Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online Page B

It was for him.
    Eventually Jean felt sufficiently steeled for her encounter with Mrs Grüber and brought their desultory conversation to an end. She did not notice the alacrity with which Harry Morton rose to show her out, nor the speed with which he closed the door after her.
    Again he felt the chill of the corridor when the door was open. And even after it was closed there seemed to be a current of air from somewhere. He went across to his notebook and wrote down “Draught Excluder”.
    It was late October when she next went round to see the old man. She was surprised that he didn’t immediately open the door after she’d rung the bell. Instead she heard his voice hiss out, “Who is it?”
    She was used to this sort of reception from some of her old ladies, who lived in the conviction that every caller was a rapist at the very least, but she hadn’t expected it from such a sensible old boy as Harry Morton.
    She identified herself and, after a certain amount of persuasion, he let her in. He held the door open as little as possible and closed it almost before she was inside. “What do you want?” he asked aggressively.
    â€œI just called to see how you are.”
    â€œWell, I’m fine.” He spoke as if that ended the conversation and edged back towards the door.
    â€œAre you sure? You look a bit pale.”
    He did look pale. His skin had taken on a greyish colour.
    â€œYou look as if you haven’t been out much recently. Have you been ill? If you’re unwell, all you have to do is—”
    â€œI haven’t been ill. I go out, do my shopping, get the things I need.” He couldn’t keep a note of mystery out of the last three words.
    She noticed he was thinner too. His appearance hadn’t suffered; he still dressed with almost obsessive neatness; but he had definitely lost weight. She wasn’t to know that he was cutting down on food so that his pension would buy the “things he needed”.
    The room looked different too. She only took it in once she was inside. There was evidence of recent carpentry. No mess—all the sawdust was neatly contained on newspaper and offcuts of wood were leant against the kitchen table which Harry had used as a sawing bench—but he had obviously been busy. The ratchet screwdriver was prominent on the table top. The artefact which all this effort had produced was plain to see. The fine marble fireplace had been neatly boxed in. It had been a careful job. Pencil marks on the wood showed the accuracy of measurement and all of the screws were tidily countersunk into their regularly spaced holes.
    Jean commented on the workmanship.
    â€œWhen I do a job, I like to do it properly,” Harry Morton said defensively.
    â€œOf course. Didn’t you . . . like the fireplace?”
    â€œNothing wrong with it. But it was very draughty.”
    â€œYes.” She wondered for a moment if Harry Morton were about to change from being one of her easy charges to one of her problems. He was her last call that day and she’d reckoned on just a quick visit. She’d recently made various promises to Mick about spending less time with her work. He’d suddenly got very aggressively male, demanding that she should look after him, that she should have a meal ready for him when he got home. He also kept calling her “woman”, as if he were some character out of the blues songs he was always listening to. He didn’t manage this new male chauvinism with complete conviction; it seemed only to accentuate his basic insecurity; but Jean was prepared to play along with it for a bit. She felt there was something in the relationship worth salvaging. Maybe when he relaxed a bit, things would be better. If only they could spend a little time on their own, just the two of them, away from outside pressures. . . .
    She stole a look at her watch. She could spend half an hour with Harry and still be back at what Mick