The English Assassin Read Online Free PDF

clothing. But not paintings. Is that a common expression in your line of work?”

    “Yes,” said Gabriel and the inspector seemed disappointed he did not elaborate.
    “Who hired you?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean it was never made clear to me. The arrangements were made by a lawyer in Zurich and an art dealer in London.”
    “Ah, yes—Julius Isherwood.”
    “Julian.”
    With a Germanic reverence for paperwork, the detective made a vast show of expunging the offending word and carefully penciling in the correction. When he had finished, he looked up triumphantly, as if awaiting applause. “Go on.”
    “I was simply told to go to the villa. I would be met there and shown inside.”
    “Met by whom?”
    “That was never made clear to me.”
    Isherwood’s fax was in the file. The detective slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses and held the fax up to the light. His lips moved as he read. “When did you arrive in Zurich?”
    “You have the stub of my train ticket. You know that I arrived this morning.”
    The detective pulled a frown that said he did not like suspects telling him what he did and didn’t know.
    “Where did you go after you arrived?”
    “Straight to the villa.”
    “You didn’t check into your hotel first?”
    “No, I didn’t know where I was staying yet.”
    “Where were you planning to stay?”
    “As you can see from the note that was left for me at the villa, arrangements had been made for me to stay at the Dolder Grand Hotel.”
    Baer overlooked this seeming misstep and carried on.
    “How did you get from Hauptbahnhof to the villa?”
    “By taxi.”
    “How much was the fare?”
    “About fifteen francs.”
    “What time did you arrive at the villa?”
    “Two minutes after nine o’clock.”
    “How can you be so certain of the time?”
    “Look at the fax from Julian Isherwood. I was told to arrive at precisely nine o’clock. I don’t make a habit of being late for appointments, Sergeant-Major Baer.”
    The detective smiled in admiration. He was a prompt man, and he appreciated punctuality and attention to detail in others, even if he suspected them of murder.
    “And when you arrived at the villa?”
    “I used the security phone, but no one answered. So I called Mr. Isherwood in London. He told me that the person who was supposed to meet me had been called out of town suddenly.”
    “Is that what he said? ‘Called out of town’?”
    “Something like that.”
    “And this Mr. Isherwood gave you the codes?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who gave Mr. Isherwood the codes?”
    “I don’t know. The man’s lawyer, I suppose.”
    “Did you write the codes down?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “It wasn’t necessary.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I memorized the codes.”

    “Really? You must have a very good memory, Signore Delvecchio.”
     
    THEdetective left the room for fifteen minutes. When he returned, he had a cup of coffee for himself and nothing for Gabriel. He sat down and resumed where he had left off.
    “These arrangements seem peculiar to me, Signore Delvecchio. Is it customary that you are kept unaware of the artist until you arrive to begin work on a restoration?”
    “No, it isn’t customary. In fact, it’s unusual.”
    “Indeed.” He sat back and folded his arms, as though this admission were tantamount to a signed confession. “Is it also customary that you are not given the name of the owner of a painting you are restoring?”
    “It’s not unheard of.”
    “Rolfe.” He looked at Gabriel to see if the name produced any reaction, which it did not. “The person who owns the painting is named Augustus Rolfe. He is also the man you murdered in the villa.”
    “I didn’t murder anyone, and you know it. He was killed long before I arrived in Zurich. I was still on the train when he was murdered. A hundred people can place me on that train.”
    The detective seemed unmoved by Gabriel’s argument. He sipped his coffee. “Tell me what