Death as a Last Resort by Gwendolyn Southin Page B

chesterfields and two armchairs, a cretonne-covered wingback on one side of the fireplace and a matching love seat on the other. “Mrs. Dubois will be with you in a moment.”
    â€œWould you take a look at this place?” Nat whispered as he sat gingerly on the very edge of the wingback’s seat cushion.
    â€œI see you have come.” A pale-faced Jacquelyn with dark rings under her eyes walked into the room and stood in front of Nat. He immediately got to his feet.
    â€œYou must call the Vancouver police,” he told her.
    She shook her head. “My Maurice say,” Jacquelyn said tearfully, “that the police are good for nothing. And the antiquities are a secret between him and me.”
    â€œAntiquities?” Nat asked, looking around the still very full living room.
    â€œEgyptian antiquities. They take all the pieces that Maurice find in Egypt. Look, I show you.” She led them through to the library and pointed to a photo album lying open on a Duncan Fyffe table. “See? My Maurice always keep the pictures.”
    The album contained page after page of photos of gold masks, bowls that looked as if it they were made of beaten gold, a half dozen cups and vases, small gem-studded figurines and a black cat that appeared to have been carved from ebony. There was jewellery as well—bracelets, earrings, bangles, rings, combs and even a couple of tiaras—and they all appeared to be made of chased silver, turquoise and other precious stones. Another picture showed several small carved stones.
    â€œThese look very old,” Maggie whispered, awed. “Are they for real?”
    â€œMy Maurice would never have imitations.”
    â€œYou mean they came out of Egyptian tombs?” Maggie asked.
    â€œMy husband is not a grave robber,” Jacquelyn answered haughtily.
    â€œBut where did he get this stuff?” Nat asked.
    She shrugged. “It was before I met him.”
    â€œWhat about insurance?” Maggie asked.
    â€œNo insurance. Some he kept always locked in the safe but most was in his den. Come.”
    The den was at the back of the house, and Maggie immediately walked over to the French doors that opened onto a red and grey brick patio with a stone balustrade. Beyond it, steps led down to a lush lawn and flowerbeds. “Is this where they broke in?”
    Jacquelyn nodded.
    Maggie examined the doors closely, but the lock had not been forced and there was no broken glass on the floor. She pointed this out to Nat and then asked Jacquelyn, “Do any of your late husband’s family own keys to your house?”
    Jacquelyn shook her head. “The real estate office changed all the locks when Maurice buy the house for me.”
    â€œWhich real estate company?”
    Jacquelyn shrugged and raised her manicured hands skyward.
    â€œThe thieves must have got a key from someone,” Maggie argued.
    â€œIt is a great mystery,” Jacquelyn Dubois answered.
    â€œIs this where the stuff was displayed?” Nat asked, pointing to three tall cabinets. Each had solid oak doors that covered inner glass doors, but both sets of doors were now wide open and the shelves were bare.
    â€œOui.” Jacquelyn dabbed at her swollen eyes. “Mes précieux bijoux.”
    â€œWhat about the safe?”
    â€œThat is empty, too, see?”
    Nat peered into the wall safe. “You’ve got to call the police, Mrs. Dubois. You need to show those pictures to them.”
    â€œ Non, non! I tell you Maurice was . . . what you say . . . very strong that I am never to tell police. But you must get them back for me.”
    â€œAre you sure the safe was locked?” Maggie asked.
    â€œAnd when was the last time you opened it?” Nat added.
    Jacquelyn Dubois looked away for a moment. “Yesterday. I take out some cash,” she replied and then shrugged. “I am sure I locked it.”
    â€œAnd nothing else was taken?”
    â€œAlready I