Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories by Mary Higgins Clark Read Free Book Online Page B

will be there directly,” he said and hung up the phone. “Ben,” he called to the younger detective, his partner, who always accompanied him on his cases.
    Bennington Lyons sprang up from his chair. His desk was next to Twaddle’s. He looked even younger than his twenty-nine years. He had bright red hair, a cherubic face and a gym-toned body. Already a legend in the department, he had been promoted to Detective second grade after having been shot and nearly killed when, in his patrol car, he’d come upon two longtime felons breaking into Tiffany’s, the famed jewelry store on Fifth Avenue.
    A bullet to his shoulder, another to his leg, lying on the sidewalk,he had returned fire, wounding both suspects, preventing their escape. Few besides Twaddle knew that Ben was the heir to the Lyons oil refineries and had been brought up on Park Avenue, gone to Harvard and gotten his master’s at John Jay College.
    To avoid the limelight he now lived in a rental apartment in Queens, happily pursuing his career in the police department.
    Twaddle was sure that one day Bennington Lyons would be police commissioner.
    When they arrived at Alexandra’s apartment, they found that the medical examiner’s van was already parked and a crowd was gathering outside the building. The doorman, his voice shaken, directed them to Alexandra’s pied-à-terre. There, a policeman was outside, guarding the door.
    When he saw Twaddle and Lyons he stood aside to let them in. Twaddle stepped forward, his eyes narrowed as they registered the crime scene. At least six policemen were in the room. Even so, it was eerily quiet. A police photographer was snapping pictures. The medical examiner, Milton Helpern, was bending over the figure of a woman leaning to one side in the large club chair.
    Even Twaddle, as he came closer, was startled out of his usual calm when he saw that the victim’s face was covered by a chalklike mask.
    It was obvious that the knotted cord around the victim’s neck was the cause of death.
    â€œThe lock on the door to the terrace was jimmied. My guess is the victim was sitting in this chair and may not have even heard the perpetrator come in behind her until it was too late. There is no sign of a struggle,” Helpern said.
    â€œWhen?” Twaddle asked.
    â€œNot more than three hours ago. Maybe less.”
    â€œWho found her?”
    â€œHer sister and the sister’s husband. The sister went into shock.They’re in the guest bedroom. There’s a doctor who lives in the building. He came up and gave the sister a sedative. The victim was supposed to have met them at the airport. I got that from the sister’s husband.”
    Briefly he recounted what Mike had told him, including the fact that a cab driver claimed he had driven the victim home.
    Ben voiced the thought that was on Twaddle’s mind. “Then someone either followed her or was waiting for her.”
    Twaddle’s eyes went from one end of the room to the other. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Under different circumstances he would have admired the tastefully furnished room, but now he was only looking for any sign of a struggle.
    There was none.
    The layout of the apartment was easy to perceive. The double glass doors led to the terrace where the killer must have waited for Alexandra. To the right he could see a small dining room and knew that the kitchen would be connected to it.
    The hallway off the living room obviously led to the bedrooms. With Ben behind him, he headed there. They passed the master suite, then farther down the hallway, knocked on the closed door of the guest bedroom.
    Mike, red-eyed from lack of sleep, opened it. For the second time in a few minutes Twaddle was startled out of his usual impenetrable calm. The slender young woman, blonde hair spilling on the pillow, her eyes closed, was wearing exactly the same dress as the victim. She appeared to be asleep.
    In the next few