Free The Blood of an Englishman by James McClure Page A

two strangers locked in lusty celebration of Nature’s Way, panting and.…
    “Miss?”
    She turned and said, “Why, hello, Lieutenant Kramer! How nice to see you again!”
    This second surprise stopped him in his tracks. He recognized the plain, weak-eyed, rather blotchy face under the yellow bathing cap instantly, but simply couldn’t reconcile the rest of Mrs. Archie Bradshaw with the dowdy, dull little figure he had last seen beside her husband’s hospital bed.
    “Very nice!” echoed Archie Bradshaw. “You’re always welcome, Lieutenant! Can I offer you something cold to drink?”
    Kramer twisted round. Bradshaw was seated with his arm in a sling under one of the mulberry trees. Leisure clothes did little to make him appear less overbearing; although of average height, there was a bulk and a belligerence about the man that filled the eye. His jaw was heavy, his forehead sloped back sharply, and beneath his door-knob of a nose was a gray mustache of short bristles as abrasive as his manner. But it was with fresh insight that Kramer now regarded the antique dealer, seeing him not only in matters of business—but of the heart and home too—as a singularly successful snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.
    “Er, I had a couple of lagers not long ago, thanks,” he said. “It’s just that we rang you a few—”
    “Have you met Darren?” asked Mrs. Bradshaw, proudly.
    Kramer nodded to the head that had just surfaced in the pool and was treading water with its foreshortened body. “Hullo, Darren—how goes it?”
    “This is the detective in charge of your father’s case,” explained Mrs. Bradshaw.
    Bradshaw Junior, a belligerent-looking young man of about twenty with weak eyes, said, “Really?” And swam away under water.
    “Well, um, wouldn’t you two like to go up to the house?” suggested Mrs. Bradshaw, in the awkward way of an embarrassed parent. “I’m sure you’d both be more comfortable there!”
    Kramer noticed the antique dealer wincing at every other step as they crossed the patch of lawn leading to the back verandah. “Still giving you trouble, hey, Mr. Bradshaw?”
    “Damn right it is! Partly my own fault though, thinking I could go after trout in this condition. Hooked a three-pounder, had to use the net, and bloody nearly passed out—rush of black blood to the head, y’know what I mean. Really started playing up yesterday and finally last night I got the hell in, sent for young Darren to come up and collect me.” He stopped and turned. “Darren? Don’t forget we open at two sharp—right on the dot!”
    “Haven’t forgotten,” came back a bored drawl from the pool.
    The back door led into an enclosed verandah off which was the kitchen and a room Bradshaw described as his study. There was nothing whatsoever to study in it, unless one counted the piles of invoices and auctioneers’ catalogues scattered about, and there were no antiques either, compounding the impression the dealer was just that, with no finer feelings for the aesthetic side of his trade. The telephone was off the hook.
    “Cranks,” said Bradshaw, noticing Kramer’s glance. “We’ve had the bastards pestering us for days—they even come to the front door, so we’ve had the bell taken away. Best of thebunch was this funny man who said he’d read about it in the paper, and he’d brought along his Scotch terrier called ‘Jock the Giantkiller!’ ”
    “Uh huh, you always get them. So you got back last night?”
    “Early hours of this morning, to be exact. Darren came up about ten, ten-thirty, and we had a couple of beers and chewed the fat for a while. Sure about that drink?”
    “Perfectly,” said Kramer.
    “Then sit yourself somewhere,” invited Bradshaw, lowering himself gingerly into a leather armchair. “Has something come up?”
    “Ja, you could say that. It’s just the body of a man was found shot in town this morning.”
    “Shot dead, you mean?”
    “Stone dead. Three shots, a skull