Read Online Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 by Carnal Hours (v5.0) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carnal Hours (v5.0)
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question and the one who hadn’t spoken yet still didn’t, just glanced at me and shook his head no. They might be native Bahamians, but these two had as much stiff-upper-lip reserve as any British bobbie.
The Westbourne gate was closed, but a white-helmeted black copper was there to open it for us. The crescent-shaped driveway was choked with cars, most of them black with police in gold letters on the doors—like the one I was in.
“Come with us, Mr. Heller,” the spokesman said, opening the car door for me politely, and I followed him up the steps onto the porch and inside, where I was greeted by an acrid, scorched smell that seemed to permeate the place. Had there been a fire?
Glancing about, I noticed the carpeting and wood on the stairway to the second floor were scorched; the banisters, too. But intermittently, as if a flaming man had casually walked up or down these stairs, marking his path….
“Mr. Heller?” This was a crisp, male, no-nonsense voice I’d not heard before. British.
I turned away from studying the stairs to see a military-looking figure approach, white, dimple-jawed, jug-eared, fiftyish, wearing a khaki uniform cut by the black leather strap of a gun belt, and a pith helmet with a royal insignia where a badge should be.
He looked like a very efficient, and expensive, safari guide.
“I’m Colonel Erskine Lindop, Superintendent of Police,” he said, extending a hand which I took, and shook.
“What crime has been committed here, that would bring brass like you around, Colonel?”
His hound-dog face twitched a smile, and he responded with a question. “I understand you’re a private investigator—from Chicago?”
“That’s right.”
He cocked his head back so he could look down at me, even though I had a couple inches on him. “Might I ask you to detail your business meeting with Sir Harry Oakes yesterday afternoon?”
“Not without my client’s permission.”
Lifting his eyebrows in a facial shrug, Lindop strode toward the stairs, saying, “Best come with me, then, Mr. Heller.”
He paused to curl a finger as if summoning a child.
And I followed him, like a good little boy.
“How did these stairs get scorched?” I asked.
“That’s one of the things I’m here to try to determine.”
There was mud and some sand on the steps, as well. I said, “If this is a crime scene, we’re walking right over somebody’s footprints, you know.”
He just kept climbing; our footsteps were echoing. “Unfortunately, these stairs were already well traversed by the time I got here.” He smiled back at me politely. “But your conscientiousness is appreciated.”
Was that sarcasm? With British “blokes,” I can never tell.
At the top of the stairs, there was a closed door to the right, a window straight ahead, and a short hallway to the left. The lower walls were scorched here and there. Smoke tainted the air, even more pungent than below. Lindop glanced back, nodding at me to follow him into a room down the hall. Right before you entered, fairly low on the white-painted plaster walls, were more sooty smudges. The inside of the open door had its lower white surface burn-blotched as well, and the carpet just inside the door was baked black, a welcome mat to hell.
Once inside, a six-foot, six-paneled cream-color dressing screen with an elaborate, hand-painted oriental design blocked us from seeing the rest of the large room. The Chinese screen had a large scorched area on the lower right, like a dragon’s shadow; a wardrobe next to the screen, at left, was similarly scorched. So was the plush carpeting, but oddly—circular blobs of black, some large, some small, as if black paint had been slopped there.
In here, the smell of smoke was stronger; but another odor overpowered it: the sickly-sweet smell of cooked human flesh.
It made me double over, and I fell into the soft armchair where wind was rustling lacy curtains nearby; a writing table next to me had a phone and a phone
The Westbourne gate was closed, but a white-helmeted black copper was there to open it for us. The crescent-shaped driveway was choked with cars, most of them black with police in gold letters on the doors—like the one I was in.
“Come with us, Mr. Heller,” the spokesman said, opening the car door for me politely, and I followed him up the steps onto the porch and inside, where I was greeted by an acrid, scorched smell that seemed to permeate the place. Had there been a fire?
Glancing about, I noticed the carpeting and wood on the stairway to the second floor were scorched; the banisters, too. But intermittently, as if a flaming man had casually walked up or down these stairs, marking his path….
“Mr. Heller?” This was a crisp, male, no-nonsense voice I’d not heard before. British.
I turned away from studying the stairs to see a military-looking figure approach, white, dimple-jawed, jug-eared, fiftyish, wearing a khaki uniform cut by the black leather strap of a gun belt, and a pith helmet with a royal insignia where a badge should be.
He looked like a very efficient, and expensive, safari guide.
“I’m Colonel Erskine Lindop, Superintendent of Police,” he said, extending a hand which I took, and shook.
“What crime has been committed here, that would bring brass like you around, Colonel?”
His hound-dog face twitched a smile, and he responded with a question. “I understand you’re a private investigator—from Chicago?”
“That’s right.”
He cocked his head back so he could look down at me, even though I had a couple inches on him. “Might I ask you to detail your business meeting with Sir Harry Oakes yesterday afternoon?”
“Not without my client’s permission.”
Lifting his eyebrows in a facial shrug, Lindop strode toward the stairs, saying, “Best come with me, then, Mr. Heller.”
He paused to curl a finger as if summoning a child.
And I followed him, like a good little boy.
“How did these stairs get scorched?” I asked.
“That’s one of the things I’m here to try to determine.”
There was mud and some sand on the steps, as well. I said, “If this is a crime scene, we’re walking right over somebody’s footprints, you know.”
He just kept climbing; our footsteps were echoing. “Unfortunately, these stairs were already well traversed by the time I got here.” He smiled back at me politely. “But your conscientiousness is appreciated.”
Was that sarcasm? With British “blokes,” I can never tell.
At the top of the stairs, there was a closed door to the right, a window straight ahead, and a short hallway to the left. The lower walls were scorched here and there. Smoke tainted the air, even more pungent than below. Lindop glanced back, nodding at me to follow him into a room down the hall. Right before you entered, fairly low on the white-painted plaster walls, were more sooty smudges. The inside of the open door had its lower white surface burn-blotched as well, and the carpet just inside the door was baked black, a welcome mat to hell.
Once inside, a six-foot, six-paneled cream-color dressing screen with an elaborate, hand-painted oriental design blocked us from seeing the rest of the large room. The Chinese screen had a large scorched area on the lower right, like a dragon’s shadow; a wardrobe next to the screen, at left, was similarly scorched. So was the plush carpeting, but oddly—circular blobs of black, some large, some small, as if black paint had been slopped there.
In here, the smell of smoke was stronger; but another odor overpowered it: the sickly-sweet smell of cooked human flesh.
It made me double over, and I fell into the soft armchair where wind was rustling lacy curtains nearby; a writing table next to me had a phone and a phone
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