Motive for Murder by Anthea Fraser Page A

wryly.
    He leant forward and placed his cup and saucer on the table. ‘Now Mrs Statton, I know this upsets you, but we’ll be as quick as we can –’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Well, as I was leaving, I spoke to Dawson in the hall –’
    â€˜Ah yes, the porter. I’d forgotten that.’
    â€˜ – and he said as how there was to be a big party that evening at number thirty-four. Rather cross, he was, because there would be a lot of noise, and complaints from the other residents, and all.’
    â€˜Which was why,’ Matthew said slowly, ‘among so many strangers in the building that night, the murderer was able to slip in without being noticed.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ She twisted a handkerchief in her hands and kept her eyes on it. ‘Well then, the next morning I arrived at half-past eight as usual. First thing I noticed was all the lights was on. I called, I think – then I pushed open the sitting-room door.’
    There was a short silence, punctuated only by the unconcerned ticking of the clock and the deep-throated purr of the cat on the rug.
    And – there he was, sir. Lying on his face, with his head –’
    â€˜Yes, all right,’ Matthew said quickly, and Mrs Statton drew a long, steadying breath.
    â€˜I’m all right, sir. There was this heavy vase lying beside him, covered in blood. Everything else was the same as usual, which seemed – wrong, somehow.’
    I knew what she meant; it must have seemed shocking that everything in the room was not defiled by the grotesque happening.
    â€˜And you phoned the police.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜And they rounded up everyone in the building and as many as they could trace who’d been at the party?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    So there it was. I relaxed a little.
    â€˜Well, Miss Barton? Any ideas?’
    â€˜Were there no finger prints?’ I asked, remembering television serials.
    â€˜Nothing suspicious; the ornament had been wiped, but that was all. They reckon he must have opened the door using a handkerchief and not touched anything else.’
    â€˜Another cup of tea, sir?’
    â€˜No, thank you, Mrs Statton, we’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for being so patient with us.’
    Matthew rose and so did I. It was only just after four, but the bleak day was already drawing in. Mrs Statton brought our macs, which had not had a chance to dry. A drop of rain fell from them on to the cat, which rippled its fur in protest. I turned away as Matthew pressed a note into Mrs Statton’s hand, then we were running down to the car again, battered by the rain.
    â€˜A pretty fruitless journey, I’m afraid,’ Matthew remarked. ‘We’ll just have a look at the apartment building while we’re there, for you to get the idea of the layout.’
    The idea of visiting the scene of crime did not appeal to me, especially on such a dismal afternoon, but I made no comment and after a few minutes’ driving Matthew stopped and again we ran through the rain to the shelter of a doorway. But this was very different from Mrs Statton’s humble little house.
    Swing doors led us precipitately into an enormous marble-floored hall, against the far wall of which stood two pairs of lifts. On our immediate right was an alcove, barred by a counter with telephone and pigeon holes. From behind it, the hall porter was eyeing us questioning. He was tall and ruddy-faced, with a toothbrush moustache and carried himself well in his uniform.
    An ex-soldier, I thought.
    â€˜Good afternoon sir, madam. Can I help you?’ Then his eyes took in Matthew. ‘Oh – it’s you, sir. Mr – Haig, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜Well done, Dawson. Yes, Matthew Haig. This is my secretary, Miss Barton. I wonder if we could have one more look along the corridor upstairs?’
    â€˜Well, sir, if I was to accompany you I don’t see that it would