Free The Gooseberry Fool by James Mcclure

Oh, yes. Well, all suspicious deaths fall into this category until we sort them out, you see. And ‘suspicious’ can also mean just deaths that don’t make ordinary sense.”
    “What’s the mystery in a car crash? Every week we’ve got customers who—”
    “Can’t reveal anything at this stage.”
    “Okay. Don’t then. Can I finish the sandwiches?”
    “Please. Now let’s get something out of the way right at the start: How did you get on with Mr. Wallace?”
    This time the question was phrased and uttered so gently she did not even glance up, but went on carefully teasing the fat from the ham filling with her fingers.
    “To be honest, I thought he was very attractive—most of us girls did at the Montreal. He was always polite and cheerful and he didn’t pat our bottoms, unlike one I could name.”
    “Old McDonald?”
    She laughed, winking over the neat bite she made in the bread.
    “What you said about presents was almost right, Lieutenant, because every birthday—and I’ve had three there—he’s brought in a posy and said his wife made it.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “Only I know the stall in the market where they come from! Poor Mr. Wallace.”
    Kramer changed position, leaning forward and cupping his chin in his hands, assuming the absorbed pose of the gossip-gatherer—a technique he should have thought of in the first place. She brought her chair in a little closer on reflex and then they were all girls together.
    “Like that, was it, Pat?”
    “Well, it’s just guesswork really, but I’ve been on switchboard long enough to be right pretty often.”
    “Hard on him?”
    “Terrible. Nag, nag, nag. Every time their servants did anything she’d want him back to threaten them with the sack.”
    “Hell,” murmured Kramer, amused by this unwitting confession of eavesdropping.
    “Oh, yes. The times I’ve taken it on myself to give him a warning buzz so he can decide whether he’ll talk to her.”
    “These other girls you spoke about—they found him attractive, too?”
    “Not as much as me, I suppose. You see, I thought we had a lot more in common, even if he was a bit square.”
    “You must be very upset, Pat.”
    “I am and I’m not. It’s a feeling like someone crying deep down inside of me.”
    But she pushed away the plate with half a round still on it.
    “What was I saying?”
    “That Mr. Wallace was a bit square. How about triangles?”
    His tone was carefully confidential, probing.
    “It wouldn’t be right.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I was never quite sure.”
    “Go on, you can tell me. It can’t hurt him now—and it just could help us if there is something, or somebody rather, behind this.”
    “Well,” she said, glad to have been coaxed out of having a bad conscience, “well, I think that Mr. Wallace found himself a girlfriend six months ago.”
    “Uh huh?”
    “Little things a man wouldn’t notice—but I did. I saw him as he came out of the lift, you see, before he changed back into his usual self.”
    “You’re bright, aren’t you? More.”
    “There isn’t any.”
    “Hey?”
    “Anyway, he’s been very down in the dumps for two weeks now—was, I mean—so it must have ended.”
    “And that’s all?”
    “Yes.”
    “No theories as to who it was?”
    “None. Besides, he didn’t really have time.”
    “Oh, come on.”
    “He didn’t. He arrived at the office at eight, right? Went out for half an hour at eleven to change his library book, stayed in at lunch-time and ate from a tray the office boy fetched from the tearoom, went home at five on the dot. If I had to ring him, he’d be there by five-thirty.”
    Kramer examined her face carefully, trying to detect in it a deliberate attempt to withhold information—what had started out as a promising sidelight on Mark Wallace had certainly taken a nosedive. But she passed the test.
    “Which is why you weren’t sure? You couldn’t fit your feeling and the timing together?”
    “I suppose so. Yes, that’s