“Good morning, madam. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Just browsing,” Gypsie-Ann said as she ran her finger over dusty books on the shelf.
“Then enjoy yourself, and let me know if you need anything.”
The owner had started to turn away when the woman spoke again.
“You wouldn’t happen to know Abe or Louise Sekrine, who live on the second floor of this building?”
He stopped straight away and glanced over his shoulder.
“Why do you ask?”
“The name is Sigerson. An old family friend.” The man’s eyes further told her he didn’t believe a word, so Gypsie-Ann decided to ditch the ruse. “Actually, that’s not true.”
“I was not inclined to believe so.”
“I’m a reporter—”
“A reporter?”
“Working with the Port Phillip Patriot.”
She held out her right hand but the man didn’t move. Not the first time the gesture had been refused. Out of practice, she dropped her arm and placed the hand on her hip.
“My name is Gypsie-Ann Stellar, and I’m working on a story that may or may not involve Louise Sekrine’s husband.”
“Are you now?” The old man’s voice sounded flat as a proverbial tack.
“Possibly. I’m looking into the details. So, would you know either party upstairs?”
“I would. I am Professor Sekrine. Perhaps you should come with me, Miss Stellar. We can talk privately in the back room.”
The reporter followed her elderly tour-guide through a minor maze of boxes to an office, where they settled into the same two chairs Jack and the Professor had shared only days before.
While he surprisingly retrieved a pouch of tobacco from the toe end of a Persian slipper, Gypsie-Ann leaned forward with notebook and pen.
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Mister Sekrine?”
“By all means.”
“How long have you and your family lived in this building?”
“A very, very long time. My son was born here.”
Gypsie-Ann looked sharply over. “Really?”
“As was I, my dear.”
“I see.” The reporter wrote nothing — this was nonsense. “Could you please tell me your son’s name?”
“I don’t remember.”
The old man studied the tips of his fingers. A hostile witness, then. The reporter smiled to herself. Hanging on the wall behind the man was a large oil painting of a young lady with a lamb.
“Nice picture,” she said, with a nod in that direction.
“An original, by Jean-Baptiste Greuze. La jeune fille à l’agneau. Beautiful, is it not? I plan to give it to someone special for her birthday.”
“Your daughter-in-law.”
“Yes.”
“Does she still live here with you? Or did she move on, after the accident?”
“Louise continues to reside here. But it was no accident.”
“Are you saying your son was deliberately killed? Murdered?”
“I’m not sure. I forget things. I’m an old man.”
“Oh, you seem to me sufficiently on the ball.” Gypsie-Ann sat back and crossed her legs. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your real name is Erskine.”
The Professor lost interest in the fingers and one of his arms poked behind while he sat up straight, looking at the reporter.
“A final problem, for which I must apologize,” he said.
“I don’t understand. For what?”
“For this.” A weapon had appeared in the old man’s hand, a snub-nosed .450 Webley Metropolitan Police revolver — compact in most people’s grip, but exceptionally large in his tiny fist. “Believe me, I am so sorry.”
Before the woman could think to move, this gun-toting pensioner shot her in the stomach, from a distance of only six feet.
The impact knocked both her and the heavy divan backwards, where she lay amidst a mess of books, knick-knacks and her own blood.
Trying desperately to rise, Gypsie-Ann railed at the pain ripping through her as much as the stupidity of blundering into this. She somehow got to her feet, the room spinning, gut gushing, flashes of O and his flickering smile now entering her head.
“Lee,” she gasped, as she fell back to the floor.
#150
Psyborg-9 had well and truly had enough of Heropa, what with the recent spate of murders. He’d decided to pack his bags and leave, but neither the open sesame nor a flurry of ill-conceived swearwords had opened the door for departure.
This, before him, was the final straw.
The Cape scanned the crowd, his inbuilt abacus counting out one hundred and twelve individuals: eighty-two adult men, nineteen women, and eleven adolescents.
Who brought children to this kind of rally?