Free The Goldfish Bowl by Laurence Gough

flirt, not with Bradley sitting there behind a cloud of smoke that might or might not be coming from his cigar.
    Without preamble, he began his lecture.
    “The earmuffs that were found on the sidewalk down the street from the pool hall were probably used by the shooter to protect himself from the sound of the shot. We tracked down the manufacturer. The muffs are carried by three department store chains and dozens of independents. More than six thousand pairs have been sold in and around the city in the past two years.”
    “Maybe so,” said Atkinson. “But how many of them were pink?”
    “About half. They only come in two colours. Blue for boys, pink for girls.”
    “Naturally,” said Parker.
    “What’s the matter,” said Goldstein, “you don’t like pink?”
    “Only in sunsets. What about the spent cartridge that was found in the Mercedes?”
    “No doubt about it, it definitely came from the same weapon that was used on Alice Palm.”
    “Hold it,” said Franklin. “What Mercedes?”
    “A 450SL,” said Bradley. “The owner’s name is Douglas Phillips. He reported the vehicle stolen at 8:07 this morning.”
    “When was it recovered?”
    “At 7:12, almost an hour before the switchboard logged Phillip’s call. The car was left with the lights on and both doors wide open. A squad car came across it during a routine patrol. The cops took a look inside, saw the spent cartridge on the floor, and gave me a call.”
    “Anybody talk to Phillips yet?”
    “I did,” said Parker. “His wife’s a light sleeper. She says she was with him all night long.”
    “Has he got any other character witnesses, other than his wife?” said Atkinson.
    Parker nodded. “His doctor. Phillips has a long history of heart trouble.”
    “Well,” said Atkinson, “I can certainly relate to that.”
    “The man had a near-fatal stroke two years ago,” Parker continued. “A pacemaker was implanted, but even so, he has to be very careful. Any degree of stress or excitement would be extremely risky.”
    “The guy wears a pacemaker and he’s married?” Atkinson winked broadly at Franklin. “What do they call that, George, double indemnity?”
    “Other than the cartridge,” said Willows, “was there anything inside the car?”
    “It was in what you might call absolutely showroom condition,” said Goldstein. “Except for one small detail.”
    “And what was that?” said Bradley, who strongly resented Goldstein’s habit of doling out scraps and fragments of information as if he was doing volunteer work in a soup kitchen, expertly feeding his captive audience just enough to keep them balanced on the knife edge of starvation.
    “The ashtray,” said Goldstein, “was jammed with half-smoked cigarette butts.” He turned to Parker. “The guy’s wife, does she smoke?”
    “I didn’t ask. But I didn’t see any ashtrays in the house, and she didn’t smoke during the time I was there.”
    “And Phillips wouldn’t smoke because he’s got a bad heart,” said Franklin.
    “Besides,” said Goldstein, “he probably doesn’t wear lipstick.”
    “Lipstick?” said Bradley.
    “Yeah, right. Lipstick.” Goldstein unbuttoned his suit jacket and thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “You got a witness says he saw a woman driving away from the Alice Palm murder, isn’t that right?”
    “Shelley Rice,” said Bradley.
    “Any sign of that car yet?”
    “No,” said Bradley shortly. He made a pass with his cigar over the wastebasket. “Any more tidbits for us, Jerry?”
    “Nope, you squeezed me dry.”
    “Well listen, you’ve been a wonderful guest, and I want you to come back real soon.”
    “Call me day or night,” said Goldstein, talking to Bradley but looking at Parker.
    Bradley made a tent of his fingers and played spider on a mirror until Goldstein had made his exit.
    “You catch those shoes?” said Atkinson. “See-through soles, real trendy.”
    Bradley laced his fingers together, making a