Death in High Heels Read Online Free PDF Page A

person eloquent of the most meticulous attention. Sick and depressed, he flung back the covering to hide the ugly seam pulling together the thick white skin, and began to jot down remarks in his little black book.
    “Who did the p.m.?” he asked the attendant.
    “Dr. Littlejohn, sir.”
    “Oh, thank the Lord; he’s a fellow I know. Can I have a word with him?”
    Littlejohn appeared, wiping fastidious hands. “Hallo, Charlesworth, what do you want?”
    “Somewhere to be sick, said Charlesworth, promptly.”
    “Good heavens, you’ve been here often enough; it isn’t like you to be squeamish.”
    “Well, I’ve been looking at the girl, and she was a nice-looking wench.”
    “Oh, are you on that job? Yes, poor kid, she had enough oxalic acid in her to slay an ox.”
    “Oxalic acid, was it?”
    “Tons of it.”
    “You haven’t got the report out yet, Is uppose?”
    “Have a heart, man, I’ve got half a dozen more of ’em to do. I’ll send it up to you as soon as I can. It’s quite straightforward, anyway; lots of oxalic acid, probably in crystal form.”
    “How do you know it was crystals?”
    “Well, I don’t actually; only she seems to have had access to some, according to the history, and she certainly died of oxalic.”
    “Was it taken with food?”
    “I think so, yes. About seven or eight hours before death.”
    Charles worth did rapid calculations. “That would bring it down to about lunch-time.”
    “Round about.”
    “Anything else?”
    “That’s what it all boils down to; actual quantities and so forth will be in the reports.”
    Charlesworth took his leave, but returned on an impulse. “Littlejohn, for my private information—was she a whatsaname?”
    “For your private information, Charles, she was not.”
    “My faith in human nature is always getting these jolts,” said Charlesworth and cheerfully went his way.
    Sergeant Bedd met him outside and they stood together on the steps of the mortuary, poring over the notes, a tall, fair, smiling young man and a grizzled, thick-set, middle-aged one. Charlesworth’s eyes are an honest and friendly grey; but Bedd’s are as blue as the summer skies, set deeply in his square, brown face. He wears plain clothes, the coat straining across his broad shoulders, the trousers not quite wide enough in the leg. Charlesworth is in grey, a well-cut suit, chosen last year with care, worn for a week with uneasy pride and thenceforward without any consideration whatsoever. Bedd has one new suit a year with unfailing regularity; he pays five guineas for it, off the peg, and its pockets bulge with pens and pencils, foot-rules and tape-measures, an over-stuffed wallet, a fat cigarette case of inferior silver which he would not lose for a fortune, and finally the notebook which he now produces for Charlesworth, full of details and information. The girl’s parents are in New Zealand and have been notified. He has called at Christophe et Cie and informed the principals that an officer from Scotland Yard will shortly be calling to ask a few questions about Miss Doon’s death. He has advised that the routine of the shop shall continue, and has asked that all members of the staff shall remain on the premises. He has called upon Miss Doon’s landlady and made similar arrangements.…
    “Jolly well done, Bedd,” says Charlesworth, relieved of much dirty work. “You must have wings to get about the way you do.”
    “I used one of the cars, sir,” says Bedd, whose mind works along literal lines.
    They transferred to Charlesworth’s own car and Bedd suggested starting off at the shop. “She spent most of the day there, sir, and if she died of poison she must have taken it while she was there, I suppose.”
    “Oh, she died of poison all right,” said Charlesworth comfortably, as they started off. “I’ve just seen Littlejohn and he gave me the result of the p.m. Oxalic acid. Easy enough to come by, isn’t it?”
    “Get it at any chemist’s, sir; no