Wolf to the Slaughter Read Free Page A

its wearer disappeared under the canopy.
    Might as well be in Carnaby Street, Burden thought, recalling a recent shopping trip to London with his wife. She had been more interested in the cranky-looking people than the shops. When he got home he would tell her there was no need to go fifty miles in a stuffy train when there were funnier sights on her own doorstep. Even this little corner of Sussex would soon be infested with them, he supposed as he settled done at his desk to read Drayton’s report on the theft of some Waterford glass.
    Not bad, not bad at all. Considering his youth and his inexperience, Drayton was shaping up well. But there were gaps, vital facts omitted. If you wanted anything done in this world, he thought aggrievedly, you mostly had to do it yourself. He took his raincoat from the hook – his overcoat was at the cleaner’s. Why not, in April? – and went downstairs.
    After days of being almost obscured by muddy footmarks, the foyer’s black and white checkerboard floor was highly polished this morning. Burden could see his own well-brushed shoes reflected in its surface. The long ellipse of the counter and the uncomfortable red plastic chairs had that chill clear-cut look wind and dry air give even to an interior.
    Also contemplating his reflection in the mirrorlike tiles, his bony hands hanging by his sides, sat the man Burden had seen in the street. At the sound of footsteps crossing the floor, he glanced up vaguely to where Sergeant Camb was on the phone. Apparently he needed attention. He had not come, as Burden had formerly supposed, to collect garbage or mend fuses or even sell shady information to Detective Sergeant Martin. It seemed that he was an authentic innocent member of the public in some sort of minor trouble. Burden wondered if he had lost a dog or found a wallet. His face was pale and thin, the forehead bumpy, the eyes far from tranquil. When Camb put the receiver down, he approached the counter with a curious sluggish irritability.
    ‘Yes, sir?’ said the sergeant, ‘what can I do for you?’
    ‘My name is Margolis, Rupert Margolis.’ It was a surprising voice. Burden had expected the local brand of country cockney, something to go with the clothes, anything but this cultured effeteness. Margolis paused after giving his name, as if anticipating some startling effect. He held his head on one side, waiting perhaps for delighted gasps or extended hands. Camb merely gave a ponderous nod. The visitor coughed slightly and passed his tongue over dry lips.
    ‘I wondered,’ he said, ‘if you could tell me how one goes about finding a charwoman.’
    Neither dogs nor wallets, fuses nor undercover information. The man simply wanted his house cleaned. An anti-climax or a salutary lesson in not jumping to obvious conclusions. Burden smiled to himself. What did he think this was? The Labour Exchange? A Citizens’ Advice Bureau?
    Seldom disconcerted, Camb gave Margolis a genial smile. The enquirer might have found it encouraging, but Burden knew the smile covered a philosophical resignation to the maxim that it takes all sorts to make a world.
    ‘Well, sir, the offices of the Ministry of Labour are only five minutes from here. Go down York Street, past Joy Jewels and you’ll find it next to the Red Star garage. You could try there. What about advertising in the local rag or a card in Grover’s window?’
    Margolis frowned. His eyes were a very light greenish-blue, the colour of a bird’s egg and like a bird’s egg, speckled with brown dots. ‘I’m very bad at these practical things,’ he said vaguely, and the eyes wandered over the foyer’s gaudy decor. ‘You see, normally my sister would see to it, but she went away on Tuesday, or I suppose she did.’ He sighed, leaning his whole weight against the counter. ‘And that’s another worry. I seem to be quite bogged down with care at the moment.’
    ‘The Ministry of Labour, sir,’ Camb said firmly. He recoiled, grabbing at