Orchestrated Death by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page A

with him?’
    Atherton intercepted a glance from Slider and headed back to the car radio.
    ‘I’m afraid there may have been some little confusion,’ Slider said gently. ‘I don’t think I know Inspector Petrie. Could
     you describe him to me?’
    ‘He was a tall man,’ she said after some thought. ‘Very nicely spoken.’
    ‘Clean-shaven?’
    She thought again. ‘I think he was wearing a hat. Yes, of course, because he lifted it to me – a trilby. I remember thinking
     you don’t see many men wearing hats these days. I always think a person looks unfinished without a hat on, out of doors.’
    Slider changed direction. ‘He arrived yesterday – at what time?’
    ‘About two o’clock, I should think it was.’
    ‘And you gave him the key to Miss Austen’s flat? Did you go upstairs with him?’
    ‘I did not. It’s not my business to be doing that sort of thing, and so I’ve told Mrs Barclay many a time when shewanted delivery men letting in. I only keep the keys for the meter man and emergencies, that’s what I’ve told her, besides
     going up and down those stairs, which is too much for me now, with my leg. Not that I’d give anyone the key, dear, but I’ve
     known the meter man for fifteen years, and if you can’t trust the police, who can you trust?’
    ‘Who indeed,’ Slider agreed. ‘And did you see him come down again?’
    ‘I came out when I heard him on the stairs. He was very quick, only five or ten minutes. He had one of those black plastic
     sacks, which he said he’d got Miss Austen’s things in. “To give to her next of kin, Mrs Gostyn,” he said, and I asked him
     if he’d like a cup of tea, because it’s not a nice job to have to do, is it, even for strangers, but he said no, he had to
     go. He said he had everything he needed and touched his hat to me. Such a nice man.’
    ‘Has anyone else been up there since? Have you been up there?’
    ‘I have not,’ she said firmly. ‘And besides, Inspector Petrie has the key, so I couldn’t get in if I wanted to.’
    Atherton came back, and spoke to Slider aside through wooden lips. ‘Petrie my arse.’
    ‘I’ll go up,’ Slider said quietly. ‘See if you can get a description out of her. Don’t bully her, or she’ll clam up. And a
     description of the car.’
    ‘You wouldn’t like the registration number, I suppose?’ Atherton enquired ironically, and turned without relish to his task
     while Slider went upstairs to lock the stable door.
    Mrs Gostyn proved extremely helpful. From her Atherton learnt that the bogus inspector was a tall, short, fat, thin man; a
     fair, dark-haired red-headed bald man in a hat, clean-shaven with a beard and moustache, wore glasses, didn’t wear glasses,
     and had a nice speaking voice – she was quite sure about that much. The car he drove was a car, had four wheels, and was painted
     a colour, but she didn’t know which one.
    Atherton sighed and turned a page. On the day of the murder, he learnt, Miss Austen had driven off in her little car at about
     nine-thirty in the morning and hadn’t returned, unless it was while Mrs Gostyn was at the chiropodistbetween two and four in the afternoon. But her car wasn’t there when Mrs Gostyn returned, and she hadn’t heard her come in
     that night.
    Atherton put his notebook away again. ‘Thank you very much for your help. If you remember anything else, anything at all,
     you’ll let us know, won’t you?’
    ‘Anything about what?’ Mrs Gostyn asked with apparently genuine puzzlement.
    ‘About Miss Austen or Inspector Petrie – anything that happened on that day. I’ll give you this card, look – it has a telephone
     number where you can reach us, all right?’
    He disentangled himself with diminishing patience and went upstairs after Slider, to find that his superior had already opened
     the flat door and gone in.
    ‘Who needs keys,’ he said aloud. ‘What was it this time – Barclaycard or Our Flexible Friend?’ He examined the