The Suspect - L R Wright 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