Free The Dead Letter by Finley Martin Page A

his face and mumbled something about it being ‘largely a ceremonial post.’ Then he winked and said, ‘Why don’t you investigate the golf courses for a few weeks?’”
    â€œOh,” said Anne. “Is that such a bad idea?”
    â€œI don’t golf.”
    â€œWell, as I see it, you’ve got four choices. You can quit. You can play. Or you can work.”
    â€œI’ve never quit anything,” he said, “and I’m not starting now.”
    â€œAnd Uncle Bill said you couldn’t play golf worth a damn. So that leaves work. Just ignore the bureaucrats. Find something to investigate. They can’t fire you for doing your job in spite of them dragging their heels.”
    â€œCome to think of it, considering I got this job for keeping a big political secret, I’m not so sure they could fire me if they wanted to.”
    â€œProblem solved.”
    â€œBy the way, there were four choices. You only mentioned three.”
    â€œOh yeah, number four was ‘jump.’ But I couldn’t seriously recommend that option. Up here with the windows locked and all, you would look rather silly. Downstairs, the best you could hope for would be a sprained ankle.”
    â€œHere, take this,” he said pushing a bulky dossier across the desk toward Anne. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
    Anne grabbed the package, gave Ben a mock salute, and headed out.
    The case file on Simone Villier was more voluminous than she had expected, and heavier, and when she dropped the bundle on the desk back at her office on Victoria Row, it landed with a noteworthy thump. Anne stared at the enormous case file for a moment. Then she stared at the telephone. Then she stared at the case file again. It seemed to have grown even more large and ponderous.

18.
    Then there was that second message on her answering machine. Anne had ignored it. She tried to forget it, and she wished she could, but it came back again and again like a dull toothache.
    The message had come from Gwen Fowler, Dit’s fiancée.
    With any luck, Anne thought as she dialled the phone, she won’t pick up. Hopefully, we can play phone tag until she gets bored or catches on that I’d rather not talk with her…or do anything else.
    Gwen answered on the second ring. “Anne. Hi. I’m so pleased you were able to call back. Dit said that you were usually pretty busy in the morning, but you usually only had ‘this-and-that’ to fill your afternoons.”
    â€œThat was Dit’s idea of a joke.”
    â€œOh,” said Gwen, somewhat surprised and embarrassed. “I didn’t know. Sometimes his humour is drier than I’m used to.”
    â€œLike day-old toast,” said Anne, “and, on special occasions, it comes mummified.”
    Gwen laughed. Her voice had a clear, musical quality to it.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” asked Anne.
    â€œI had hoped that we could do something fun…get to know each other better…talk a bit…shop maybe.”
    â€œGwen, I’m really the wrong one to wander around and hunt for bargains with, and I’ve got a bit more ‘this-and-that’ to handle than I would like right now.”
    â€œJust talk then?” Gwen’s voice quavered, and Anne sensed a neediness in her tone. Perhaps it was disappointment.
    â€œYou don’t want to drive all the way across town just to talk, do you?”
    â€œI’m not across town. I’m downstairs, actually.”
    â€œDownstairs?” asked Anne.
    â€œAt The Blue Peter. I just finished lunch. Do you mind?”
    Anne had run out of stock excuses to avoid Gwen, and to become blunt would have been rude. Besides, something in Gwen’s manner dissuaded Anne from turning her down.
    â€œCome up, then,” she said.
    Anne scarcely had hung up the phone before she heard footsteps on the stairs. The door to the outer office squeaked. Gwen helloed from the