The Killing of Olga Klimt Read Online Free PDF Page A

make-up.
    Miss Cooper asks whether Mr Eresby would like to glance at The Times . He says he would like to die.
    The next moment I remember something. ‘I don’t think I locked the front door, sir,’ I tell Mr Eresby.
    ‘A grave omission, Bedaux.’ He doesn’t sound particularly concerned. ‘I suppose it was my fault, rushing out madly the way I did.’
    ‘No, not at all, sir. Would you mind if I went back and checked if everything is in order?’
    ‘By all means. Take a cab, if you like. Do you suppose the old homestead may have been burgled?’
    ‘I consider that a most unlikely contingency, but it would be best to go and ascertain. It wouldn’t take me long.’ I glance at my watch. ‘I could be back in half an hour … Will you be all right, sir?’
    ‘What a peculiar question. I will never be all right, Bedaux.’ Mr Eresby takes another sip of sherry. ‘Not as long as –’ He breaks off. He leans his left elbow against one of the brocade cushions and once more shuts his eyes.
    I give a bow and leave the room.
    As I walk down the stairs, I hear the sound of a piano and children singing lustily: ‘I’d rather be a colonel with an eagle on my shoulder than a private with a chicken on my knee –’
    That is a First World War song, I believe. This is an unselfconsciously old-fashioned establishment and no mistake.

    I am in luck. The moment I come out of the front door I spot a cab. I hail it and get in. ‘Sloane Square,’ I tell the driver.
    What was it Mr Eresby was about to say to me but was prevented by Miss Cooper’s presence? He would never be all right – not as long as – what? – not as long as Olga Klimt lived ? I am certain that he intended to say something along those lines.
    I lean back and dab at my forehead with my handkerchief. Did I say I was something of a student of English literature and that I sometimes indulge in making parallels between real-life people and personages in novels? It occurs to me that, odd as it may appear, the literary character Mr Eresby brings to mind most at the moment is the spinster schoolmistress in Notes on a Scandal – at one and the same time violently besotted and viciously vengeful.
    Mr Eresby asked me to kill Olga Klimt for him but I don’t think he really meant it. He would be devastated if I did kill her. I believe he is experiencing a temporary derangement, what is known as a ‘psychotic episode’. This is not as uncommon as some may imagine. I read somewhere, I think it was in the Telegraph , that seventy-six per cent of the population of the British Isles have had at least one psychotic episode at some point in their lives.
    As it happens, I have murder on my mind too, though, unlike Mr Eresby, I am perfectly serious and rational about it.
    Murder, yes. I have been thinking of little else the last couple of days.
    How ironic that Mr Eresby should want me to kill Olga Klimt. I smile, one of my rare smiles. If only Mr Eresby knew.
    If only he knew.

4
THE ENIGMA OF THE EVIL VALET
    ‘My wife,’ said Lord Collingwood, ‘likes to create illusions for herself, which I tend to encourage, but only if they are the kind of illusions that are likely to make her happy in the long run. Otherwise I take a firm line. I tell her not to be silly. Now, don’t misunderstand me, Payne. I am awfully fond of my wife. Deirdre is a delightful woman, perfectly splendid, marvellous dress sense, but bonkers.’
    ‘Surely not?’
    ‘I meant that in the nicest possible way. No question of her being relegated to the attic or despatched to a maison de santé. Heavens, no. Nothing of the sort. But I must admit there are times when she does try my patience. One thing I find awfully hard to compromise with is rigid thought patterns. An Aconite addiction is another.’
    ‘Lady Collingwood takes Aconite?’
    ‘Indeed she does. She keeps saying it’s only herbal Valium. She says it’s completely harmless. She’s quite unable to face facts.’ Lord Collingwood lowered