The Marx Sisters by Barry Maitland Read Free Book Online Page A

looked as if she might have suffered from some serious illness in recent years, or perhaps, further in the past, a spell in one of the Third Reich’s more horrific institutions. Her silver hair was drawn tightly back into a bun, emphasizing the lack of flesh on her skull. Her throat and wrists were corded and criss-crossed with what appeared to be pale scars. Yet the eyes that glittered through her steel-framed glasses were needle-sharp.
    ‘Good afternoon,’ Brock said amiably. ‘I am very interested in your bratwurst, and possibly some cheese, but perhaps you could give me a small guided tour of your specialities.’
    Mrs Rosenfeldt gave a little smile and began to outline the things under the glass display cases. Brock settled for some pumpernickel, Westphalian ham, a jar of pickled herrings which he knew he should avoid, a dozen bratwurst (having established that freezing wouldn’t spoil their flavour), a large slice of Allgau cheese, some sliced poltava salami and a small tub of black kalamathes olives.
    As she wrapped these up and placed them in a plastic carrier bag, Mrs Rosenfeldt said, ‘You’re one of the police looking into Mrs Winterbottom’s death, aren’t you?’ The way she said it suggested that death was a familiar fact which didn’t have to be hedged around with euphemisms or hushed tones. Her voice was low, almost masculine, and with a strong German or Central European accent.
    ‘That’s right. I understand you weren’t in your shop here yesterday?’
    ‘Yes. I spoke to a detective this morning.’
    ‘But you must have known Mrs Winterbottom well?’
    ‘She was my landlady.’
    ‘She seems to have been very popular in the neighbourhood.’
    ‘Oh, she knew everybody. Liked to know everythinggoing on.’ The tone suggested some reservations about people who liked to know everything going on.
    ‘You mean she might have been a bit too concerned with other people’s business?’
    ‘I didn’t say that. I was very fond of her, myself.’
    ‘But others weren’t?’
    She hesitated. ‘All I’d say is’—she stared intently at Brock—‘when I heard that she might have been murdered, my first thought was, they should speak to those Nazis in the Croatia Club.’
    ‘Nazis?’
    She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve said enough. I have to live here, you know. I said what I said. Maybe it’s a clue for you, maybe not, I don’t know.’
    Brock picked up his carrier bag and thanked her. As the door tinkled shut behind him he turned and looked back through the shop window. She was standing motionless in the shadows at the back of the shop, a pale wraith, watching him.
     
    On the drive down through South London to Kent, Kathy told Brock what the door-to-door inquiries had produced.
    ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it, in a street like that, with the net curtains twitching every time we appeared this morning, that nobody admits to having been by a window overlooking either the front or the back of number 22 yesterday afternoon. Not one.’
    ‘Always the way. Anybody remember seeing any strangers in the block?’
    ‘Well, the thing is that there are always strangers passing through, so no one takes any notice unless they do something odd. It’s like living next to a railway line. After a while you just don’t hear the trains any more. The only outdoor areas you’d call private are the yards behind the buildings. Mr Hepple parks his car in one of them when he comes,and there’s a jumble of sheds and open yards with an access passage from Carlisle Street on the west side of the block. But no one remembers seeing anybody there yesterday afternoon. It’s all very frustrating. Inspector MacDonald said he wanted Mollineaux and the other two for another job, and I couldn’t really argue.’
    ‘Never mind. Perhaps Mr Winter-without-the-bottom will break down and confess when we beat him about the head and shoulders with a bratwurst. Did you get some lunch, by the way?’
    Kathy shook her head and