The Suspect Read Free

murder.
 
    CHAPTER 3
    George waited for his tea to steep, and as he waited he struggled with an image which thrust itself at him again and again: Carlyle's corpse, rotting, little by little, while somewhere nearby a raucous green bird slowly starved to death in its cage.
    It was ridiculous, he knew that. Nobody could rot, undisturbed, in his own house; not in Sechelt. People paid too much attention to one another, in Sechelt.
    But what if, just this once, they didn't? He couldn't dislodge this possibility from his mind.
    George contemplated his situation with profound reluctance. It was early June, and the Sunshine Coast was dry and warm. It didn't seem unreasonable to wait until the sky clouded over before going off to jail. This was probably the last dry sunny spell he'd know as a free man. He had no delusions on that score. He knew they'd catch up with him sooner or later. He had begun to hope, though, that he might first enjoy another season in his garden.
    He poured his tea and lowered himself into his leather chair and addressed himself to the problem of Carlyle's pet. He had seen very little of Carlyle in the last while and as little as possible before that. But Sechelt was a small place and he hadn't been able to avoid him entirely. Therefore he knew all about the bird. Its name was Tom, and Carlyle had doted on it. Since it had made no sound, neither word nor squawk, during George's time inside the house, its cage must have been covered; this, he had been told, was the only way to shut the bird up. And since George hadn't noticed a cloth-covered cage while he was there, Carlyle must have had the creature stashed away in another room. But the damn bird would be there somewhere, all right, and although George disliked parrots, that seemed a poor reason for letting it die for lack of food. It wouldn't die, he told himself firmly, sipping his tea. Someone was bound to find Carlyle soon. Maybe he had an appointment with somebody that very afternoon. When he didn't show up, he'd be checked on, all right. Somebody was always checking on you, once you got into your eighties. And you often couldn't tell from their voices or their faces whether they were relieved or disappointed to find you still alive. He knew this from his visits to the old folks in the hospital.
    How long could a parrot live without having its food and water replenished? he wondered. Carlyle might have filled up its dishes the minute before George arrived. Or he might not. It might be time for its next meal right now. Surely it wasn't stupid enough to remain silent through hunger and thirst, just because a cloth blocked its view of the world outside its cage.
    George stared out the window toward his garden and the sea and concentrated. He'd have to go back there, unless he was willing to let the damn parrot die. He'd have to remove the cover from the cage and sneak away, hoping the bird's shrill cries would penetrate the walls of the house, and the laurel hedge, and catch the ears of the couple who lived closest to Carlyle.
    Even if he added water and food to the cage himself, assuming he could find whatever it was the damned bird ate, he'd still have to rely eventually on the parrot's making its condition known to the neighbors. And if it didn't, then when the Mounties finally showed up they'd find one dead man and one dead bird.
    After a while he got up and phoned Carlyle's house, hoping to find that the police were already there, but nobody answered. For a moment he almost expected Carlyle, dead, to pick up the phone, and laugh at him, or wheeze curses into his ear. The phone rang and rang and he imagined Carlyle's open eyes focusing, his battered head lifting, his limp white hands flexing, pushing his body to its knees; George could almost hear his breathing begin again, and the grunting sounds he would make as he dragged himself off the rug onto the bare wood floor and crawled toward the kitchen, heading for the telephone to complete their interrupted