Death Before Breakfast by George Bellairs Page B

cue and was waiting for the prompter.
    â€˜Your brother told me that he was awake and working at seven o’clock, or a minute or two before, on Wednesday morning, but, looking through the window at that time, he saw nothing extraordinary. …’
    â€˜What could go on unusual in July Street at such an early hour?’
    â€˜The body of a murdered man was lying on the pavement opposite.’
    â€˜Indeed. And my brother didn’t notice it. I’m not surprised. He is so immersed in his studies sometimes that he doesn’t know what is going on around him.’
    â€˜Have you and your brother ever been to Paris, Miss Macready?’
    She looked him straight in the eyes; a hard, reproachful look.
    â€˜I really don’t see how our private life and what we do with it concerns the police, Superintendent. Surely, you aren’t connecting us with the dead body.’
    â€˜No. This is a purely routine visit, such as we’re making at most of the houses in the street.’
    â€˜We have been to Paris. We were there last year. I said this was a
pied à terre
, a jumping-off place for travel, visitsto the theatre and concerts. We are both fond of Paris. Now, may I ask why?’
    â€˜The dead man was, it seems, a Parisian. His name was Etienne Jourin. Have you ever heard of him or met him?’
    â€˜Never. …’
    She puffed her cigarette and slowly emitted the smoke.
    â€˜Why should I?’
    â€˜He was a jewel thief. I wondered. …’
    â€˜If I had any jewellery worth taking? No, I haven’t. We aren’t as well-off as that.’
    â€˜May I ask where your bedroom is? Front or back?’
    â€˜Front. It is the one over my brother’s quarters.’
    â€˜Did you hear anything unusual just before seven o’clock on Wednesday morning?’
    â€˜I was fast asleep. I’m a good sleeper. Is that all you wished to ask me?’
    She was stretched on the couch, one leg on the red hassock, the other foot on the carpet, her arm hanging over the back. The pose was voluptuous, almost challenging.
    â€˜I hope my visit hasn’t disturbed you, Miss Macready. May I ask how you pass the time here whilst your brother’s busy at work? Are you his housekeeper?’
    It seemed a stupid question to ask. The manicured nails, the well cared-for hands, the expensive clothes, the general appearance of the woman gave the answer right away.
    â€˜We have a daily woman who does the housework. I look after my brother. He is really not the type who could look well after himself. He is so lost in his interests that he would forget to eat or even sleep. Even now, as I said, he pays no heed to the clock. He sleeps when he fancies it. In my spare time, I visit friends in London, or travel. Or else I do some writing. I contribute regularly to the fashion journals. Also, I do the cooking here. We both like good wine and food. Would you like to see this place? You seemto find it difficult to believe that we can be happy and comfortable in it.’
    He thought about the room next door, which he had visited the day before. The doctor, just awake, unshaved, with the remains of a breakfast on a tray. And the quick view he had, on entering, just received of the kitchen, strewn with dirty pots and pans.
    She was on her feet. She opened the door and led him into the narrow corridor.
    â€˜Follow me. …’
    The visit didn’t include the kitchen at the end of the lobby.
    The stairs were heavily carpeted in red. A narrow well of a place. The steps creaked under the carpet. A blast of perfume met them half-way.
    She halted at the top of the stairs. There was a short landing with two doors leading from it. At the stair-head another door.
    â€˜That is the bathroom. …’
    She didn’t show him inside but made for the door which led to the room at the front of the house.
    â€˜This is my room.’
    More thick carpet, a divan with a carved-wood headboard, a