Wolf to the Slaughter Read Online Free PDF

they are now. I haven’t been cooking much.’
    ‘Here,’ said Burden and handed him one of the match books the Olive and Dove gave away with drinks. Margolis poured a percolator full of black liquid sprouting mould down the sink. Grounds clung to the sink side and to an aubergine floating in dirty dishwater. ‘Now, let me get this straight.’ It had taken him half an hour to get the salient facts out of Margolis and even now he was not sure if he had them sorted out. ‘Your sister, whose name is Anita or Ann, was going to a party given by Mr and Mrs Cawthorne of Cawthorne’s service station in Stowerton on Tuesday night. When you got home at eleven, having been out since three, she was gone and her car also, her white Alpine sports car which is usually parked outside in the lane. Right?’
    ‘Right,’ said Margolis worriedly. The kitchen had no ceiling, only a roof of corrugated metal supported by ancient beams. He sat on the edge of the table staring at the cobwebs which hung from them and moving his head gently in time to the movement of those swinging grey ropes, agitated by the rising steam from the coffee pot.
    Burden went on firmly. ‘You left the back door unlocked for her and went to bed but you were awakened soon afterwards by Mr Cawthorne telephoning to ask where your sister was.’
    ‘Yes. I was very annoyed. Cawthorne’s a terrible old bore and I never talk to him unless I have to.’
    ‘Weren’t you at all concerned?’
    ‘No. Why should I be? I thought she’d changed her mind and gone off somewhere else.’ The painter got down from his perch and ran the cold tap over two filthy tea cups.
    ‘At about one o’clock,’ Burden said, ‘you were awakened again by lights passing across your bedroom ceiling. These you assumed to be the lights of your sister’s car, since no one else lives in Pump Lane, but you did not get up . . .’
    ‘I went straight off to sleep again. I was tired, you see.’
    ‘Yes, I think you said you’d been in London.’
    The coffee was surprisingly good. Burden tried to ignore the incrustations on the cup rim and enjoy it. Someone had been dipping wet spoons in the sugar and at times it had apparently been in contact with a marmalade-covered knife.
    ‘I went out at three,’ Margolis said, his face vague and dreamy. ‘Ann was there then. She told me she’d be out when I got back and not to forget my key.’
    ‘And had you forgotten it, Mr Margolis?’
    ‘Of course I hadn’t,’ the painter said, suddenly sharp. ‘I’m not crazy.’ He drank his coffee at a gulp and a little colour came into his pale face. ‘I left my car at Kingsmarkham station and went to see this man about a show I’m having.’
    ‘A show?’ Burden said, bewildered. The word conjured up in his mind visions of dancing girls and dinner-jacketed comedians.
    ‘An exhibition, then,’ Margolis said impatiently. ‘Of my work. Really, you are a bunch of philistines. I thought so yesterday when nobody seemed to know who I was.’ He favoured Burden with a look of dark suspicion as if he doubted his efficiency. ‘As I was saying, I went to see this man. He’s the manager of the Morissot Gallery in Knightsbridge and when we’d had our talk he rather unexpectedly gave me dinner. But I was absolutely exhausted with all this travelling about. This gallery man’s a fearful bore and it got very tedious just sitting there listening to him talking. That’s why, when I saw Ann’s car lights, I didn’t bother to get up.’
    ‘But yesterday morning,’ Burden said, ‘you found her car in the lane.’
    ‘All wet and revolting with the New Statesman plastered across its windscreen.’ Margolis sighed. ‘There were papers all over the garden. I don’t suppose you could send someone to clear them up, could you? Or get the council to?’
    ‘No,’ said Burden firmly. ‘Didn’t you go out at all on Wednesday?’
    ‘I was working,’ said Margolis. ‘And I sleep a lot.’ He added vaguely,