Free The Holiday Murders by Robert Gott

Spanish-mission marzipan of a house, and felt the pull of destiny He went into the portico and listened. There was a burst of laughter from both male and female voices.
    Jones had telephoned Magill late on Christmas Eve, and for all intents and purposes had invited himself to Christmas lunch. This had come about because Jones had friends, or at any rate he had influence with one person who knew Magill — not well, but well enough to ring him and give him Jones’s name, and convince him that Jones would be an invaluable addition to what was left of Australia First. Under Jones’s careful instruction, this person had stressed that Jones was a simple man who would take orders and provide muscle where it was needed. He’d told Magill to expect Jones’s call. Magill had been interested because Australia First meetings had been disrupted, on more than one occasion, by rowdy opponents of the fledgling party, and fights had broken out. When Jones telephoned, Magill was quickly seduced by the passion in his voice, and flattered by Jones’s lie that Magill’s speeches at the theatre in Collins Street had been inspirational. In the course of their conversation, Jones let slip that he’d be spending Christmas alone, and so it was that Magill had issued the invitation.
    Jones knocked. The laughter didn’t stop, which reassured him that his visit was welcome. The door was opened by a man in his late thirties. He was tall — just over six feet, by Jones’s estimation — lean, with short dark-brown hair, and with a carefully tended moustache. He was smiling, and balancing a thin cigarette-holder between his fingers. Jones was revolted by this effeminate affectation, and despised him on sight.
    ‘Mr Magill, I’m Ptolemy Jones. I believe you’re expecting me.’
    If the dead tattooist had overheard Jones’s introduction, he would have been astonished that the brute who had turned up at his door could appear both polite and suave. Mitchell Magill held out his hand and shook it. Magill felt Jones’s strength, and was immediately both fascinated and repelled by this pale-skinned and pale-eyed visitor with the not-entirely-convincing educated accent. His response to Jones was visceral. He knew that this man was dangerous, and yet he invited him in enthusiastically.
    ‘Join us,’ Magill said.
    Jones followed him into the house. The corridor was cool, and smelled of floor polish and cooking, which was not unpleasant. Conversation issued from a room halfway along, towards which Magill ushered Jones. It was a dining room, and seated around a handsome table, laden with an unpatriotic display of black-market poultry and beef, were three people — two women and a man. Jones was discomforted by the general air of complacent wealth that hung about the room. It came from the furnishings, the paintings on the walls, the food on the table, and the clothes on the seated people.
    ‘This is Ptolemy,’ Magill said, and each person in turn stood and shook his hand. The first of these, a man in his fifties, bald and running to fat at a high speed, said, ‘I’m Arthur. That’s a remarkable name you’ve got. I like it.’
    Jones smiled graciously, as if he was pleased by this toad’s imprimatur.
    ‘I’m Arthur’s wife, Margaret. How do you do?’ said a loose-fleshed, red-armed woman also in her fifties. She was wearing too much make-up, Jones thought. Why did women of a certain age think that painting a ruin improved it?
    ‘And I’m Peggy,’ said the other woman. ‘Merry Christmas.’
    Peggy looked about twenty-five to Jones. She was small breasted, a fact made all too obvious by the beautifully cut pale-blue silk blouse she wore. She had slender arms and carefully waved, blonde hair. She was worth looking at. Jones supposed she was maintained by Magill.
    ‘You’re welcome to our Christmas lunch, Ptolemy.’ She giggled. ‘I’m sorry. It’s such a strange name. I hope you’re not offended.’
    ‘It won’t sound funny if you