A Fine Thing Murder... (MALONE, WOMAN PI Book 1)
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Yesterday a London barber had spent half an hour trimming his gray mane, eliminating those pale waves that seemed to make him look older. He glanced at his watch. He heard footsteps from the nearby staircase that angled its way twenty meters upward. During the day, tourists climbed to gawk at the scenery and snap pictures. At this hour no one visited. A man appeared in the weak light. He was small, with a headful of bushy hair. Two deep lines cut the flesh from above the nostrils to his mouth.
His skin was as brown as a walnut shell, the dark pigments heightened by a white mustache. And he was dressed like a cleric. The skirts of a black soutane swished as he walked closer. Few ask questions of them.
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Ashby had selected this hour with great care and timed his arrival with English precision. But everything was now out of kilter by nearly half an hour. I freely admit. A mistake.
Something had happened in Corsica on September 15, Six crates were brought west from Italy by boat. Some said they were dumped into the sea, near Bastia, others believed they were hauled ashore. All accounts agreed that five Germans participated. Four of them were court-martialed for leaving the treasure in a place that would soon be in Allied hands, and they were shot. The fifth was exonerated. Unfortunately he was not privy to the final hiding place, so he searched in vain for the rest of his life. As had many others.
Though my status is not as infamous.
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Quite a reputation you have, Lord Ashby. He understood what an image could do to, and for, a person. He was now the sole holder of that interest. The British press once described his luminous gray eyes, Roman nose, and flick of a smile as the visage of an aristocrat. A reporter a few years ago labeled him imposing, while another described him as swarthy and saturnine. Violence would accomplish nothing. Quite a treasure. And I might know where it waits. But he was also an admitted liar. Others could know. This is a small island and, if we find this treasure, I want to be able to keep my portion.
A minor official in the Corsican regional government, who possessed convenient access to a great deal of information.
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More who live in France and Italy. Men have died for this treasure. But Ashby did not have the time. He signaled and another man exited the stairway. He wore a charcoal overcoat that blended well with his stiff gray hair. His eyes were piercing, his thin face tapered to a pointed chin. He walked straight to the Corsican and stopped. A few years ago Mr. Guildhall was involved in a nasty altercation, during which his face and neck were slashed.
He healed, as you can see, but the lasting effect was nerve damage that prevents the muscles in his face from fully functioning. Hence, no smile. Quite dead. Broken neck. In the weak light he noted the faded title, in French. Napoleon, From the Tuileries to St. One of countless memoirs that had appeared in print after Napoleon died in Turnabout Is Fair Play, Especially in Marriage I'm frequently asked about research and whether I actually travel to the places in the novels.
The answer I always provide is that my wife, Elizabeth, and I make at least one trip per book targeted at a specific locale. Some exciting action sequences occur atop it's foot summit. To visit the uppermost platform you have to ride a glass-enclosed, exterior elevator.
The experience can be unnerving since it feels like you're literally floating in the air. Combine that with a car usually packed with nervous people, and the ride can become traumatic. Especially for someone with a fear of heights, like Elizabeth. She'd never taken the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and when we began the ascent, I spotted a mild look of panic in her eye.
At times the tower itself can actually sway, so when the girders moved, Elizabeth's panic quickly evolved into terror.
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At the summit, she immediately wanted to go back down. But we couldn't. I told her that I needed to figure out how to kill a bunch of people up there, and she was just going to have to suck it up for an hour.
Of course, this comment immediately garnered the attention of security, who, after I explained the situation, were most helpful. Elizabeth sat on one of the steel supports, cowed in the fetal position most of the time, with a guard for company. I spent an hour discovering what I needed, then we left.
Was I insensitive?
Not caring about my wife's fears? Let me tell you the rest of the story. A few years ago, on our honeymoon, we visited Ukraine.