The Thin Woman Read Online Free PDF

smell Uncle Maurice all over the house.”
    “The perfect murder clue. He is not, I suppose, the type to bludgeon the butler to death?”
    “Unlikely. If he had any flair for murder he would have done in his wife, Aunt Lulu, years ago. She’s a doorbell.”
    “A what?”
    “A dingaling. Aunt Lulu could have a complete brain removal and no one could tell the difference once they put her hair back on. She waxes her floors hourly, irons her lavatory paper before she hangs it up and exists for her thrice-weekly appointment with her hairdresser. She and Uncle Maurice have a son named Freddy. Nothing like either of them. Freddy is a free spirit: prides himself on never washing, wean his hair in a pony tail, and sprouts a beard that resembles a dish-cloth that went down the rubbish disposal. A very hip fellow, our Freddy—rips about the countryside on a motorbike, has one ear pierced, and smokes pot like a dragon.”
    “Sounds more of a conformist than his father.” Bentley Haskell squinted through the scurrying snowflakes at a half-obscured signpost, hooked a right where the road forked, touched a patch of ice, swerved briefly, and we were on course again. I felt like a block of ice cream, frozen so solid it would bend the spoon that dared to take a poke at it.
    “Freddy is a musician.” I chattered, “with one of those makeshift groups composed of scrubbing boards, nutcrackers, and electric hair dryers. At the moment he is resting. According to Aunt Astrid’s latest Bad News Bulletin the cuckoo has returned to the nest and Mama and Papa bird don’t have the strength to shove him out.”
    “Aunt Astrid?” Mr. Haskell’s black brows drew into a line of intense concentration as we slid into the small town of St. Martin’s Mill and skated past a row of half-timbered cottages peering at us through the gathering dusk. The snow had stopped at last.
    Lowering the umbrella I tenderly flexed my arm muscles. “Aunt Astrid is a widow, always dresses for dinner, and is never seen without her pearls. I believe she considers herself the reincarnation of Queen Victoria—you’ll note the use of the royal ‘we.’ Always looks like she just sat down on a red-hot poker. She has a daughter—Vanessa,” I mumbled. Mr. Haskell was pulling off the road so I was spared a description of Vanessa in all her femme fatale glory.
    “Time for a fill up,” he said.
    “Petrol or food?”
    “Neither,” said Bentley Haskell repressively, as visions of egg and chips danced in my head. “I thought you might appreciate having your hot water bottle warmed up.”
    “So I would,” I shot back at him. “It reverted to a tombstone hours ago. But if that’s a pub hovering about over there I am going inside to thaw out over a thick juicy steak and oceans of steaming coffee. You can suit yourself, stay out here and turn into Frosty the Snowman or join me.”
    Poor Mr. Haskell, he looked outraged and tempted all at the same time. The flesh was weak, for he drew up under the creaking inn sign, aptly named The Harbour,yanked the water bottle from my grasp, and banged open his door.
    “I hope you are paying for this!” he snarled, slapping the snow from his arms as he stamped round to help me out.
    “Do I have a choice? You are getting to be a very expensive commodity, Mr. Haskell.” My dignity was somewhat lessened by having to cling tightly to his arm to prevent my legs sailing off on their own. “This coat”—it was ten years old—“is quite ruined, and if it wasn’t for your harebrained notion of travelling in your ventilated car we would both be toasty warm at Merlin’s Court tucking into one of Aunt Sybil’s marvellous dinners.”
    “Really? From your description of the place I gained the impression we would be fishing very dead bats out of very cold soup.”
    His vision was close to the truth, which further fired my wrath. Glaring, we made for the door. Once inside we ignored each other and informed the nervous girl behind the