A Not So Perfect Crime Read Online Free

have the eerie feeling this Mariajo really does exist.
    â€œWhat an excellent idea! Secretaries often say more than they should. Though, of course, there are always papers they can peek at ...” he said glancing quickly around.
    I assumed that was a subtle hint as to our methods of working and I reassured him immediately: “Oh don’t worry on that count! Mariajo never finds out anything that’s gossip-worthy. We in fact only employ her to see to the telephone and run the office ... Besides, I suppose you know we prefer paper-free procedures. Believe me, nobody will ever find anything of interest in this office.” Nothing could have been nearer the truth.
    I’d suggested he should sit on the sofa and could now see him looking out of the corner of his eye at our office doors. The moment had come to explain why I didn’t take him into more secluded surroundings rather than keep him in reception like a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman.
    â€œI do apologize. It’s all topsy-turvy in there. We’re painting and redecorating, and you know how these ...”
    â€œOh absolutely. One knows when they will start but not when they will finish ...” he agreed half-heartedly, trying to respond politely to my small talk.
    â€œWhat’s more, it’s so cold ... and so damp ... The paint’s taking ages to dry.”
    â€œYes, it is rather cold this December. Perhaps we might even have a white Christmas ...”
    â€œAnd Barcelona can’t cope with snow ...”
    â€œOh absolutely. The city generates so much heat, the snow will never harden and is going to turn to dirty slush ...”
    It was clear the only conversation the man was prepared to pursue with me was weather-related. If Borja delayed much longer, we might get on to the latest Barça gossip, always a good time-filler. I suppose a professional sleuth would have used the time to make a few deductions to nonplus the new client, but I could think only of the obvious, that I was in the presence of an elegant, rather shy, high-society gentleman who was in a foul mood despite all his efforts to look the contrary. But, of course, this didn’t help. I was in no position to admit I’d recognized him, although I suspect that was precisely what he was thinking, and I didn’t dare talk politics or broach the reasons for his visit before Borja showed up. Thank God the telephone rang again to interrupt that derisory dialogue that was enhancing neither of our lives. This time it was my mobile.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said taking it from my pocket.
    â€œPlease feel free,” he replied visibly relieved.
    I switched it on and put the tiny apparatus next to my ear.
    â€œYes? (...) How’s it going? (...) Seven point twenty-two? (...) Agreed, buy. (...) Fifteen thousand, right. No, our client agrees. (...) Yes, we’ve cleaned up this time. (...) Give me a ring tomorrow, won’t you? Goodbye.”
    These staged calls were also Borja’s idea. After hearing such an exchange, some customers would ask if we also dealt in investments and, occasionally, we’d extract another bundle of bin ladens , as people call them, those ever elusive
thousand euro notes we invested on the Stock Exchange. Nothing too risky, to be sure: all very confidential and never any contracts or paperwork. We let them think that for a small commission they’d get a higher return on their money, particularly on the cash they kept undeclared in their desk drawers. It wasn’t true, but in worst-case scenarios the client didn’t earn anything. He recovered most of his investment, made no profit and asked no questions. When a gamble worked, we kept the crumbs.
    However, this time, our client didn’t bite. He was nervous, though it wasn’t undeclared funds that were apparently making him so edgy. I was about to initiate a conversation on Ronaldinho’s virtues and Puyol’s dedication when I heard the