Trouble Brewing by Dolores Gordon-Smith Page B

not certain. They either have a drink together or, what’s at least as likely, smooth-soles does the deed and has a drink afterwards.’
    â€˜More likely, I’d say,’ put in Bill. ‘So smooth-soles stabs his victim . . .’ He walked slowly around the room. ‘There’s no trace of bare feet anywhere, so the clothes must have been removed after death. For some reason he can’t have wanted him to be identified. But in that case, why leave all his belongings? I wonder if there was any damage to the chap’s face? It’s impossible to tell at this stage, but the post-mortem will show that. After the murder, smooth-soles can simply walk out of the front door, leaving his victim behind. He must have had a case or a bag of some description.’
    â€˜A small overnight case?’ asked Jack with a lift of his eyebrow.
    â€˜By God, yes!’ said Bill excitedly. His face fell. ‘It looks as if we’ve found Mark Helston, poor devil. We’ll have to check it, of course, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to breaking the news.’
    â€˜No,’ said Jack, remembering an old, veined hand resting on a photograph frame. ‘Neither am I.’
    Meredith Smith paced restlessly round Jack’s rooms. Where the dickens was he? The table was set for breakfast, complete with a neatly folded newspaper beside the empty plate. The percolator on the spirit lamp had ceased to make plopping noises and now steamed contentedly, awaiting the return of its owner. A heap of notes beside the typewriter on the desk by the window had attracted his attention, but they turned out to be ideas for a detective story. Stories, for God’s sake! He looked at the tall bookcase in the alcove with disgust. Weren’t there enough books in the world without churning out more? He pulled down Bartlett’s
Dictionary of Familiar Quotations
and flicked through this repository of knowledge without reading a single word. Damn the man. Where was he?
    The door opened and Jack, dressing-gowned and damp, came into the room. He stopped short with a smile of welcome as he saw his visitor. ‘Hello, old man. You’re an early bird. I was in the bath.’ He rang the bell, then pulled up a chair to the table. ‘Sit down, Merry. Have you had breakfast or will you join me? There’s kippers on their way and we can probably run to a couple of eggs as well.’
    â€˜It’s not eggs I want, Jack, but an explanation.’
    â€˜An explanation of what?’ asked Jack, picking up the coffee pot. ‘’Scuse me for mentioning it, old thing, but you seem rather agitated. Milk in yours? Oy! Careful with that book. Don’t chuck it down like that. I couldn’t write without my Bartlett.’
    â€˜Write! I want you to do more than write.’
    Jack put down his coffee cup and gazed severely at his visitor. ‘Merry, old bean, if you won’t actually come to the point and tell me what it is you do want, then this conversation is going to prove an uphill struggle. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about and I’m blowed if I’m going to have raised voices before breakfast. In fact . . .’ He glanced at the clock and then back at Smith. ‘What are you doing here at this hour of the morning? I thought you’d be toiling away, earning the daily crust.’
    Smith seized the newspaper from the table, ignoring Jack’s protest. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing here.’ He opened the paper and searched it briefly before jabbing a finger at a column on page three. ‘Read that. Just read that.’
    Jack, eyebrows raised, took the
Daily Messenger
. ‘
Gruesome Discovery on Gower Street. The decayed body of a man was found yesterday in a deserted house on . . .
Oh, Lord.
Violent means . . . Well-known author and investigator . . .
Oh, crikey . . .
Inspector Rackham, one of Scotland Yard’s most able . .