I Am the Only Running Footman Read Online Free PDF Page A

cooperate all over the place. You can question me for hours —”
    â€œI would do, anyway.”
    â€œYou’re not going to cooperate, I can tell. I have reservations for Tuesday next for Cannes, but I expect I shan’t be permitted to leave the country now. Cigarette?” He looked at Jury’s.
    Jury tossed him the pack. “My guess is you called Mrs. Winslow because you were anxious to pay your tailor and she couldn’t see eye-to-eye, that right?”
    â€œClever of you. Well, I was dead drunk, wasn’t I?”
    â€œOh?”
    Marr looked at him through the small spiral of smoke. “ ‘Oh?’ What’s that supposed to mean? You’re worse than Marion.”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œI’ll bet. Well, there’s plenty of money. Although I curse the arrangement at least once a day, I suppose our father was smarter than I like to give him credit for, not putting it up for grabs. The bulk of my own inheritance is contingent upon my marrying.” He sounded rueful, then added, “Am I giving myself a motive for murder?”
    â€œThe opposite, I’d say.”
    â€œGood; let’s keep it that way. As it is, I can only dip into the family treasure chest four times a year. This quarter’s not up until December thirty-first, worse luck.” He looked at a calendar attached to a bulletin board above a handsome lacquered desk. Jury could see that it held photos, cards, other bits and pieces of memorabilia. “Mind if I have a look?”
    â€œHm? Oh, no, of course not. I’ll just have a lie-down.” His head fell back on the chair and he rolled his whiskey glass across his brow.
    The bulletin board was, Jury saw with a smile, more like the carefully chosen junk of an undergraduate, or the sort of lot one might expect to find in a youngster’s shoebox of treasures: photos, of course; colorful and witless postcards such as people loved to send from their holiday spots in the West Country, or the Riviera, Monte Carlo, Las Vegas, Cannes.
    â€œBeen to the States?”
    David looked round to the bulletin board. “No.”
    â€œYou have friends there, then?” He nodded toward the card of a Vegas casino.
    â€œNo. An acquaintance or two. My friends go to Monte or Cannes, Superintendent.”
    Jury smiled. “Sorry. Didn’t know there was much to choose amongst them.” He continued scanning the board. A menu from Rules, a silver garter, telephone numbers on scraps of paper tacked about. Jury was more interested in the snapshots. “Is this your sister?”
    With a wince, David turned his head. “Yes, and the rest of the family. That’s my nephew and my sister’s husband, Hugh.”
    It had been taken in a garden; they all looked very pleased with themselves, as if they were delighted to have met and had their picture taken. Another snap showed David Marr with the same young man, both of them laughing, holding what looked like tennis racquets. There were no photos of Marr by himself, none with Ivy Childess.
    â€œWould you mind if I just borrowed these two?”
    David was about to cadge another cigarette from Jury’s pack. “What? No, I don’t mind, I suppose. Just make sure I get them back, that’s all.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œWhat do you want them—? Oh, never mind. To show round, I expect. You’re probably convinced I dragged Ivy into a dark street and — what did happen, Superintendent?”
    â€œThat’s what we’re trying to find out. Was there anyone else in the pub you knew?”
    He started to shake his head, but then said, “Yes, there was Paul. Paul Swann. He lives down the street. If he hadn’t been in the Running Footman, I’d have stopped in to talk to him, worse luck.”
    â€œPerhaps I’ll stop in to talk to him.”
    â€œCan’t. He’s not there. Said he was leaving for Brighton at