The Killing of Olga Klimt by R. T. Raichev

delirium tremens induced by Croft’s Original.
    Fenella Frayle was good in a crisis. She had cultivated a mock-bully manner, which never became abrasive or over-powering. Like the man in the Kipling poem she was adept at keeping her head even when all about her were losing theirs.She considered herself an expert at putting distressed souls at their ease – how many times had she had to provide comfort not only for a lachrymose child but for one of her staff as well?
    She told Miss Cooper she could go, then she sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa. Charles Eresby slowly raised his head and looked at her and he started telling her his tragic story, some terrible rigmarole about a girl called Olga Klimt, whom he had loved more than anything in the world but whom he now hated.
    He was in hell. That was why she had to die, Charles Eresby concluded. It was payback time. If he couldn’t have her, no one else could.
    ‘Do you know for sure if there is anyone else? Another man?’ Fenella asked. She was a firm believer in the therapeutic effect of conversation.
    ‘I have no idea. The little bitch didn’t tell me. She used to have a boyfriend in Lithuania – maybe he’s come to England? I am sure that’s what’s happened. She clearly thinks he is a better lover than I shall ever be. I’m sure they are together at this very moment!’
    ‘You don’t know that.’ Fenella looked down at her neatly crossed ankles. ‘You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, you know.’
    ‘If she thinks she can walk out on me, just like that, she is wrong. She can’t. Well, as I said, it’s payback time.’
    ‘I do hope you won’t do anything silly, Mr Eresby.’
    ‘It won’t be anything silly, I promise you. Oh no. Not silly .’ He sniffed. ‘If I can’t have her, no one else can.’
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean exactly?’
    ‘I am sure you can guess.’
    ‘I can’t. Please tell me.’
    ‘I intend to take the ultimate drastic measure.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘ I will kill her .’
    Fenella felt the sudden urge to laugh. Really, she thought, the whole thing was too absurd for words. Of all the garbled, cliché-ridden tales of love, betrayal and revenge! The biscuit heir was clearly off his rocker. As for the Lithuanian girl, she sounded too trashy and trite for words. He wouldn’t really try to kill her, would he?
    ‘You can’t go about killing people, Mr Eresby,’ she said resolutely.
    ‘Not people. Only one person. A girl called Olga Klimt. You see, I’ve already made up my mind.’
    ‘They’ll catch you.’
    ‘They won’t . I’ll be really clever about it. All I need is an alibi.’
    ‘They’ll catch you.’
    ‘They won’t.’
    ‘Alibis are tricky things, Mr Eresby. You won’t be able to get away with it. Murderers almost invariably get caught these days.’
    ‘Not always. Not if they are clever.’
    ‘Nowadays the police have the most advanced technology –’
    ‘Have you ever hated anyone? I mean, really hated?’ Charles Eresby asked quietly.
    ‘Sorry?’ She blinked. ‘Have I –?’
    ‘Hated anyone?’
    ‘Have I hated anyone? N-no. No! Of course not! I’ve never hated anyone!’
    ‘You have.’ He shook his forefinger at her. ‘You have! I can see you have.’
    ‘Nonsense. I haven’t.’
    ‘You have. You hesitated. You are a lousy liar. You are turning raspberry-red.’
    ‘I am not.’ Her hand went up to her cheek.
    There was a pause.
    ‘Who is it? It would help me enormously if you told me. Who is the person you hate? Please, tell me. Then I’ll know I am not the only one. It would really help me.’
    She tried to pull herself together. ‘You are most certainly not the only one, Mr Eresby. All right. I agree. Everybody has hated somebody at some point in their life. A horrible boss or an obnoxious neighbour or a difficult husband or wife or –’
    ‘Who is it you hate?’
    ‘No one. No one.’
    ‘It would really help me,’ he said again.
    ‘No