Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense Read Free Page B

coffee table in front of her were the bottle of gin and the suicide note. If they had been labelled in a courtroom, they couldn’t have been more clearly marked as evidence. On a table to the side of the sofa stood a second, half-empty bottle of gin. The bloody, boozy bitch—she couldn’t even wait until she got home, she’d taken on new supplies on the way back from the health farm.
    â€œWell, Larry, I dare say you’re surprised to see me.”
    â€œA little,” he said lightly, and smiled what he had always believed to be a charming smile.
    â€œI think I’ll have quite a lot to say to my solicitor tomorrow.”
    He laughed lightly.
    â€œAfter I’ve been to the police,” she continued.
    His next laugh was more brittle.
    â€œYes, Larry, there are quite a few things to talk about. For a start, I’ve just done an inventory of my jewellery. And do you know, I think I’ve suddenly realized why you appeared in my hotel room that fateful afternoon. Once a thief, always a thief. But murder . . . that’s going up a league for you, isn’t it?”
    The gin hadn’t got to her: she was speaking with cold coherence. Larry slowed down his mind to match her logical deliberation. He walked over to his desk in the corner by the door. When he turned round, he was holding the gun he kept in its drawer.
    Lydia laughed, loudly and unattractively, as if in derision of his manhood. “Oh, come on, Larry, that’s not very subtle. No, your other little scheme was quite clever, I’ll give you that. But to shoot me . . . They’d never let you inherit. You aren’t allowed to profit from a crime.”
    â€œI’m not going to shoot you.” He moved across and pointed the gun at her head. “I’m going to make you drink from that other gin bottle.”
    Again he got the harsh, challenging laugh. “Oh, come on, sweetie. What kind of threat is that? There’s a basic fault in your logic. You can’t make people kill themselves by threatening to kill them. If you gotta go, who cares about the method? And if you intend to kill me, I’ll ensure that you do it the way that gives you most trouble. Shoot away, sweetie.”
    Involuntarily, he lowered the arm holding the gun.
    She laughed again.
    â€œAnyway, I’m bored with this.” She rose from the sofa. “I’m going to ring the police. I’ve had enough of being married to a criminal mastermind.”
    The taunt so exactly reflected his self-image that it stung like a blow. His gun-arm stiffened again, and he shot his wife in the temple, as she made her way towards the telephone.
    There was a lot of blood. At first he stood there mesmerized by how much blood there was, but then, as the flow stopped, his mind started to work again.
    Its deliberations were not comforting. He had blown it. The best he could hope for now was escape.
    Unnaturally calm, he went to the telephone. He rang Heathrow. There was a ten o’clock flight. Yes, there was a seat. He booked it.
    He took the spare cash from Lydia’s handbag. Under ten pounds. She hadn’t been to the bank since her return from the health farm. Still, he could use a credit card to pay for the ticket.
    He went into the bedroom, where her jewellery lay in its customary disarray. He reached out for a diamond choker.
    But no. Suppose the Customs searched him. That was just the sort of trouble he had to avoid. For the same reason he couldn’t take the jewellery from his case in the Left Luggage office. Where was it now anyway? Oh no, Liverpool Street. Fumes of panic rose to his brain. There wouldn’t be time. Or would there? Maybe if he just got the money from the case and—
    The doorbell rang.
    Oh my God! Lydia’s sister!
    He grabbed a suitcase, threw in his pyjamas and a clean shirt, then rushed into the kitchen, opened the back door and ran down the fire escape.
    Peter Mostyn’s cottage was in the