Rum Affair Read Free

suddenly moved.
    And I stood there and just watched it topple towards me: the person of a slow, cold-eyed, powerful man who followed me onto the carpet, arms flailing, his brute weight flattening even my trained, resilient lungs.
    I fell with his hair brushing my face, and the scrape of his unshaven chin on my cheek; and anger swallowed my fright.
    I shoved hard. I held him off and drew breath to shout to the men who stood on the far side of that yellow front door, whose voices I could hear and under whose hand the bell was ringing, ringing above us both still.
    I remember all that. And I remember the moment when I looked at my own clenched hand holding off his, and realised that his fingers were limp, his wrist cold, his limbs rubber. When I realised that my cold-eyed attacker was dead.
    He lay on the carpet staring upwards from those pale open eyes while the doorbell rang and rang, and the round, black hole in his shirt showed how he had died. In Kenneth’s flat, from which Kenneth had fled. Outside the door, a voice said, distantly: “I don’t like the look of it, sir, if the lady’s in there alone.” And then, raising itself, it said: “Hallo! Will you kindly open up in there? It’s a matter of urgency. This is a police officer speaking.”
    Instinct is a marvellous thing, I dare say; but I prefer to use my good sense. You, perhaps, with a strange man lying dead at your feet would have welcomed the police with an exhibition of nervous relief. I, on the other hand, kept my head.
    I won’t pretend I had recovered. But I could isolate the two essentials. If I were to pursue the course I set myself, the name of Tina Rossi must not be involved in either scandal or killing. And Kenneth Holmes must, if possible, be protected from persecution and scandal as well. So I stood over the dead man, and drew a long steadying breath and shouted at half-pitch: “Hallo! I’m sorry, I must have dropped off to sleep. Will you wait a little while, please?”
    And while the same voice on the other side of the door was saying, relieved: “Yes, of course, madam. Sorry to disturb you. Take your time,” I had the body gripped by one arm and a leg and was dragging it back to the wardrobe. I locked the door and dropped the key in my bag.
    Then I put my dark glasses on, patted my hair, took one last look at the cupboard and, marching to the yellow front door, jerked it ajar. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long,” I remarked.
    There were three men on that doorstep between the two bay trees, and two of them, thank God, were genuine policemen. Of the third I had a first impression only of a pair of bifocal glasses, their half moons bright in the light, and a smile of boundless vacuity. The senior officer said: “I hope you’ll excuse us troubling you, but it’s a matter of robbery with violence, and we’re making a door to door enquiry. Would you mind if we entered?”
    They came in, stumping past the hall wardrobe and into the sitting room. The fire was almost out, and in front of it, the table with the two empty champagne glasses made one think of underfinanced operetta. I said: “Please sit down. Just how can I help you?” Dear God, dear God who looks after coloratura sopranos, they hadn’t recognised me. I could be Miss Smith from Blackheath, visiting my brother-in-law. I listened hard, while the sergeant intoned.
    It was simple enough. Three flats in the nearby square had been broken into this evening, and Mr Bifocals, who rented one of them, had disturbed the thief and given chase, helped by the law. The fugitive had disappeared into Rose Street and could have entered two or three possible houses. This flat was one. Had I seen anyone, asked the police sergeant briskly? And would I object if they had a wee look, in case someone had come in unbeknownst? I was not, he enquired bluffly, the tenant? He was told that a Mr Chigwell normally lived here, although he sometimes lent it to friends . . . He was tactful in the extreme.
    I