One Foot in the Grave by Peter Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page B

look as though he were poised an inch above it, like a frame from a film of a man in the act of springing up. He leaned forward.
    â€œWe’ll cut the corners and save time,” he said. “This is just prelim. And you know the form, of course. Now, deceased was George Tosca, employed here as security guard with some other duties. Body found on top of water tower, two shots in back of head, close range. Death instant, around eight forty-five, give or take half an hour. Soon after death, but long enough for blood to begin drying, body turned over to lie on its back. Body discovered at ten fifty-two by Sankey, the night porter, following up remarks made by you. Right?”
    â€œI don’t remember talking to Sankey.”
    â€œBut finding the body?”
    â€œI suppose so. Dressed like an actor?”
    â€œThat’s right. Did you touch it?”
    â€œI moved his arm. Before I knew what it was.”
    â€œYou didn’t turn him over?”
    Pibble could only shake his head, letting the gesture indicate how far from possible such an effort would have been.
    â€œLying on his back?” insisted Cass.
    â€œUr.”
    â€œYou didn’t see the weapon?”
    â€œNo. Where …”
    â€œOn the far side of the body—tucked under him, almost. Somebody wearing knitted gloves had wiped it and put it there. Size of hand unknown—we were lucky to get the knitting. See anything else?”
    â€œDon’t know. Fairly beat up by then—climbing, you know. My legs aren’t … wasn’t there a room? Up. Second floor? A long garden chair. Something on the floor—I thought it was a snake, but I suppose …”
    â€œHis holster. Black leather, with crossbelt. He’d put a lot of polishing into it, but it only had his own prints.”
    â€œ. . . And a paraffin stove, was it? I didn’t see the stove, but I think I smelt it.”
    Mike Crewe answered, carefully toneless.
    â€œHe’d made himself comfortable, Jimmy. He was supposed to be guarding that side of the main building. He’d been issued with a loud hailer and a high-powered rifle, as well as his handgun. But he’d made himself comfortable. Chair to lie down in, radio, paraffin heaters. The window was shut and misted up on the inside, too.”
    â€œAll those guns?”
    â€œLicenses quite in order. Special permission.”
    â€œHe must have been something special himself, then,” said Pibble.
    â€œNot really,” said Mike, still noncommittal. “He came here with one of the residents—job-description chauffeur, but more like a bodyguard. Flycatchers is used to that sort of setup, so they took him onto the security staff. Only he doesn’t seem to have taken his duties very seriously.”
    â€œHe did his rounds very regularly,” said Pibble. “You could set your watch by him.”
    â€œHow do you know?” said Cass, just managing not to pounce.
    â€œI’m right above the kitchen door. I used to hear him coming and going.”
    â€œBut not on Thursday night,” said Cass.
    â€œI mightn’t have heard. There was a storm.”
    â€œThere was too,” said Cass, softly.
    A brief pause, as though that section of the interview had ended and they were about to move on to fresh ground. But Pibble recognized the moment well—he had used it himself, often. You let the chappie relax, think he’s clear, and then you punch him. It was surprising how well his own wits seemed to be working, as though the policemen’s presence—Mike’s in particular—was restorative, forcing him to square moral shoulders, pull up moral socks, not be seen in a state of total dissolution, though he might well have to take refuge in that state, because this surge of energies had brought him to another decision. With Jenny in the room he was going to stick to his lie. It shouldn’t do much damage. He’d be bound to be able to see