluff all he pleased, but it certainly wouldn’t suit his book to have his record raked up. As for Isabel’s letters—they were far more valuable as a weapon to extort cash out of Isabel’s sister than as copy for the press. Miss Bond might be a big noise in Brakemouth but in the world at large she was just another of these domineering old ladies who are the pest of hoteliers and shopkeepers. She hadn’t really much publicity value, and anyhow it was so long ago. Unless, of course—his eyes brightened—these letters could be linked up with a more recent scandal. If she committed suicide he’d be on toast. All the same, he didn’t want to find himself pilloried as the man who drove the old woman to her death. He cursed John Sherren for his untimely entrance.

Like his antagonist, he was accustomed to fighting a lone hand, and he didn’t give in easily. He had had his defeats, of course, and as one got older one’s attractions faded. Sometimes, catching sight of himself in the morning before he was armed for the day, he would be shocked to see that lined, haggard face, the pouches under the eyes, the tousled gray hair. An hour later, of course, it was dif-‘ ferent. He was quite unrecognizable: a spruce, hearty, pleasantly spoken fellow, looking not much over fifty. Oh, he had a few years left. The old tricks were still good enough, and you couldn’t afford to let yourself go. Age was a man’s chief enemy. He thought sometimes, when vitality was at a very low ebb, about fellows who fall in front of trains or out of windows; but he knew he’d never follow their example. He hadn’t the nerve. His kind of life bred an insolent defiance. Brakemouth was still full of elderly unaccompanied women, who’d be good for a loan, if nothing else. And there were scores of Brakemouths all around the coast. He got up and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked every hour of his age now. What he wanted was a double Scotch, but in a place like this you’d be expected to pay for your drinks as you had them. He went despairingly through the pockets of his coat, but it was no good. He hadn’t change for five shillings in the world. The only thing to do was stroll down and look around as if he were expecting a friend. He could tell the barman he’d wait. Perhaps someone would offer

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