Reading sample

 

 

 

 

JOHN CASSELLS

 

 

Death Of A Canary

A Solo Malcolm Mystery

 

A Novel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apex-Verlag

Content

The Book 

DEATH OF A CANARY 

PART ONE 

PART TWO 

PART THREE 

 

 

The Book

It was Detective Superintendent Nick Bogardus, on holiday in a prosperous Northern town, who brought in Solo Malcolm to help a private investigator who was finding the case too much for him.

Who was it who had taken the attractive night-club singer from the luxury of the Torch Club to the bleak desolation of Brickett Wood to shoot her dead? This was the problem which confronted Solo Malcolm, the tough, rough and incorruptible private eye, when he made the long journey northward...

 

Death Of A Canary by John Cassells (a pseudonym of the bestselling Scottish author William Murdoch Duncan; * 18. November 1909 in Glasgow; † 19. April 1975 in Glasgow) was first published in 1969; Apex is publishing a new edition of this classic of crime literature in its ENGLISH CRIME NOVELS series.

   DEATH OF A CANARY

 

 

 

 

 

  PART ONE

 

 

 

  Chapter One

 

 

It was the second Tuesday in November: there was sleet in the air and a wind which cut you like a knife. It had been whistling out of the east all day and by three o’clock had veered round a point or two towards the north. Even with the heating turned up the office was cold. It always is, when the wind is in that direction. Too much glass. That was what I had thought about it when I’d moved into it. Too much glass! Roast you alive when the weather was warm. Freeze you to death when it wasn’t. I’d put that point of view up to Lew Macklin, who was the building supervisor, and not a bad card at that.

Lew had said: »So what the hell, Solo? When it’s hot it’s hot. When it’s cold it’s cold. What does it matter to you? You’re hardly ever going to be in it anyway.«

»Maybe you’ve got something, Lew,« I said.

Macklin had nodded. »You bet I have. This is what you want. A smart address, Solo. That last dump you were in was a slum. Hell, you didn’t even need to lock the door at night. No self-respecting hook would ever have looked at it twice. So now look what we offer you.

»A bright, modern, up-to-date building. Premises that will impress. That’s all you need, Solo. A good address. Get that and you’ll be all the road. Two years from now you’ll be one of the top ten in your profession. Let me help you get off the ground.«

I’d signed on the dotted line. Maybe Lew had been right. It was a bit early to say. Adrian Walk had a touch more class than the premises I’d left to come here, but on days like this, I sometimes wondered.

I was wondering today when somebody gave the outer door the knuckle and walked in.

It was Divisional Detective Inspector Maxie Lewis and Maxie was shivering as he came through the doorway. He said: »What a bloody day, Solo. Sore as hell on brass monkeys.« He moved a chair closer to the wall heater and held his hands towards it.

Maxie is five feet nine in his socks, lean, eleven stone six on a good day, and has one of those pale, delicate faces that make you think of one of these wasting diseases you used to read about in the old-fashioned novels. For all that, Maxie is a very tough number indeed, and most of the rough boys in his own division know it and give him a pretty wide berth usually. Just now he looked across at me and said: »I’ve got it, Solo. I was pretty damn sure I would. Gardener had it and Lawson and Peat and so had Sergeant Finnegan and I must say Solly Ginsberg looked to me like he had it too.«

»What’s this you’ve got along with all these people, Maxie?«

»Flu!«

I said: »What?«

»Flu. It’s raging throughout the whole manor. Everybody’s got it. Crooks, cops, everybody. There’s hardly a soul left at D.H.Q. Just old Charlie Brankin and when he folds up, we’re going to close down Divisional Headquarters for a spell.«

»Tough,« I said. »What kind of cops do you have nowadays? In my day there was none of them kind of palavers. If you had flu you just came in to old Forbes, reported sick, put an aspirin or two in your mouth and went on duty as usual. In those days you had to lose an arm or a leg or something noticeable before you got a day off even. Nobody ever even tried it with flu. Changed days!«

»Maybe so,« Maxie said. »This one is a stinker. I’m going home to put my feet in a mustard bath, grab off some codeine and get to bed with two electric blankets.«

»No kidding, Maxie?«

Maxie shivered. »No kidding. I’ve got it, Solo. I question if I’ll even see the weekend out. Well, we always got along all right. I’ve got no complaints to make against you.«

I said, »Feeling sorry for yourself?«

»I’m past it.«

»What does Old Nick think of all this malingering?«

Maxie sighed. »Old Nick is up north on a week’s leave. Place his missus comes from. He rang D.H.Q. today. That’s why I’m here just now.« He shivered. »Got anything left in the bottle?«

»I’ll see.« I opened the cupboard and got it out. A bottle of Islay Mist, still half full. I got two glasses and poured out.

Maxie said, »Thanks, Solo.« He took a little. »The fellow that first thought of this stuff wasn’t sleeping, was he? I’m feeling better already.« He looked up and began to grope for a cigarette. When he had lit it, he said: »You weren’t in the office this morning?«

»No. I was out at Penge.«

»What’s happening there?«

»I had to have a little talk with Arthur Waller.«

Maxie brushed it aside. »You didn’t come in after lunch.«

»That’s right. It was three-ten when I clocked in and I don’t need a D.D.I. to tell me that either. What’s the idea, Maxie?«

»Old Nick,« Maxie said. »He called in at eleven-forty. He’d rung you twice this morning. He said he’d ring you at two-thirty when you got back from Charlie Bendall’s.«

»I wasn’t at Charlie’s. I had some hay at the station. What’s Old Nick calling me for?«

»Damned if I know,« he said, »but he’s ringing you here at four-thirty. He asked me to send someone round to locate you if possible. He says it’s important.«

»Important to him or to me?«

»Damned if I know,« Maxie said, »and in my state of health, I’m not going to wait around to find out. That’s bloody certain.« He finished his drink at a gulp. »I feel better after that, Solo. Maybe it was the aspirin I took. So now I’m shagging off, if it’s all one to you.«

»It’s all one to me.« I went out to the door with him. »You look pretty poorly right enough. Go wrap yourself up and get Lil to make you some hot toddy.«

»You’ve got something there,« Maxie said. He raised a hand and went out.

I went back to my desk, put the bottle away and sat down, wondering what was in Old Nick’s mind to make him spend good money in ringing me from the north. That wasn’t in character with Bogardus at all. When Old Nick went anywhere, he never wasted time or money in telephone calls or funny postcards to old friends. That meant there had to be a reason, and the only reason I could think was that he wanted something, but I’m damned if I could think what it might be. That meant I just had to sit and wait for it.

The call came in at four thirty-seven.

It was Bogardus all right. He said: »Hullo, Solo—Nick here. Maxie sent someone to find you?«

»He came himself.«

»How’s he looking?«

»On his last legs. Can hardly crawl.«

»Different bloody breed of men today from what we had in my time,« Bogardus said. He sounded quite pleased about it. »I’ve known a few not very hardy lads that maybe got a rib or two or an arm broken in a scuffle, and had to take an inside job for a day or so till they got over it. But bloody flu! That was never an excuse for anything.«

»Whether or not it was, Maxie’s got it. When do you come back?«

»Tomorrow.«

»Then what the hell are you calling me up today for? Couldn’t it wait? You’re spending good money, Nick. More than that, you’re spending your own money.«

»Not me,« Bogardus said. »I’m maybe old but I’m not daft altogether. Fm calling on behalf of a friend. I’m calling from his office.«

»And out of his pocket?«

»That’s it,« Bogardus said. »I’m up staying with the wife’s sister and, between you and me, I wish I was back home.«

»What’s it all about, Nick?«

Bogardus said: »Listen—there’s a job for you up here. How are you fixed at the moment?«

»I’m easy. Just finished up a bit of work and I’m sitting back.«

»You won’t be for long,« Bogardus said. »I want you to do this, Solo. Can you make it?«

»You really mean it, Nick?«

»I mean it,« Bogardus said. »There’s a job for you here just as I say. It could be a big one and you’re the man to handle it.«

I said, »Tell me about it, Nick.«

»Not on the blower,« he said.

»Like that is it?«

»You’re damn right it’s like that.«

»This friend,« I said. »Is he in it?«

»Yes. Pete Shearer. Used to be a C.I.D. sergeant here. When he packed it in two or three years ago, he took a partnership in a private mob—Webb and Shearer.«

»And what’s happened?«

»He’ll tell you when you come up.«

I said, »How do you come to have your nose in it, Nick?«

»Because I was here on the spot. I’ve known Pete Shearer for more years than you’ve had hot dinners and when I came round to see him today, he told me about it. He said he wanted to bring in a man to handle it. I told him you were the man.«

»I can get plenty work right here at home, Nick, without haring up to that bloody place. I had a spell there during the war. Never forgot it either.«

Bogardus said, »Look, Solo, you don’t want to let me down, do you?«

»I’d jump at the chance,« I told him. »And get that wheedling tone out of your voice, Nick. There’s something damn funny about all this, isn’t there?«

»Just murder. You can’t say that’s funny.«

»So you want me to leave my nice comfortable quarters here and come up to that god-forsaken place where it never stops raining and there isn’t even a police force in the place that can handle a murder? That’s what you want?«

»That’s what I want,« Bogardus said. »You can cut out all the cross talk too. This is a bad one. I can’t poke my nose into it, though I’d damn well like to.«

»You haven’t said anything about terms?«

»You and Pete can fix that up between you.«

»Nick,« I said, »I come high. Fifteen quid a day and expenses!«

Bogardus let out a blasphemous oath. »Fifteen quid a day! What’s the world coming to? And expenses.« Then his voice hardened. »You’d better come up, Solo, and hear about it. I don’t want to toss you in at the deep end, but this one is a stinker and Pete needs help. What about it?«

»I can come up, Nick,« I said. »I don’t like buying any pig in a poke. You should know that by this time. But if you want it, I’ll come up and give it a hearing.«

»Good,« Bogardus said. »It’s a quarter to five now. You’ll get a train from King’s Cross at seven o’clock. Gets you in here sometime after eleven. That gives you time to pack a bag and get down to the station.«

»But not a hell of a lot.«

»You’ve got long legs,« Bogardus said. »Use them. Get this train and you’ll be at West Station at eleven-twenty. I’ll meet you there. You’ve got that?«

»I’ve got it.«

»Good.« Bogardus slammed down the receiver.

I checked the time and figured maybe I would have time to get out to Hampstead to pick up a bag if I was lucky and kept my health.

I just made it, with four minutes to spare. I got into a second-class smoker, got me a window seat and a copy of the Evening Standard to take my mind off work for half an hour. I was just settled when the train drew out of the terminus and headed north-east.

There were four of us in the compartment. Me, a clergyman of some sort who read a thick book on theology, a thin character who might have been a lawyer or a bank clerk and who opened a little case and got out a sheaf of typewritten papers which he began to go through. The fourth was a little, mild-looking old lady who sat and sucked butterscotch and read a paperback with the title: The Skeleton Wore Gauntlets.

It did too. So help me, but on the cover there was a picture of it wearing them. It was a green skeleton and the gauntlets were a kind of mauve colour, so that the total effect was enough to scare the pants off a rougher character than James Malcolm.

I got behind my newspaper. Nobody spoke. Two of them got out at one point or another in the darkness, leaving the old lady with me. She was still sitting there when the train steamed into West Station only four minutes late and I stepped out onto a long, cold, draughty platform that I last remembered in November 1939, and as I did it, I wondered where the years between had gone.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

Bogardus was at the far end of the platform. Nobody could mistake his size and bulk. I got out at my end and stood there for a moment, staring down towards him. It was a long, dark, wet, draughty, ill-lit tunnel. The wind whistled along it and through it, whisking scraps of paper and empty cigarette packets along it. It was dark, mean and I was tired, cold and hungry. I began to walk down towards him.

Bogardus had on a long grey rainproof that would have covered a camel, and a battered old grey hat. He didn’t move towards me, but when I reached him he fell into step and said: »It’s a sod of a night. Been like this all week too.«

»That’s nice, Nick.«

He steered me towards the side entrance. »This way. I’ve booked a room in a private hotel for you. Dexter’s. They say they do you well.«

»They bloody well better,« I said. »Right now I’m starving. I hope they do you as well as you suggest, Nick, and I hope they haven’t got any trade union hours for doing it, either. I haven’t eaten a bite since noon today and right now I’m starving.«

Bogardus sighed. »Eat! Eat! That’s all you young fellows ever think about. Well, all in good time. We’re going up to Pete’s office. Maybe he’ll be able to send out for a pie or something. Maybe fish and chips. I don’t know how they work it up here, but...«

»They’d better work it better than that,« I said. »There’s a down train due in half an hour and if you can’t make this trip sound more satisfactory I’ll be on it.«

»We’ll see,« Bogardus said. »There’s a cab rank out here.« He led me to it, snapped his finger and the hackie looked round:

»Yes, sir. Where to?«

»Chase Road—and Newton,« Bogardus said. He got in, puffing. »Damn low seat. You got any silver handy, Solo? I can’t get into my pocket here.«

»You can find it when we get out.«

»The hell with that,« Bogardus said. »I’ve done plenty for you already.«

The cab started up and we sat back.

I looked out, a bit curiously, the way you look around when you’re visiting a place you’ve been in before, after a long number of years. There wasn’t much to see, for the windows and the wind-screen itself were all smeared with raindrops, so that all I could fix my eyes on was a blur of lights and the movement of an odd car or two.

Bogardus didn’t speak and I began to wonder if he had gone to sleep, but after maybe five or six minutes or so, he sat up, peered at the meter and said, »This is it. Next comer. You got two and nine in your pocket?«

»What about a tip?«

»I’m only a poor working man,« Bogardus said. »I’m not on this fifteen quid a day and expenses lark.« He hopped out and began to walk along the street.

I gave the hackie two florins.

He said: »Ta mate. You get all kinds.« He zipped away.

I picked up my bag and walked after Bogardus.

He headed along the street for a hundred yards or so, turned a comer and began to cross the road. After that there was another hundred yards.

I said, »Nick, we took a taxi. What the hell? I’ve got a great damn case here.«

»You’re young; you weigh damn near eighteen stone, but we’re here anyway.« He halted in front of an entrance-way, looked around him and stepped inside. He led the way up a long, well-worn stone stairway and after a couple of minutes of puffing and blowing, pulled up in front of a shabby, scuffed door on which was painted:

 

WEBB & SHEARER

INVESTIGATORS

 

»This is it.« Bogardus knocked on the door.

Somebody began to walk towards it, opened it and stepped back to let us in.

Bogardus stalked straight through a little ante-room to a larger room beyond. It had a big desk in it with a chair on either side, a telephone and a stack of papers and correspondence.

Old Nick began to take off his coat. He said, »Pete Shearer —Solo Malcolm.«

I laid down the case and looked round.

Pete Shearer was a square, little character with a broad, weather-beaten, quizzical face, blue eyes and a lot of grey, crinkly hair. He was short for a cop and, at the time he joined, when standards were higher, he must have just scraped in on tiptoe. For a little guy he had a big hand and he gave me a good grip. »I’m pleased you managed to get up, Solo. It was good of you to come. Nick here said you were busy. Take your coat off. I’ve got a bottle handy.«

I shucked my trench coat. »Nice to know you’ve got a bottle. What I want is something to eat. I haven’t touched solid food for twelve hours and I’ve got a big frame.«

»You have at that,« he said. He sat down at the desk and picked up the receiver. He poked away at the dial, then: »Leo? Pete Shearer here. Can you send me a tray up to the office. I’ve just got in and I need some packing. Yes—that will do. Plenty stew and potatoes, bread and cheese and a pot of coffee.« He hung up and looked over at me. »All night restaurant at the end of the block. They often send up a tray. Sit down, Solo.«

There was a coal fire, pretty much grey ash. Bogardus began to stab it with the poker and after a moment or so there was a little flicker of flame. Bogardus sank back into a battered, old-fashioned, shiny leather chair at one side of the fire.

»That’s that. Take that chair there, Solo.«

I took it.

Old Nick said, »You’re wondering what the hell it’s all about.«

»That’s right.«

»Tell him, Pete.«

Shearer swivelled round on his desk chair. »Well, I’ll make it as brief as I can. This is the set-up. It isn’t maybe too easy to understand, because a lot of funny things go on in this town, Solo—that the general public don’t know much about.«

»A lot of things go on in any town the general public don’t know much about.«

»That’s so,« Shearer said, »only some places are worse than others. This didn’t used to be a bad place, Solo. I was brought up in this town. I went to school here. I joined the force here. I worked out my full thirty years. I know what I’m talking about. It was a good town then. It ain’t that now.«

»What’s wrong with it?«

»Too much money. We’ve got a lot of money in this town, Solo. Too much for the good of the community. That’s what I always say. I’m no intellectual. I don’t know a damn thing about economics. All I know is where you get money you get the sharks and the wolves after it. It always happens that way.«

»That’s true of most places.«

»It’s true here. We’ve got gambling, drugs, vice—the works.«

»So most towns have their problems.«

»I know. All I’m doing is pointing out we’ve got ours. All I’m doing is telling you this is a tough town. It’s got some pretty rough characters in it now. Most of them came in after the war.«

»Following the money?«

»Following the money,« he agreed.

Someone knocked at the door.

Shearer got out a quid. He went out of the room. He said: »Good work, Sid. You didn’t take long. Here you are. Keep the change. Get the tray in the morning.« He closed the door and came in with the tray. He set it on the desk and whipped off the cover. »Sit down in my chair, Solo, and go to work.«

I took his chair and had a look at the tray. Soup in a covered tureen, mashed potatoes, peas, carrots, some kind of a beef stew, French bread, butter, cheese and a big brown pot of coffee. I got to work.

Shearer had gone over to my chair. »I’ll talk while you’re eating.«

»Go ahead. You won’t put me off.«

»Right. What I’ve been leading up to is that we’ve got two main parties in the town. The first is the crowd that are in at the moment. The others are the clean-up crowd. Politics don’t really come into it at all. Not with the way things have been going here. It’s been You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, for too long.«

»So you’ve got a case out of it?«

»That’s right.«

»Nick said it was murder!«

»That’s it.« Shearer sighed. »Happened a week ago. A girl called Thorn. Bettina Thorn. She was a singer at the Torch Club.«

»What’s the Torch Club?«

»Just what you would think. A road-house. It’s out on the Cardby Road—about four miles out of town. It opened up about two years ago. It’s pretty good too. Best of food, good service, good entertainers. They pick the top-class artistes and they pay the price. Nothing cheap about the Torch Club. It’s at the top of the tree in this community. They must make a fortune out of it.« 

»And who gets this fortune? Who’s behind it?«

»That’s a matter of opinion. I don’t really know. It’s run by Mark Yarrow. He’s a newcomer to the district. He runs the club for local powers.«

I finished wolfing bread and cheese, poured out coffee and swung round. »So this Bettina Thorn got herself knocked off. That’s a job for the civil police. How do you come into it?«

Shearer said: »I told you there were two parties in the town. I’m in the other one.«

»Clean up the city, eh?«

»That’s it. I was a cop for thirty years. That was my job. Cleaning the place up and keeping it clean. I’m too old a dog to learn any new tricks.«

»What about the girl?«

»Bettina? She was a local girl. She was all right, Solo. A nice girl. There was a lot of talk about her. She had too many men friends. Well, maybe she had in the end.«

»What happened to her?«

»She was shot,« Shearer said briefly. »They found her body in Brickett Wood. That’s about ten miles from here. They found her in a thicket of blackberries. Somebody had taken her out there, in a car—shot her and dumped her.«

»Do the police know who?«

»They think they do,« Shearer said slowly. »They’ve arrested someone for the job.«

»Who?«

»A kid,« Shearer said. »Name of Calvin. Ian Calvin. A local kid. I’ve known him all my life. His old man was a sergeant along with me. We got made up in the same month.« He halted. »He’s dead now. Tom Calvin got shot in a holdup at Brewer’s Bank two years ago. He came out a year after me and he joined Darter’s Security Corps.« He waved his big hand in the air. »That’s what happened to him. Tom’s gone. He had one son—this Ian.«

»Tough?« I said.

Shearer nodded. »That’s what I think.« He leaned forward. »He didn’t do it!«

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

I sat there watching him. His broad, honest face was grim and puzzled. He shook his head again and said:

»He didn’t do it. Solo.«

»The police say he did?«

»Yes. But they’re wrong.«

I said: »The police aren’t very often wrong in a murder case, Pete. I know that. So do you. So does Nick here. What do you say, Nick?«

Bogardus had been filling his pipe. He looked across now. »Pete’s got a good story,« he said. »There could be something in it, Solo. I don’t know. I’m out of my own country. I don’t know the cops or the crooks here. All I know is I don’t like the smell of it. I only heard about it today and I thought it could do with looking into. That’s why I talked Pete into getting you up here.«

I got out my own pipe and began to fill up. »The police have arrested this Ian Calvin, I take it. Where is he now?«

»Redford Jail,« Shearer said. »I’ve seen him twice.«

»What does he say?«

»He didn’t do it.«

»That’s reasonable enough, Pete. You wouldn’t expect him to admit it.«

Shearer said: »Look, Solo, I’ve known this boy since he was no higher than my own knee. I’m not making out he was a saint. He wasn’t. He was a good athlete, played football, boxed—enjoyed himself. He ran around with the girls. He was too fond of booze. He quarrelled with his old man on a dozen different occasions—but for all that, I don’t believe he murdered Bettina Thorn. He swears he didn’t and I believe him.« He shook the hand with the pipe at me.

»Solo, I’m an old-time cop. I met all kinds, good, bad and indifferent. I can pick them out. Nick Bogardus here can pick them out. You know what I mean. You can’t be a good cop without having that kind of sense. You know when a feller is telling the truth. You know when he’s lying. It’s just as simple as that.«

I sat staring at him. I knew what he meant all right. It’s a kind of extra awareness cops develop. Spend ten or twelve years of your life asking people questions, probing and prodding and inquiring and you get to know when a person is telling the truth—when he’s lying and when he’s doing no more than stalling. I said:

»So, it’s just like that, Pete? What about the cops who’ve been working on the case? How come they don’t know when he’s telling the truth? How come they make a mistake?«

Bogardus grunted. »I was waiting for that.« He looked at his watch. »It’s getting late, Pete, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Let me explain it easy to Solo in words of one syllable. I have to do that quite often.« He looked over to me. »What Pete’s wanting to say is it’s a frame. Mistakes don’t come into it.«

»Who’s framed him?«

»We don’t know. The police don’t know,« Shearer said, »but it has to be a frame-up.«

I looked across at Bogardus. »He convinced you it was, Nick?«

Bogardus said: »Something damn queer has happened. I’m not saying yes or no. I don’t know nearly enough to stick my neck out, but I know enough to make me sure there was a smell about it. When Pete told me he wanted to bring in somebody from outside to handle it, I thought of you.«

Shearer said: »I need help, Solo. It could be a tough one. There’s a pretty rough element in this town. I need help to handle it.« He rose and crossed to a cabinet, got out a bottle and three glasses. »Teacher’s. You’ll like this.« He went around the glasses. »Water?«

There was a little wash-basin in the far corner. I went over and brought back water in a drinking glass and passed it around. After that I sat down. »You’d better go over the situation again, till I get some sort of chance to get the picture.«

Shearer said: »Right, here it is. This Bettina Thorn was a singer at the Torch Club. She’s been around here all her life till about two years ago when she went to Liverpool to a club there.«

»Singing?«

»Yes. She moved to London from Liverpool. She sang with a band there till last March or so. In the meantime, the Torch Club had opened up here. She came up to do a spot with them in March. There was quite a bit of talk about it at the time. The local papers played it up. Town Girl Makes Good, kind of business. Anyway, she was a hit and they kept her on.«

»Nice girl you said.«

»Everybody wouldn’t say so,« Shearer admitted. »She got married about four years ago. It didn’t stick. He got killed in a car smash—so that helped her out. She’s had one or two male friends since then. Some people say too many.«

»You always get people who think like that.«

»It could be true.«

»Maybe. I don’t care whether it was or not. She was a nice girl. All the things you look for nowadays. She had looks, statistics, personality.«

»What about voice?«

He screwed up his nose. »Solo, you put your finger on it. She couldn’t really sing. She got by on youth, shape and personality.«

»That’s plenty.«

»It had to be for her.« He thought for a moment. »Tell you something though. I liked her. I met her quite often. She was a nice, breezy kid and she always spoke to me. Remembered me from the time I was a cop. No side. Nothing like that.«

»Where does this Ian Calvin come in?«

»He was one of her boyfriends. He’s a nice kid.«

»That makes two of them, Pete. A nice boy and a nice girl. Now the nice girl is dead and the nice boy is in prison with a murder charge tacked onto him. Something’s wrong.«

»Hear him out,« Bogardus growled.

»Look,« Shearer said. »The way it happened, it seemed simple. On the tenth of the month if you want to know the date.

»Bettina had a flat in Melrose Court. That sounds

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: William Murdoch Duncan/Apex-Verlag.
Bildmaterialien: Christian Dörge/Apex-Graphixx.
Cover: Christian Dörge/Apex-Graphixx.
Lektorat: Mina Dörge.
Korrektorat: Mina Dörge.
Satz: Apex-Verlag.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 14.03.2022
ISBN: 978-3-7554-0956-4

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