The Chelsea Murders by Lionel Davidson Read Free Book Online Page B

me, from the throne.’
    ‘Oh, well, that’s beautiful. Well, it’s worth it, Frank.’
    ‘Worth what?’ Frank said.
    ‘It’s a risk. They haven’t got anyone yet. Still, that’s what we do. You’re volunteering in the morning, Frank. To the police.’
    ‘What are you talking about? Don’t be so absurd,’ Frank said, with fright.
    ‘Look, you can’t stay here. You haven’t been at school, or the language place, or the library. You’re not at home. Why aren’t you at home, incidentally? What do you mean it was cold in the flat?’
    ‘The heating is off. That old phantom is making them change the boiler. She’s frightened of fire,’ Frank said sulkily.
    ‘Oh, well, fantastic. Frank, you didn’t have any fix. What you had was a cold. You were really lousy. You told Germaine that when you were at the river, and she advised you to go home. So you jumped in a cab – police find cab-driver. And went home – interview with old throne person. In the morning you feel so lousy, though, you ask if I’ll let you use my fine heated pad.Well, of course I will. Escort you back to it, put you to bed, you’re looking so terrible. You haven’t heard about old Germaine . When I tell you tonight, you being so improved, your first thought is to go and tell the police what you know. Fault that!’ Steve said.
    Frank faulted it right away.
    ‘What are you talking about? I never heard such absurdity. Why should I go and give myself up? You know what the police are like!’
    ‘You aren’t giving yourself up. You’re eliminating yourself. In effect three of you are reporting there in the morning – you, the cab-driver and the lady in the loo.’
    ‘Oh, yes. Great effect. What if they don’t remember?’
    ‘It’s a risk,’ Steve admitted.

8
    ‘W HAT ’s up with you? Bark!’ Georges said in French.
    Ah, bark yourself, Artie silently told him. But he barked. ‘ Encore une bouteille de St Julien ’70! ’ They were supposed to yell out the wine orders. It made the place sound busy. It was busy, anyway. He’d been run off his feet since he’d gobbled the meal.
    They always had the meal together: the patron Georges; the two other waiters, the chef, the under-chef, the washer-up. From the moment he’d finished his coffee he’d been jumping around.
    Up and down the stairs from the store-room below, to the bar, to the kitchen, to the main diner, the two side diners. Set the dishes of crudités. Cut up the bread, prepare the biscuits, the cheeses, butter pots, sugar bowls, cruets, mustard.
    Then the early guests had started drifting in; candles lit; before he could sort out the fruit bowls.
    Non-stop since then.
    It was a good small restaurant, French provincial cuisine.
    He was an attraction with his Afro and his good French. He was the only one with regular English, anyway.
    He didn’t mind it. The money was okay for the nights he worked. He could eat there when he wanted. It was suitable in so many ways. But tonight he was in a black rage.
    ‘ Bonsoir, madame, m’sieur. Etes-vous prêts à commander? ’
    ‘I think we’ll lay into a steak unless you recommend –’
    English.
    ‘Well, the Canard à la Rouennaise is really a dream. The chef has excelled himself.’
    ‘Oh, perhaps in that case –’
    ‘ Le St Julien, ’70! ’ Serge barked, bustling up with it.
    ‘ Pour la table de quatre, là-bas ,’ Artie directed him. There was no sommelier, and Georges mainly did it, but when Georges casually sat down and chatted with the regulars, as he now had, Serge got it. That was the way the atmosphere was subtly maintained ; waiters running and barking, Georges genially relaxed.
    Artie heard his own tongue glibly running, and brooded.
    Steve was keeping something back. Some large unsuspected part was being kept back. He tried to control himself, but it was hard.
    He wrote the order and took the menus and hustled through to the kitchen. Albert, gaunt, butcher-aproned, was limping about there, working silently