Murder Song Read Online Free PDF Page B

personnel?”
    â€œOccasionally. We try to keep ourselves separate from the bank.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Bousakis’ voice hardened just a little, his fat lips looked suddenly thin. “It’s just company policy.”
    â€œWhat about Mr. Brian Boru O’Brien?” Clements seemed to have a little difficulty in getting the name out.
    Bousakis’ gaze was steady. “What about him?”
    â€œWould he use the flat?” What a bowler to have at the other end, thought Malone in cricket terms: Clements thumped the ball down straight at the batsman’s head, the West Indians would have offered him full citizenship right off.
    â€œWhy should he do that? Mr. O’Brien has the penthouse suite at the Congress, only a couple of blocks from here.”
    â€œHe lives there?”
    â€œYes. Mr. O’Brien’s not the sort of businessman who goes in for flamboyant mansions. He likes to live quietly, without too much self-advertisement. We have enough of that in this town,” Bousakis added with a curled tongue, and Clements nodded in agreement.
    Malone wondered what the penthouse suite at the Congress hotel would cost. Five thousand a week, six, seven, even allowing for corporate rates? It was an expensive way of living quietly, of being cost-conscious. He then began to wonder what the rumours were that Clements had mentioned about Cossack Holdings.
    â€œ What does Mr. O’Brien do ? I mean in regard to Cossack?”
    â€œHe’s the executive chairman. He leaves the day-to-day running to me, but he’s here every day, doing the strategic thinking. He wouldn’t even know we own that apartment you’re talking about.”
    â€œI think we’d like to see him,” said Malone, taking over the bowling, deciding it was time to start seaming the ball.
    â€œI don’t think that can be arranged at such short notice—”
    â€œYou mean your girl outside hasn’t already warned him we’re here?” Clements was still thumping them down.
    â€œYou’re pretty blunt, aren’t you, Sergeant?”
    â€œThis is one of his milder days,” said Malone, deciding that Clements had bowled enough bean-balls. “We don’t want to be rudely blunt, Mr. Bousakis, but we are investigating a murder committed in a flat owned by one of your companies.”
    Bousakis said nothing for a moment, then he nodded. “Sure. It’s a good point.” It’s the only point, thought Malone; but didn’t press it. “I’ll take you up to him.”
    He pushed back his chair from the leather-topped antique desk; only then did Malone notice the semi-circle cut away in the desk-top to accommodate Bousakis’ belly. The big man looked down at it and smiled without embarrassment.
    â€œIt’s an idea I picked up in London, at one of the clubs there. Brooks’. There’s a table where Charles James Fox, he was an eighteenth-century politician, used to play cards—they cut a piece out of the table so that he could fit his belly in. An admirable idea, I thought. I’ve always been built like this, even as a kid.”
    â€œHow did you get on at a desk when you were working your way up to this?” Clements was getting blunter by the minute. Malone had only thought of the question.
    â€œI sat sideways,” said Bousakis and for the first time smiled. “That way I was able to keep an eye on the competition.”
    The three of them went up in a private lift to the boardroom and the office of the executive chairman. The reception lobby here was much smaller; the board directors were either modest men or the chairman did not feel that visitors had to be impressed. A lone secretary sat at her desk, a girl as elegant as Miss Rogers downstairs but a few years older, experience written all over her. She stood up as soon as Bousakis led the way out of the lift and said, as if she had been expecting them, “I’ll tell