Death of an Englishman by Magdalen Nabb Page B

cultured, and the nice young woman from next door, they're away, she's American, she came, and invited me to a cocktail-party once, very nice young woman—too much paint on her face, I'd say, but it's probably the fashion where she comes from and then there's Signor Cesarini, well, he's been a few times, naturally, and the Cipriani, they're always busy, two children, lots of visitors and so on, but very nice people, very polite, showed an interest and no doubt they'll be popping up here one of these days—little girl came up once to tell me about the electricity going off, they learn English at school, you see, while they had some repairs done, very considerate of them, I thought, very.'
    'But Mr Langley-Smythe?' asked the Inspector persistently, reminding himself to pick her up on one of these remarks later. 'What about him?'
    'Wouldn't even open his door, just enough to poke his head out and scowl at me—and so polite on the stairs, butter wouldn't melt, playing the gracious English gentleman, but when I knocked on his door—you'd have thought I was trying to rob him! No interest at all in the English poets, not a scrap, even said so, virtually slammed the door in my face. An out-and-out philistine, and such dreadful manners.'
    'I see. But you said you weren't surprised to hear he'd been murdered; what I mean is, his lack of interest in your museum, his bad manners, that wouldn't make him likely to be murdered …'
    'But he was,' said Miss White incontrovertibly. 'So I'm right. You can't treat people like that. Anyway … I don't know if you like gossip—shouldn't speak ill of the dead so I oughtn't to tell you but I'll have to now I've said that, won't I? Well, I won't say much but I will say that if he'd changed his clothes as often as he changed his furniture it would have been a good thing. Now then, I've said it.'
    Jeffreys took a sip of wine while cautiously juggling the components of this remark into an order that would mean something. Then he remembered the fingerprints.
    'Change his furniture often, did he?'
    'Once a month, I should think, on average—but that suit he's had on since he came here five years ago, I'm sure of it, stains all down the front, sort of thing that gives the English abroad a bad name.'
    'Leaving aside his clothes for a minute,' pursued Jeffreys, 'it's odd that nobody else noticed this new furniture—as far as I know none of the other tenants mentioned his often bringing furniture in.'
    'Well, they wouldn't notice, would they, since he always did it at three in the morning? Lot of people do, of course, they have to because of the narrow streets, against the law to block them during the day, can't be helped, delivering central heating oil, for instance, that has to be done during the night, street cleaning has to be done during the night and that's noisy but there it is. What I say is, a man who changes his furniture every month is probably a crook. Have a drop more, there's plenty.'
    'Thanks. Now, wait a minute,' began Jeffreys cautiously. 'How do you know all this?'
    'Seen him.'
    'At three o'clock in the morning?'
    'That's right. I said so—no point in my telling you things if you don't listen—there's my doorbell. Help yourself to the wine; I'll show them in and be right back.'
    He heard her calling enthusiastic instructions down the housephone, heard the great doors boom closed below, then a rapid volley of excited remarks echoing in the large rooms, the swift padding of sports shoes coming back towards the bedsitter.
    'Now, where were we? Sorry to rush off in the middle of a sentence but these are my opening hours, four to seven, I say opening hours but I let anybody in at any time, nice to see them, only I say these are my opening hours, sounds more proper, more efficient, don't you think so? Hopelessly disorganized, if the truth were known, but people welcome any time, I say, now you'll have to tell me what you last asked me, I've forgotten. It's the wine, I go quite