I Am the Only Running Footman Read Online Free PDF

dawn.”
    â€œWhere in Brighton?”
    David scratched his head. “Don’t know. Maybe it’s Rottingdean. That’s more artistic; he’s a painter.”
    Jury made a note, and said, “Then as far as you know, Miss Childess simply left when the pub closed. Did you have any friends in common? Acquaintances?”
    He frowned and slid down in the chair. “No.”
    â€œYou knew of no one she considered an enemy?”
    David Marr shook his head and picked up the flannel. He dipped it in what remained of his drink and slapped it on his forehead.
    â€œYou know, you seem more irritated by Ivy Childess’s death than unhappy.” Jury rose to leave.
    The flannel moved as David Marr said, “Good God, Superintendent, I’m not irritated. I’m dying.” He pulled the cloth from his face, gave Jury a weak smile and asked, “Got another fag?”

5
    F IONA Clingmore sat at her desk with a mirror propped up against a dictionary, applying her eyeliner with the solemnity of one taking the veil. The hand that held the thin wand of lipstick was steadied by the other, and the prayerful pose further enhanced the similarity. That prayerful pose and the black scarf holding back her heavy yellow curls were about as close as Fiona would ever get to a nunnery.
    Watching over her small arsenal of beauty products was the cat Cyril, who never seemed to tire of tracking the daily metamorphosis, as if expecting a butterfly to emerge from this black cocoon.
    Cyril took his cue from Jury’s entrance and slid from the desk. The cat knew by now that this foreshadowed admittance to Racer’s office — hallowed ground, strictly off cat-limits.
    â€œHullo, Fiona,” said Jury.
    Realizing that Jury was standing there smiling, she deposited the tissue on which she had blotted her lips in the dustbin. Then she quickly pulled the black square from her headand a neat set of yellow curls sprang forth. Just as deftly, she swept the makeup into the black well of her purse. Permed and polished, she turned to Jury.
    â€œYou’re early. Want some tea?”
    â€œThanks. Did you get that file from forensics?”
    â€œMmm.” With the hot water pot in one hand and a chipped cup in the other, she nodded toward her desk. She swirled the teabag and handed Jury the cup.
    â€œWhat’s he on about, then?” asked Jury, long used to conferences with his superior that left him feeling older but none the wiser.
    â€œI don’t know, do I?” It was less a shrugging off of Jury’s question than an indication that their superior was seldom on about anything that either wanted to know. Having inspected a fingernail, she got her manicure scissors. Fiona went at any imperfection quickly and summarily; she reminded Jury of a water-colorist alert to sudden shifts in shade and lighting who had to move in before the paint dried.
    â€œI’ll wait inside.” Jury took his tea and the file and, accompanied by the cat Cyril, went into his chief’s office, which Fiona apparently was “airing out” again, for the window behind the desk was open a few inches. Between his hand-rolled cigars and his hand-grown lectures, Racer managed to use up all the excess oxygen. Cyril leapt to the sill and flattened himself so that he could make swipes at the falling snowflakes.
    Jury looked without interest round the office. Nothing had changed except that a small mountain of Christmas gifts was piled up on the fake-leather couch. Jury took out a fresh pack of Players. Cyril, who had managed to squeeze all the way out to the outside sill, tired of his daredevil acrobatics, pulled himself back, and made a perfect high-dive for the floor. His flirtation with death grew bolder every year; when the outside door opened, he pricked up his ears, snaked across thecarpet, and settled down with a rustle behind the pyramid of gifts on the couch.
    Chief Superintendent A. E. Racer made his usual