Gilded Edge, The Read Online Free PDF Page B

fellow,’ said Vince. ‘Whoever did it knew they had time.’
    Mac said, ‘Well, it’s not robbery, because all the pictures in the house look in place according to the maids. And there’s a couple of old masters hanging up that would definitely be missed – along with all the silverware and everything else. Plus the fact the place is fully belled-up and the alarm goes straight to Buckingham Palace Road police station.’
    Vince then went over to take look at a collection of silver-framed photographs gathered on a shelf. There were a dozen or so of them, and all featured more or less the same cast of male characters in various locations: a shooting party on a country estate, a group on the deck of a large yacht with palm trees and a secluded white-sand beach as a backdrop, a team shot of them skiing in Klosters. The largest photo sat in the middle of the pack and featured Beresford and his five friends, in dinner jackets, sitting around the green baize of a card table. They all held cards in their hands. Of course Vince couldn’t see the cards they were holding, but every one of them looked as if he was holding the winning hand – holding all the best cards that life’s little game had to offer. They seemed so cocksure, pumped up and pleased with themselves. A shared sneering arrogance burned through the photo, which was both a little nauseating and compulsively magnetic. Vince reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out that most celebrated of detecting devices: the magnifying glass. Gone were the days of the ebonized handle and the big round lens, for this one was made of plastic, and about the same dimensions and with the same sliding cover action as a box of matches. He picked up the photo and, on closer inspection, all the above assessment was confirmed by the name printed in white on the green baize of the card table. It was the most exclusive gaming room in London, and probably in Europe for that matter. The Montcler Club in Berkeley Square.
    Vince and Mac left Doc Clayton alone with his corpse and went for an investigative wander upstairs. There were fresh white lilies in every room, and the place was five-star spruced. The phalanx of maids that swept through the place, with their artillery of brooms and dusters, had certainly put their backs into the task.
    Upon entering the master bedroom, the first thing to catch their eye was the bed. In a room containing a full suite of expensive French furniture stood a huge round bed designed to look like a giant open scallop, with a headboard covered in fanned pink satin to form the striations of the shell.
    ‘Will you look at that?’ gasped Mac, with a whistle.
    The cream-coloured carpet was so thick and luxurious that it physically slowed down the two detectives as they waded across it. Mac pressed down on the mattress, which gave way with an undulating ease. The older detective pulled a face of supreme disapproval.
    ‘It’s a water bed, naturally,’ Vince informed him.
    ‘No good for me.’ Mac shook his head. ‘I need a mattress that’s firmer than Doc Clayton’s morgue slab.’
    The bed itself was unmade, with the rumpled pearl-coloured satin sheets pushed over to one side and cascading on to the floor. They padded over to the en suite bathroom, which featured a shower cubicle and a circular bath that would have happily accommodated a five-a-side football team. Sandwiched between the washbasin and the toilet was something else.
    ‘What is that?’ asked Mac.
    ‘A bidet.’
    ‘A be what?’
    ‘A be-day.’
    ‘What do you wash in that, your feet?’
    ‘Your jacksy.’
    ‘You’re kidding?’
    ‘It’s French.’
    ‘What the hell’s wrong with those people?’ asked Mac, shaking his head in mild disgust.
    ‘Sirs!’
    Both men turned round sharply. ‘Jesus Christ, Shirley! Do you have to shout?’ demanded Mac.
    The craning copper, Barry Birley, stood doubled up in the doorway, addressing no one in particular because everyone here