The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (best finance books of all time .txt) 📕

The old window frame was no match for a modern tempered steel tool. The metal catch inside securing the window burst with a crack. The window came open in his hand. He stood quite still, half expecting someone to come running. No one did. The same dog barked again. No one paid attention. Somewhere over the back, a door opened, the metallic blurred sound of a TV or radio spilled out, drifting on the still night air, and someone yelled, ‘Come in Felix!’ and the door closed again.

Silence returned. The man bent down, returned the jemmy to the bag, picked it up, hooked it over his arm; pulled the window open. It came toward him like a small glass front door, four feet above the ground.

He stuck his head inside. It was a kitchen, dimly lit, but he could see what he needed. Someone had eaten a curry. The remnants were still there, a ready meal job, detritus scattered around the worktop, the coloured cardboard sleeve, the blackened, clear vinyl top, the plastic base, some rice still remaining, looking rejected, the smell, not korma, something stronger, tikka, Jalfrezi perhaps, he didn’t care.

Put his hands on the sill, flexed his trainers and toes on the path outside, jumped and pulled himself up and through the window, landed inside on the vinyl floor. Stood perfectly still. Glanced around. Blue pilot light on the boiler. Green power light on the freezer. Red warning light on the burglar alarm sensor, not activated, couldn’t have been. Thank God for that. No one came running. The freezer cut in with a loud hum, startled him for a second.

There was music in the air. Radio, television, maybe, coming from down the hall, maybe from the sitting room set off toward the left. He crept to the kitchen door; it wasn’t closed, just pulled to, eased it open. A gloomy long narrow hallway much as he expected, coats hanging up on wall-mounted hooks, a small table, old-fashioned telephone on top, the room off to the left as he’d imagined, another door, another ajar, the music louder, but not too loud. Jazz of some kind, puke music, he would say, and slightly more light so he could see better. Total silence other than the music, no sound of anyone talking, no noise of anyone moving about, no newspaper being turned over, no gobbling irons scraping on china, nothing from upstairs, no bath or shower running, and yet as he eased inches forward there was another sound, heavy breathing, and more than that, snoring. The occupant was asleep.

How opportune was that?

Crept to the sitting-room door. Peered through the gap at the hinge’s end between the door and the frame. Saw a coffee table covered in empty beer cans, three, no four of them; bent over in the middle as if someone had been flexing them in the hand, aids to relaxation, wreck the cans, while thinking of the day’s events.

Irish stout. Fattening stuff. Sleepy stuff.

The snoring grew louder.

Eased the door open to a dimly lit sitting room. Stood in the doorway.

The weighty guy was sitting in a big old-fashioned armchair, wooden arms, his head back, eyes closed, sturdy furniture. The man in black glanced around the room. Flowery wallpaper, patterned carpet, needed a clean, old oak standard lamp trying hard to light the room, ridiculous flowery lampshade, writing desk, old books on the top, slab down, wide open, bills and cheques scattered about, matching armchair pushed into the far right corner, slight musty smell, and curry and beer and sweat. It all looked and smelt like something his great aunt might have had, or from a fifties Ealing comedy film. Same thing, really.

Old-fashioned brown telly, Grundig, sturdily made, last for years, never blew up, someone on the screen was blowing on a horn. At least it was in colour, a dusky woman was cooing along, sleepy music, and it was working well on the guy in the chair. Glanced back at him. Still fast asleep, completely out of it, as if he’d had a hard week, or maybe two. His frizzy grey hair standing on end as if he’d had an electric shock.

The man in black smiled and slipped four heavy-duty plastic cable ties from his bag. Set the bag carefully on the hall floor. Crept into the room.

The guy didn’t stir.

Continued snoring.

The man in black slipped a tie through the wooden arm of the chair, around the black guy’s right wrist, fastened it; eased it tight, but not too tight.

The guy didn’t stir.

Moved around the back of the chair.

Same job, left wrist, same result.

The eyes remained shut.

Nothing would shift the tie, other than a sharp implement.

Crouched down. Slipped the third tie around the right ankle. It couldn’t have been better positioned, next to the wooden foot. Eased it tight. Job done.

Back round the other side.

This one was tricky. The left foot was splayed away from the furniture, lazily resting on the heel, the aromatic worn carpet slipper half off. Fed the last tie around the wooden furniture leg, around the black guy’s ankle, slipped one end through the loop, and yanked it tight, bringing the whole leg back with a jolt, securing it fast to the chair leg.

The black guy woke up.

‘What the hell!’

Began shaking frantically, trying to free his limbs, realised he was stuck fast, stopped shaking, focused his tired eyes, stared at the man in black. He was busy revisiting each plastic tie, gently easing them tighter. The black guy thought of biting him, but by the time he’d thought of that, the man in black had finished and moved away. No one and nothing could break free from that chair.

The man in black stood in front of the TV, his back to the screen, bent down to the coffee table, grabbed the remote, fired it over his shoulder, and the music stopped.

The black guy stared up at the intruder.

Five feet