The Unfinished Crime the Girl Who Had to Die by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Author:Elisabeth Sanxay Holding [Holding, Elisabeth Sanxay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General
ISBN: 9781933586410
Google: DC6xNAEACAAJ
Amazon: 1933586419
Publisher: Stark House Press
Published: 2013-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

THERE was a car waiting outside the house, and they got into it.

“Give!” said Killian.

“Wait till we get on the boat,” said Harriet.

“That's a good technique,” he said, approvingly. That's the way to make bad news worse.”

“Oh, don't be such a clown!” she said. This isn't any fun for me.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“I've got to.”

“I know why you're going to tell me this bad news,” Killian said. “Because it's right. It's the Decent Thing to do. It's playing the game. It's—”

“Oh, shut up!” she said, and that made him laugh.

He liked her to say that. She narrowed her eyes so that her ginger-coloured lashes were meshed; she looked like a cross little yellow cat, and he liked that. He liked her to be cross and vigorous and young.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-two,” she answered.

Three years older than Jocelyn, are you? he thought. Only Jocelyn hasn't any age. She's like the Lorelei, or one of those things. This Harriet is young. “Do you go to college?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “I'm a teacher.”

“What kind of teacher?”

“I teach art,” she said. “Want to make something of it?”

“Well, are you an artist?”

“Very talented,” she said.

He was delighted; that was the only word. He was pleased by everything she said, pleased by her looks and by her voice that was a little rough. He admired the way she handled the car.

“Do you like me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

She turned into a lane, with high rocky banks; they came out of this on to the shore road and, abruptly, upon a miserable little settlement of tumble-down houses, wired chicken yards, a clothesline strung between two pine trees, and then a strange blank space, with a shack, a pier, and a signboard. Boats for Hire. A motorboat was tied up to the pier, very smart, white and yellow paint, and a dark blue awning. As Harriet was locking the car, a man came out of the cabin, stepped on to the pier, and came toward them. A big, gaunt man, burnt brick red, with fair hair rather long and parted on the side, a string of fair moustache. He was in shirt sleeves and braces, with a white covered yachting cap on the back of his head.

“Well, good morning, Captain,” said Harriet.

He touched the visor of his cap. “'Morning,” he said. “Where's Miss Jocelyn?”

“Sound asleep,” said Harriet. “I've brought Mr. Killian.”

He touched his cap again, and turned back to the boat. There were wicker armchairs on the afterdeck, and a table. Harriet and Killian sat here, and the Captain brought them an excellent breakfast: coffee, toast, bacon and eggs, melon. Nobody said a word. When he had set everything before them, he went inside and started the engine, and off they went. There was a good breeze, the awning slatted, the white tablecloth fluttered.

“Swede?” Killian asked.

“Scandinavian of some sort,” she answered. “Anderson, or Peterson, or Larsen—I've forgotten, because he's always called Captain. He was a ship's captain once, but something happened to him.

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