A Mind to Murder Read Online Free

more than an exercise in skill; a love affair merely an emotional pavan, formalized, danced according to the rules, committing one to nothing. But, of course, she wouldn’t accept. He had absolutely no reason to think that she was interested in him. It was only this certainty that gave him the confidence to indulge his thoughts. But he was tempted to try his luck. As they talked he mentally rehearsed the words, wryly amused to recognize after so many years the uncertainties of adolescence.
    The light tap on his shoulder took him by surprise. It was the chairman’s secretary to say that he was wanted on the telephone. “It’s the Yard, Mr. Dalgliesh,” she said, with well-controlled interest as if Hearne and Illingworth’s authors were accustomed to calls from the Yard.
    He smiled his excuses at Deborah Riscoe and she gave a little resigned shrug of her shoulders.
    “I won’t be a moment,” he said. But even as he threaded his way through the crush of chatterers, he knew that he wouldn’t be back.
    He took the call in a small office next to the boardroom, struggling to the telephone through chairs heaped with manuscripts, rolled galley proofs and dusty files. Hearne andIllingworth fostered an air of old-fashioned leisureliness and general muddle which concealed—sometimes to their authors’ discomfiture—a formidable efficiency and attention to detail.
    The familiar voice boomed in his ear. “That you, Adam? How’s the party? Good. Sorry to break it up but I’d be grateful if you’d look in over the way. The Steen Clinic, Number 31. You know the place. Upper-class neuroses catered for only. It seems that their secretary or administrative officer or what have you has got herself murdered. Bashed on the head in the basement and then stabbed expertly through the heart. The boys are on their way. I’ve sent you Martin, of course. He’ll have your gear with him.”
    “Thank you, sir. When was it reported?”
    “Three minutes ago. The medical director rang. He gave me a concise account of practically everyone’s alibi for the supposed time of death and explained why it couldn’t possibly be one of the patients. He was followed by a doctor called Steiner. He explained that we met about five years ago at a dinner party given by his late brother-in-law. Dr. Steiner explained why it couldn’t have been him and favoured me with his interpretation of the psychological makeup of the killer. They’ve read all the best detective fiction. No one has touched the body, they’re not letting anyone in or out of the building and they’ve all collected into one room to keep an eye on each other. You’d better hurry over, Adam, or they’ll solve the crime before you arrive.”
    “Who is the medical director?” asked Dalgliesh.
    “Dr. Henry Etherege. You must have seen him on television. He’s the establishment psychiatrist, dedicated to making the profession respectable. Distinguished looking, orthodox and earnest.”
    “I’ve seen him in court,” said Dalgliesh.
    “Of course. Remember him in the Routledge case? He practically had me weeping into my hankie and I knew Routledge better than most. Etherege is the natural choice of any defence counsel—if he can get him. You know their bleat. Find me a psychiatrist who looks respectable, speaks English and won’t shock the jury or antagonize the judge. Answer, Etherege. Ah, well, good luck!”
    The AC was optimistic in supposing that his message could break up the party. It had long reached the stage when the departure of a solitary guest disconcerted no one. Dalgliesh thanked his host, waved a casual good-bye to the few people who caught his eye and passed almost unnoticed out of the building. He did not see Deborah Riscoe again and made no effort to find her. His mind was already on the job ahead and he felt that he had been saved, at best from a snub and, at worst, from folly. It had been a brief, tantalizing, inconclusive and unsettling encounter but, already,