sitting here salivating over the smell of that baking bread for almost an hour,” came the voice of Inspector Drummond from a comfortable armchair in the corner. “In another five minutes, I was going to head home for breakfast.”
“Sorry to take so long,” said Taggart. “Who were you expecting?”
“A murderer, perhaps.”
“Well, that’s progress,” said Taggart. “Scotland Yard actually believes a murder might have taken place. If I’d known that, I would have just asked for the key.”
“I assume you’ve come to search the flat,” said Drummond, sucking on his licorice.
“Yeah … before Gaines destroyed all the evidence that exists in the case.”
“You don’t have to roast that chestnut anymore. He now agrees there was foul play.”
“With your help, I assume.”
The old man nodded and said, “If there is a murderer preying on young women in this city, he just doesn’t want it to be a member of the royal family.”
“No one is off limits to me,” said Taggart.
“I told him that you were the hard-boiled type,” said Drummond. “Now, why don’t you close the rest of those blackout curtains so I can turn on the lights and we can go through the flat together—that is, unless you would like me to just sit here and watch the great American detective at work.”
When Taggart drew the curtains in the living room, Drummond switched on the floor lamp sitting next to his chair.
“Where would you normally begin?” asked Taggart.
“When the victim is a woman, I always start in the kitchen,” said Drummond, struggling to climb out of the chair. “So many good hiding places … sugar, cornstarch, flour, and so forth. Perhaps I’ll write a monograph about it someday.”
“Yeah, well, send me a copy,” said Taggart, heading into the bathroom.
“Why the loo?” asked Drummond.
“For a young woman, it’s the place of intrigue,” said Taggart, surveying the interior. The window above the claw-footed enamel tub was covered with a fitted piece of painted wood instead of a blackout curtain. A small clothes hamper stood next to a large painted washstand. There was a medicine chest behind the mirror over the sink.
“For me, it’s the most useful indicator of how she lived, the extent of her personal needs, what medications she was taking … the place where she created a new personality each morning in front of the mirror … all the idiosyncrasies.”
“Fascinating,” said Drummond with a hint of sarcasm.
Taggart removed the top of the toilet tank and peered inside. There was nothing in it but brackish water. He searched the back of the tank in case something might have been taped to the polished enamel surface. There was nothing there either. The bathtub was immaculate, with no hair strands, soap residue, or any other evidence of recent use.
Taggart went through the drawers of the painted washstand. They held towels, washcloths, toilet paper, soap, and a powdered cleaning product. After turning each object over, he waited for Drummond to step aside so he could search the sink area and the medicine chest.
“You’re big—even for an American,” said Drummond, leaning away from him.
The cavity under the sink yielded nothing, and the contents of the medicine chest seemed to put the final lie to Taggart’s thesis. A new razor sat on the top shelf. It was still in its original packing container. Aside from a single tube of lipstick, there was no makeup of any kind on the three glass shelves. The only medication was a small paper roll of a popular stomach antacid.
“So what would you conclude about Lady Dunbar’s little idiosyncrasies here in her secret lair, Mr. Hammett?” asked Drummond smugly.
“Obviously, she didn’t spend a lot of time here,” said Taggart testily. “Why don’t you show me the kitchen, Bulldog?”
In the kitchen, Drummond turned on the overhead light. The small enamel sink was as immaculate as the bathtub. The refrigerator and ice chest held
“Sorry to take so long,” said Taggart. “Who were you expecting?”
“A murderer, perhaps.”
“Well, that’s progress,” said Taggart. “Scotland Yard actually believes a murder might have taken place. If I’d known that, I would have just asked for the key.”
“I assume you’ve come to search the flat,” said Drummond, sucking on his licorice.
“Yeah … before Gaines destroyed all the evidence that exists in the case.”
“You don’t have to roast that chestnut anymore. He now agrees there was foul play.”
“With your help, I assume.”
The old man nodded and said, “If there is a murderer preying on young women in this city, he just doesn’t want it to be a member of the royal family.”
“No one is off limits to me,” said Taggart.
“I told him that you were the hard-boiled type,” said Drummond. “Now, why don’t you close the rest of those blackout curtains so I can turn on the lights and we can go through the flat together—that is, unless you would like me to just sit here and watch the great American detective at work.”
When Taggart drew the curtains in the living room, Drummond switched on the floor lamp sitting next to his chair.
“Where would you normally begin?” asked Taggart.
“When the victim is a woman, I always start in the kitchen,” said Drummond, struggling to climb out of the chair. “So many good hiding places … sugar, cornstarch, flour, and so forth. Perhaps I’ll write a monograph about it someday.”
“Yeah, well, send me a copy,” said Taggart, heading into the bathroom.
“Why the loo?” asked Drummond.
“For a young woman, it’s the place of intrigue,” said Taggart, surveying the interior. The window above the claw-footed enamel tub was covered with a fitted piece of painted wood instead of a blackout curtain. A small clothes hamper stood next to a large painted washstand. There was a medicine chest behind the mirror over the sink.
“For me, it’s the most useful indicator of how she lived, the extent of her personal needs, what medications she was taking … the place where she created a new personality each morning in front of the mirror … all the idiosyncrasies.”
“Fascinating,” said Drummond with a hint of sarcasm.
Taggart removed the top of the toilet tank and peered inside. There was nothing in it but brackish water. He searched the back of the tank in case something might have been taped to the polished enamel surface. There was nothing there either. The bathtub was immaculate, with no hair strands, soap residue, or any other evidence of recent use.
Taggart went through the drawers of the painted washstand. They held towels, washcloths, toilet paper, soap, and a powdered cleaning product. After turning each object over, he waited for Drummond to step aside so he could search the sink area and the medicine chest.
“You’re big—even for an American,” said Drummond, leaning away from him.
The cavity under the sink yielded nothing, and the contents of the medicine chest seemed to put the final lie to Taggart’s thesis. A new razor sat on the top shelf. It was still in its original packing container. Aside from a single tube of lipstick, there was no makeup of any kind on the three glass shelves. The only medication was a small paper roll of a popular stomach antacid.
“So what would you conclude about Lady Dunbar’s little idiosyncrasies here in her secret lair, Mr. Hammett?” asked Drummond smugly.
“Obviously, she didn’t spend a lot of time here,” said Taggart testily. “Why don’t you show me the kitchen, Bulldog?”
In the kitchen, Drummond turned on the overhead light. The small enamel sink was as immaculate as the bathtub. The refrigerator and ice chest held
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