The Killing of Olga Klimt by R. T. Raichev

I don’t.’ She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
    â€˜Promise you will always be here when I come back, you must promise.’ He kissed her again.
    â€˜I am jealous, so terribly jealous.’ Lady Collingwood moaned. Her hand flew up to her mouth. ‘Every fibre, every neuron in my body militates against it but I can’t help myself. It’s a monstrous affliction. I am ashamed of it!’
    â€˜On no account must you feel any shame,’ Lord Collingwood said. ‘I don’t mind you being shameless.’
    â€˜I have tried to like Joan, I really have, Rupert. But she and I are so different – poles apart – we do not breathe the same air. She always looks so – so superior. That very correct censorious stare!’
    â€˜I know exactly what you mean, darling … Lunch at the Criterion wasn’t much of a success, I take it?’
    â€˜It was agony. She insisted on drinking only water. She chewed her oysters. I told her to swallow. She said she would but didn’t. I know it sounds awfully petty but I think she wanted to show me that my opinions didn’t cut any ice with her. She seemed keen on demonstrating her force of character.’
    â€˜I am no psychologist, Deirdre, but I think that may be the effect Charlie’s rejection has had on her. She believes she should assert herself more. Incidentally I bumped into Payne at the club the other day and I told him all about Joan and Charlie and how Olga Klimt came between them. The wholesorry tale. Thought he might have some useful suggestions to make. Remember Payne?’
    â€˜Not Hugh Payne? Of course I remember Hugh Payne! Nellie Grylls’ nephew. He’s wonderful. He is terribly amusing,’ Lady Collingwood gushed. ‘Clever enough to wear his considerable intelligence lightly, I have heard it said. Reputed to be the second cleverest man in London but likes to play the buffoon. No idea who’s the first. Similar in some ways to our beloved mayor, only ever so much more presentable.’
    â€˜Payne’s wife writes. Murder mysteries. Don’t know how good she is. Nowadays very few people are. We must get some of her books. Perhaps we could have the Paynes round to dinner some time?’
    â€˜I’d like that. Splendid idea.’
    He patted her cheek. Then he straightened up, very much the cavalry officer he’d once been and examined his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He ran his forefinger inside his collar, straightened his tie, touched his little moustache, then smoothed his hair. His eyes, he noticed, were a little bloodshot. ‘I really must go now.’
    â€˜I admire the rapidity of your intensely clever, quickly changing mind, Rupert … You do love me, don’t you?’
    â€˜I find you incomparable. Au revoir.’
    â€˜Au revoir.’
    Deirdre Collingwood remained sitting at the table. She heard the front door open and close. As she considered the complex relationship she had with her husband, her smile slowly faded. She rang for fresh coffee, but then told the maid not to bother.
    She rose decisively to her feet.
    Five minutes later she was inside her husband’s study, kneeling beside his desk, struggling with a bunch of keys.

13
THE PERFECT MURDER (1)
    If I can’t have her, no one else will.
    I must admit I am extremely upset. Or this is what I believe being ‘extremely upset’ feels like. I remember that when I was a boy, I never cried.
    Although at the moment I am quite unable to smile, the irony of my predicament has not escaped me. I feel very much the way Mr Eresby felt the day Olga told him she was breaking up with him. Mr Eresby, you may wish to remember, found his misery so acute, so unbearable, that he asked me to kill Olga Klimt for him.
    I keep thinking about Olga Klimt’s duplicity, about her lies, about the game she played with me. I then recall her kisses and tender caresses and, like Mr Eresby before me, I am