Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) Read Free

with cold-blooded murder in a locked room. Keegan would have loved that.
    Or the one that had walked into the agency offices this morning.
    A new cutie with seriocomic overtones, no less. A little of this and a little of that all mixed together into what was bound to be a not very appetizing stew. City bureaucracy, real estate squabbles, nocturnal prowlings, petty vandalism, threatening phone calls, poisoned cats, and, ah yes, one more ingredient that had been left out of the recitation of the original recipe . . .
     
    Y oung man,” Mrs. Abbott said to me, “do you believe in ghosts?”
    The “young man” surprised me almost as much as the question. But then, when you’re eighty-five, a man in his early sixties can seem relatively young.
    I said politely, “Ghosts?”
    “Poltergeists, malevolent spirits?”
    “Well, let’s say I’m skeptical.”
    “Loved ones from the Other Side?”
    “Likewise.”
    “I’ve always been skeptical myself. But I can’t help wondering if it might be a ghost who is responsible for all that has happened.”
    Beside me on the sofa, my client, Helen Alvarez, age seventy and likewise a widow, sighed and rolled her eyes in my direction. She hadn’t mentioned ghosts in my office; this was the ingredient that made the cutie even cuter.
    She smiled tolerantly across at Mrs. Abbott in her Boston rocker. “Nonsense. When did that notion come into your head?”
    “Last night. I’ve been reading a book.”
    “A book? What book?”
    “About spirit manifestations and the like. It’s quite a fascinating concept.”
    “It’s a load of crap,” Mrs. Alvarez said.
    “I can’t imagine why a poltergeist would suddenly invade my home. Carl, on the other hand . . . well, that does seem possible.”
    I said, “Carl?”
    “My late husband. His shade, you see.”
    Mrs. Alvarez emitted an unladylike snorting sound.
    “Don’t you think it’s possible, Helen?”
    “No, I certainly don’t. Carl has been gone ten years, for heaven’s sake. Why would his spirit come back
now
?”
    “It could be he’s been angry with me since he passed over.”
    “Why would he be angry with you?”
    “I’m not sure I did all I could for him when he was ill. He may blame me for his death—he had a nasty temper, you know, and a tendency to hold a grudge. And surely the dead know when the living’s time is near. Suppose he has crossed over to give me a sample of what our reunion on the Other Side will be like?”
    There was a small silence.
    Mrs. Alvarez, who was Margaret Abbott’s neighbor, friend, watchdog, and benefactor, shifted her long, lean body and said patiently, “Margaret, ghosts can’t ring the telephone in the middle of the night. Or break windows. Or dig up rosebushes.”
    “How do we know what spirits can or can’t do? Perhaps if they’re motivated enough . . .”
    “Not under any circumstances. They can’t put poison in cat food, either. Now you
know
they can’t do that.”
    “Poor Spike,” Mrs. Abbott said. “Carl wasn’t fond of cats. He used to throw rocks at them.”
    “It wasn’t Carl or his spirit or anybody else’s spirit. Living people are behind this deviltry and you and I both know who they are.”
    “We do?”
    “Of course we do. The Pattersons.”
    “Who, dear?”
    “The Pattersons. Those real estate people.”
    “Oh, I don’t think so. Why would they poison Spike?”
    “Because they’re vermin. They’re greedy swine.”
    “Helen, dear, don’t be silly. People can’t be vermin or swine.”
    “Can’t they?” Mrs. Alvarez said. “Can’t they just?”
    I put my cup and saucer down on the coffee table, just hard enough to rattle one against the other, and cleared my throat. The three of us had been sitting here for about ten minutes, in the pleasantly old-fashioned living room of Margaret Abbott’s Parkside home, drinking coffee and dancing round the issue that had brought us together. All the dancing was making me uncomfortable; it was time for