A Question of Murder Read Online Free Page B

improbable ways. You never really knew who was real and who wasn’t until the end of the weekend.
    I exited the elevator at my floor and entered my room. I was delighted to find that someone from housekeeping had considerately put a match to the logs in the fireplace to take the chill out of the air. I picked up the John Chasseur novel I’d brought with me, kicked off my shoes, and drew a chair up in front of the grate, resting my heels on an embroidered footstool. The heat was relaxing, and several pages into the book I became drowsy and nodded off, my chin dropping against my breastbone. Then an icy draft nipped my neck. I came awake with a start, the book sliding off my lap and landing on the floor. This wouldn’t do, I realized. Dinner was within the hour, with a welcoming speech and the first act of the play to take place after dinner in the massive auditorium where I’d seen that afternoon’s rehearsal. A quick wake-up shower was in order.
    I changed into a terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel and spent a few minutes standing under water that threatened to become hot but never quite did, although it was warm enough for its purpose. Refreshed, I stepped back into the bedroom. The wind had picked up outside, sending currents of cold air through unseen cracks around the windows and the French doors leading to the balcony. I went to the doors, over which I’d drawn heavy gray drapes, with the intention of pulling them even tighter against the drafts. A loud crash from the balcony caused me to tense and take a few steps back. What could that have been?
    I tightened the belt on the robe, opened the drapes slightly, and peered into the gloom. The light fixture just outside the door casing revealed nothing except blowing snow. The storm had started. I pulled aside the drapes and opened one of the doors. The source of the noise was now evident. The wind had blown a glass container of some sort from a railing to the cement floor of the balcony. Despite the cold and the swirling snow—the temperature had dropped considerably over the past hour—I stepped outside and leaned over to examine the mess. It must have been a large ashtray because an assortment of half-consumed cigarettes lay on the floor along with the broken glass. I noted that a few of the cigarettes had lipstick on the filters. Obviously, whoever had previously occupied the room had used the balcony to indulge their habit. Probably a couple, I surmised, judging from the two different brands of cigarettes and the traces of lipstick on some of the cigarette butts.
    I found a piece of cardboard in the closet and, leaving the balcony door ajar, went outside again to scoop up the glass and butts, with the intention of depositing them in a wastebasket in the room. But as I bent to my task, a gust of wind blew up and the door to my room slammed shut behind me with a bang. I gathered what was left of the glass ashtray and consumed cigarettes, and then, balancing the shards on the cardboard, I turned the knob on the door and pushed. The balcony door would not open.
    Oh, for heaven’s sakes, I thought. Did it lock behind me?
    I set the cardboard down on a metal chair and tried the door again. It was stuck. When Mark Egmon said the room had surprising features, I didn’t think this was what he had in mind. I rattled the doorknob, thinking perhaps it required a special touch. I have a few doors like that at home. Changes in the weather make them stick, and old latches sometimes temporarily freeze, usually when I’m in a hurry. And I was in a hurry now.
    The terry robe, which had felt so cozy when I’d stepped out of the shower, was not much protection against the elements. I gathered the material close with one hand and tried the knob again. It turned freely, but the latch wouldn’t budge. I pressed my hip against the door and twisted the knob again. It came off in my hand. I tried to put it back on, delicately probing for the rod to which the knob had been