Free Designs on Life by Elizabeth Ferrars Page A

slightly so that his back was towards the landing below where Paul Wragge and Margaret were standing.
    “In Mr. Wragge’s flat.”
    Margaret glanced quickly at Paul Wragge. He made no movement.
    Mr. Cust said, “Oh, in Mr. Wragge’s flat? How long ago?” “I forget.”
    “Please try to remember.”
    “I can’t. I just remember his face. Perhaps it was six months ago.”
    “And now, Mr. Boyle,” Mr. Cust said, bunching up his face in his fingers, “would you mind telling me where you were this afternoon between half past five and six?”
    “Was—was that when it happened?”
    “Where were you?”
    “In my office, of course.”
    “Was anyone with you?”
    “My secretary, and George Lumley, my partner.”
    “They’ll corroborate that?”
    “Of course.”
    “Would you please tell me where I can get in touch with them?”
    Philip Boyle was just starting to give the name of his secretary when, from downstairs, the voice of the borough councillor rose up to them out of the darkness.
    “Mr. Boyle,” Mr. Shew called, “I paid four pounds and seventy-nine pence for that whisky you had delivered this evening. You won’t forget it, will you? I paid four pounds and seventy-nine pence. It’s here on the shelf by the front door.”
    Philip Boyle was continuing, “Her name’s Adela Burton and—”
    But that was the moment when the thought that had been dodging on the outskirts of Margaret’s mind suddenly surrendered itself to the grip of her understanding.
    “Don’t believe him!” she cried. “It isn’t true! He was here this afternoon. He was in his flat.”
    She came running up the stairs.
    He went on, “Miss Adela Burton, Seven Milbury Road—”
    “It isn’t true!” Margaret cried again. “If she corroborates it, she’s in it too. He was here this afternoon.”
    The superintendent took his hand away from his face, allowing his nose, cheeks and chin to settle back into their proper places.
    “What’s this, Mrs. Haddow?” he asked. “What are you trying to tell me?”
    “The bread,” she said, “the loaf of bread in his flat. It’s there in a paper wrapper that hasn’t been opened, on his kitchen table. But the baker’s van always calls in the afternoon and Mr. Shew takes the bread in for him and puts it on the shelf by the front door. But it isn’t there now, it’s in his flat on the kitchen table. He came in and picked it up and took it upstairs with him. It couldn’t have been done by the woman who cleans up for him. She hasn’t been here today. The place is full of dirty dishes. It must have been him!”
    Philip Boyle’s face had turned a congested crimson. “That’s yesterday’s bread,” he said.
    “Ask Mr. Shew,” Margaret retorted. “Didn’t he take a loaf in for you this afternoon and put it on the shelf, and is it there now?”
    Philip Boyle swung his arm, aiming his fist at her face. But it never came near her. Mr. Cust caught it and forced it down to his side.
    Releasing it, the superintendent said, “Your coat’s damp too, Mr. Boyle, and it hasn’t rained outside this evening.”
    Two days later Superintendent Cust explained to the Haddows and to Ferdinand Shew the parts of the situation that they did not understand.
    “Boyle met him in Wragge’s flat all right,” he told them, “but met him again later and got to know him pretty well. He’s a man called Winters. He lent Boyle money for his business. I don’t believe Boyle meant to kill him when he brought him to his flat that afternoon, but Winters was demanding his money back and Boyle lost his head and lashed out. He lashed out with a stool, a heavy wooden thing he’s got up there in his sitting-room. And then the water started coming through the ceiling, and Boyle realised he couldn’t do anything about it, as the main tap was in Mr. Shew’s basement, and he realised that if it went on it would soon bring somebody up. So he stowed the body in the cupboard and did a bolt. The water was spouting just