The Best of British Crime omnibus Read Online Free Page B

malice, ‘it isn’t as though she’s one of your constituents.’
    Bolting’s eyes twinkled, but he made no reply, and Islwyn Thomas jealously engaged Perdita’s attention again.
    I finished my soup and sat back to study the delegates. Mullett himself, a big tall man in his late fifties, had seemed to have a certain dignity and power on the platform, but at close quarters it was no longer apparent. He had a large, obstinate forehead with receding red hair. His eyes were small and closely set, and a trick of peering up just under the top rims of his heavy glasses gave him an oddly suspicious expression. He had a little button mouth and a double chin. Altogether, his features looked too small for the size of his face. His hands were white and fat, and as they clove the air in illustration of some point he was making – he was always, it seemed, making a point – pale freckles showed on the backs, and tufts of red hair glistened below each knuckle. His Fleet Street nickname of ‘Red’ Mullett was evidently due quite as much to his physical as to his political characteristics.
    On his right, looking slightly subdued, was his protégé and pupil in the Russian language, Joe Cressey, a stocky, solid figure in a patently new dark-blue suit. Cressey’s pink face was as smooth and shiny as a schoolboy’s, and his black hair was plastered down as though he were just off to a party. A long, heavy chin gave him a somewhat ponderous appearance, and his reactions seemed slow.
    Robson Bolting was at the second table, with the Professor and Tranter. If I’d known nothing about him I’d have put him down as a successful business man rather than a Labour politician of extreme views. He was about forty-five, with a well-fed, well-dressed appearance and an air of self-confidence and strength. His thick brown hair was swept back from a broad forehead, and he wore glasses with heavy tortoiseshell rims. Though I abhorred his politics, I decided that on the whole I rather liked his face, which was intelligent and not without humour. By contrast, Professor Schofield had a lean and hungry look. He was a man nearer Mullett’s age, I guessed; tall, with greying hair and thin sardonic lips. His clothes hung on him and his side-pockets bulged. Tranter, who was quite unknown to me, might have been anything between forty and sixty. A head of beautiful white hair gave him a rather Quakerish appearance and his face had the earnest look of a man devoted to Causes.
    Bolting and the Professor seemed to be getting on pretty well together, and their conversation covered a wide field. Tranter made very little contribution himself, but appeared interested and rather impressed by the range of their talk. The other table was still dominated by Mullett, who was telling a long story about how he had been hurriedly evacuated from Moscow to Kuibishev in 1941. I could see Perdita and Islwyn Thomas becoming increasingly restive under his ceaseless monologue. When the arrival of coffee temporarily silenced him, Thomas plunged abruptly into a new topic.
    â€˜The snow should be in wonderful condition after this fall,’ he said. ‘How about trying to get some skiing, Perdita?’
    She gave him a pitying smile. ‘I can’t think of anything I should loathe more.’ She didn’t look as though outdoor sports were much in her line.
    Thomas turned to the other table. ‘You’ll come, Bolting, won’t you?’
    Bolting shook his head. ‘Sorry, Islwyn, count me out. Last time I skied in Moscow I fractured my skull. It’ll be a long time before I try again.’
    â€˜What a misfortune!’ said Mullett. ‘Very bad luck. However, I’m sure you had the best possible treatment. That’s one thing you can always count on in the Soviet Union, Cressey – good medical treatment. I remember… ’
    â€˜We’ll have to make up a party somehow,’ Thomas