The Devil Loves Me - Paul Pyre 03 by Margaret Millar

Author:Margaret Millar [Millar, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

When he got to the first floor Aspasia was standing in the hall. She turned pale at the sight of him.

“Jackson,” she said. “Jackson.”

One of the tight white curls on the top of her head had come loose and was straggling over her forehead, making her look rakish.

“Something has happened, Jackson?”

He glanced down at her and smiled almost affectionately. He was smiling because she was only a silly, weak little woman and nothing ever happened to her, nothing like finding a man with three eyes.

He said, “I’m afraid it has, Miss O’Shaughnessy. It might be better if you went to your room.”

Aspasia tossed the curl from her forehead. She seemed about to make a sharp retort, but instead she said sadly, “Oh, Jackson, people are always telling me to go up to my room. Please tell me what has happened.”

“Someone is dead,” Jackson said.

“Jane,” Aspasia whispered. “I told her—I warned—”

“Not Miss Stevens,” Jackson said. He moved past her down the hall. When he rapped on the library door he looked back and saw her going upstairs hanging on to the banister, moving her feet slowly and painfully.

Why, she’s old, Jackson thought with surprise, she’s quite old. His head was feeling light, he didn’t know why, and a chuckle kept forcing its way up from his stomach. Mr. Williams was dead, and Miss Aspasia was old, and Jackson was very young and alive.

The door opened and he said quietly, “Mr. Williams is dead, Inspector, shot through the forehead in the billiard room.”

“All right,” Sands said. “All right.”

Jackson stared at him. Well, by God, he thought, this is a fine thing. You get murdered, and the law says all right. Isn’t that a fine thing?

Sands walked down the hall with brisk steps. He didn’t want to see the dead Mr. Williams but he kept moving his feet quickly down the steps and into the billiard room.

The room was quite dark now and he fumbled for the light switch. The green-shaded ceiling lights went on and Mr. Williams was clearly visible in the glare. Sands walked over and touched his cheek. It was warm but not as warm as it had been.

There had been a fire, Sands saw. Mr. Williams was sitting some distance from the fireplace. The heat from it would not have kept him this warm. So he died quite recently, Sands thought.

While I was upstairs. Someone had the almighty guts to kill him while I was upstairs.

Some of his anger spilled over on Mr. Williams. He said through his teeth, “His own fault. His own damn fault.”

He had been shot at close range, Sands decided. There were powder marks around the wound. He had died instantly, almost before he had time to bleed, and the gun had been fired by someone he knew, someone who was standing in front of the chair where he was sitting relaxed and comfortable after his game of billiards. He had had a cue in his hand. It lay now beside the chair where it had fallen.

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