The Suspect Read Free Page A

conversation.
    He hung up abruptly. Eighteen rings, and no answer.
    There was, of course, another alternative. He could go back to Carlyle's house and pretend to find the body. This would involve lying to the police, which he hadn't intended to do, but it was stupid to balk at lying when he'd just done murder. He didn't think his eventual punishment would be any more severe if he concealed as long as possible the fact that he'd committed the crime.
    Finding the body seemed the most sensible way out of his dilemma.
    He would have to put off his nap for an hour or so.
    All for the sake of a smelly, mangy, pop-eyed parrot he was going back there.
    George went into the bedroom and stuffed his blood-marked sweater and his handkerchief, which he had left lying on the floor, into a green plastic garbage bag, dumped his kitchen garbage on top of it, and closed the bag with a twist tie. He went into the bathroom to scrub is hands and comb his hair. He put on another V-necked cardigan, a gray one, and rubbed a brush over his shoes, which had gotten dusty on the walk to and from Carlyle's house. He washed out his teapot and his cup and saucer and dried them and put them away. Then he looked at his big, round gold wristwatch.
    "Two o'clock," he said aloud. "I think I'll wander down to the library, maybe stop in on old Carlyle on the way.” This rang false, but he persevered. He picked up two books that were lying on the footstool in the kitchen, pushed the garbage bag out onto the front porch, left the house, and locked the door behind him. He put the garbage bag out in front of his gate, ready for collection, and set off down the road, along the gravel shoulder, making an effort to lift his weary legs so as not to shuffle. The sun was warm on his sweatered back, and his hand was soon sweaty on the library books he carried. He liked the sun very much.
    As he went along he kept an eye on the traffic but saw no car he recognized. There were already a lot of out-of-province license plates, tourists looking hard for God knew what. George tried to keep his shoulders back and his knees high. He walked into Sechelt whenever he could, a mile there and a mile back, because the exercise was good for him. He took his car only when the weather was bad. It was in the garage this week anyway, getting its clutch repaired.
    He came to the laurel hedge, and then the gate, and went through and down the gravel path to Carlyle's front door. He was full of admiration for himself as he rapped on the door and stood back, attempting a wavery whistle as he waited for Carlyle. Passed up a hell of a career on the stage, I did, he thought, glancing casually through the kitchen window as if to spot Carlyle in there.
    He simulated annoyance as he waited, and still nobody came to the door. He was lapsing naturally into his role as crotchety old man, a role he found came in handy, now and then.
 
George stopped whistling and banged again on the door, harder this time. No response. He hesitated on the broad front steps, between the geraniums. He started back up the path toward the gate in the hedge, stopped, turned around, retraced his steps, and followed the path around to the back of the house, where he peered into the small yard there, and onto the rocky beach, but saw nobody. He went back to the front steps, and knocked again, and then tried the door, which was unlocked.
    "Carlyle," he called out irritably, but there was no reply, and he didn't hear anything from the parrot, either.
    He went down the shadowed hall, calling, and emerged into the brilliance of the sun-flooded living room. It looks just the same, he thought, as when I was last here, and he blinked rapidly against the sunlight, and then he saw Carlyle's body sprawled on the braided rug next to the rocking chair. George cried out and flung up his hands. The library books flew to the floor. His heart made a commotion in his chest.
    He couldn't move. "Carlyle!" he said. "Carlyle, what the hell's the