Free Murder a la Richelieu (American Queens of Crime Book 2) by Anita Blackmon

don’t doubt it,” murmured Ella Trotter with a sour smile.
    Sophie bridled. “We don’t gossip about our guests without cause, Mrs Trotter.”
    “I hope we can depend on that,” said Ella, determined on the last word.
    The inspector again allowed his gaze to rest pleasantly on one of us, then the other. “Some of you knew the dead man,” he said in a voice that permitted no contradiction. When no one spoke, he went on softly, “Some of you knew all about him, why he was here, where he came from, and what brought him.”
    Still nobody spoke.
    “It would save a great deal of unnecessary inconvenience if those who have any information about James Reid would voluntarily give it to the police. Rest assured” – his voice grew silkier – “before we’re done we’ll get it.”
    “The velvet hand in the iron glove,” misquoted Howard in his most sarcastic manner.
    The inspector smiled. “Did you know James Reid, Mr Warren?”
    “No.”
    “Yet you were on the fourth floor between seven-thirty and eight tonight.”
    Howard grinned defiantly. “Was I?”
    The inspector glanced at Lottie Mosby, who instinctively drew closer within the circle of her husband’s arm. “Mrs-ah-Mosby,” pursued the inspector, “were you acquainted with the late Mr Reid?”
    “Of course she wasn’t,” growled Dan Mosby.
    The inspector made a little gesture toward Lottie. “Please speak for yourself.”
    “No! I didn’t know him!” she gasped.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Listen here,” exploded young Mosby, “you can’t bully my wife. I won’t stand for it.”
    Apparently he spoke to thin air. “You say you didn’t know James Reid, Mrs Mosby. Yet you left a note in his box at the desk shortly before six tonight,” said the inspector.
    “I didn’t! I didn’t!” Lottie buried her face on her husband’s shoulder, and he glared about him like a baited bull.
    “That’s a lie!” he cried. “I don’t care who told you!”
    “And where, Mr Mosby,” purred the inspector, “were you between seven-thirty and eight tonight?”
    “In the lobby, reading the paper.”
    “Except for ten minutes when you sneaked off up the stairs.”
    “That’s a lie too.”
    The inspector, without debating the point, passed on to Kathleen Adair and her mother. “Perhaps you ladies are willing to admit to an acquaintance with the unfortunate Mr Reid?”
    “No, of course not. Why should we?” asked the girl.
    “He was seen this morning emerging from your room.”
    Kathleen Adair went white. I expected little Mrs Adair to faint again, but she merely stared at the inspector like a small bird charmed by a snake.
    “If that man was in our room, we know nothing about it,” cried the girl passionately. “We were downstairs in the lobby all morning. We can prove it by Miss Adams.”
    The inspector once more treated me to the gimlet of his eyes.
    “You are quite sure you can shed no light on the man who was foully murdered in your suite tonight, Miss Adams? After all, something took him there,” murmured Inspector Bunyan.
    “I have already told you I did not know Mr Reid,” I said with all the hauteur I could muster, which is, as a rule, no laughing matter, though in this case it made little, if any, impression.
    “So you have,” mused the inspector. “Nevertheless, he was familiar enough with you to return to you on a certain occasion one of your more or less intimate possessions.”
    It was my turn to stare helplessly at the inspector. “You mean my-my...”
    I found it difficult to continue, and the inspector smiled at me gently. “Do you usually carry your spectacle case with you, Miss Adams?”
    “No.”
    “In fact, almost never. Right?”
    “Right,” I said with a feeble grimace.
    “Isn’t it a trifle peculiar that this man, of whom you profess to know nothing, should have recognized a spectacle case which rarely, if ever, leaves your bedroom?”
    I gave him a withering glance. “If you are trying to insinuate something