Death in a Family Way Read Free Page A

her eyes perfectly, and the March wind had given her cheeks a healthy glow.
    â€œHave you done any office work at all?” he asked suddenly.
    â€œA long time ago,” she answered, not so winded anymore. “I worked as a legal secretary in my husband’s office. I’m afraid my typing is very rusty.”
    Nat’s face lit up. “A lawyer’s office. Hey, that’s great. That’s the kind of experience this job needs.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Margaret said, startled. “What kind of agency are you? It doesn’t say on the door.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry.” He rummaged through the papers once again and came up with a grubby business card, which he thrust at her. “I thought you understood, I’m a detective. Nat Southby, Private Investigator,” he proclaimed proudly.
    She read the card and then looked at him again. He certainly didn’t look like Humphrey Bogart in
The Maltese Falcon
or any of the other detectives she had seen in the movies, for that matter. He should have been leaning back in his swivel chair, his .38 revolver in a shoulder holster, and his feet on the desk, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, staring defiantly into her eyes. Instead, Nat was somewhat overweight, probably in his mid-fifties, dressed in baggy grey slacks and a blue-striped shirt—a nondescript blue-and-red tie lay on the desk—with an ash-spotted, brown tweed sports jacket completing his ensemble. There was no drink and no gun.
    â€œDon’t look the part, eh?” he said with a smile, which lit up his plump face. His brown eyes twinkled out of the creases at their corners.
    Margaret blushed, and to hide her confusion, asked, “What kind of investigative work do you do, Mr. Southby?”
    â€œI take on anything. Business espionage, stolen goods, dead-beats, missing persons, fraud. You name it and I’ll have a stab at it. Don’t touch divorce, though.” He paused for breath. “I also do a lot of leg work for different law firms. That’s why I said your experience would come in useful.”
    â€œBut that was years ago,” she said in alarm, “before I had my two daughters. And they’re in their twenties now.”
    â€œIt’ll come back,” he said confidently. “It’s like riding a bicycle. Now, let’s have some particulars, such as . . . are you still married? I mean, divorced or anything?”
    â€œI’m married.”
    â€œWhat about your girls? Still live at home?”
    â€œOne’s married and the other’s a nurse at the Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster.”
    â€œAnd your husband’s a lawyer, eh? Criminal, I suppose?”
    â€œCorporate. He’s a partner in Snodgrass, Crumbie and Spencer.”
    â€œOh yes, I’ve heard of them, though they’re not one of the firms I work for.” Nat rose from his chair. “I really don’t know what else to ask you,” he said. “I started this agency five years ago, you see, but the office help I’ve had up to now’s been a disaster.”
    â€œWhat would I have to do?” Margaret asked.
    â€œCome into the outer office and I’ll show you,” he answered, leading the way. “It’ll be, you know—taking phone calls, typing up reports. Things like that.” He walked over to the two filing cabinets. “These contain all the files on my clients.”
    Margaret sat down tentatively at the scratched wooden desk and took in the matching wooden filing trays, which were overflowing with letters and documents. “Is all this to go into those filing cabinets too?”
    â€œYeah,” he answered. “You can see things have sort of gotten out of hand. I’ve tried a series of girls, but since it’s just a part-time job, it attracts mostly young ones fresh out of school and on their way to something more permanent.”
    â€œAnd the